#post-ep6

A series of loud thuds rang out, bringing Jaskier back to the present. His time was up. Now or never, he supposed, and brought the pill to his lips. The door slammed open just as he forced the pill into his mouth and swallowed. A blur edged at the corner of his vision as a soldier, dressed in coal black armor with what looked like veins etched into the metal, stepped forward.

Jaskier got to his feet and put on his trademark smirk. “What took you so long, you lovely, strapping young men? I swear, I’ve been lonely and utterly saddened here just waiting for you. Even had time to powder my nose and don my best fineries.”

The knight drew a small dagger, not bothering with his sword, and stepped closer to Jaskier, until they were nearly sharing the same air. He wore a smirk of his own. Though, in Jaskier’s opinion, it was far cockier. Jaskier was, if nothing else, humble. “You think you’re so funny and so damned smart, bard, but we found you,” he said, bringing the dagger up and pushing the tip of it up against Jaskier’s neck.

“I wasn’t hiding, d-darling.” The words fell from his mouth with a slight slur. He chuckled breathlessly, nervous, but unclear as to why. The knight’s face began to blur and the colors of the world began to run. Unsteady on his feet, he swayed, inky black mixing in with the unfocused world, and he fell. He crumpled to the ground and allowed the world to go dark.

---

He awoke to a splitting headache and a disabling fuzziness all over. His mouth and throat felt like they had been stuffed full of cotton. Then, the world slowly shifted further into place. He had been stripped of his shirt, leaving him in only his trousers. His wrists ached, bound by manacles he then found himself strung up by. Instinctively, he yanked at his bindings, trying in vain to free himself. “Shit,” he mumbled.

Where the absolute, ever-loving fuck was he?

His gaze flicked around the room, consuming every detail. The ‘room’ was actually a cell in what was clearly a dungeon. Puddles of disgusting water dotted the floor and the putrid stench of mildew and rot filled the air. A grate sat in the ceiling directly above him, allowing light to cascade down and bring sharp clarity to his bound form. A table sat off to his right and upon first glance, you might not see anything wrong, and yet, a cold, immobilizing feeling struck directly into the center of his chest. It made his heart beat faster and his palms slick with sweat. On the table sat a tray of knives; thin and thick, long and short, sharpened and dull - as well as whips, needles, and a small device with three metal bars and a screw on the top, presumably to tighten it. 

However, he didn’t have time to ruminate as, seconds later, the metal door directly across from him was thrown open. A man with a scraggly beard in a dark jacket with equally dark trousers, flanked by two men in black, veined armor stepped into the room.

The bearded man stepped closer to him, an unnerving smirk upon his face. “Do you know who I am, bardling?” he asked, his deep voice soft and malicious.

With his bound wrists aching and his mind still fuzzy, he could only reply, “No.” He winced as his voice cracked.

The bearded man’s brown eyes fixed on him as he started circling around him with the air of a man who had long since been a predator. “Well, I know you, Jaskier. Oh, I’m sorry. Should I say Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove instead?”

Julian? Was that his name? His fuzzy world couldn’t comprehend it. So, instead, he did the next best thing; running his mouth until things made more sense. “Is there a reason I’m strung up like cattle or are you just living out some of your deepest, darkest fantasies? Well, I can’t say I’m opposed. Though, bondage isn’t really my area-” 

“Silence. I don’t care for idle chatter. You see, I’ve heard you have some very pretty songs to sing about a certain witcher.”

Julian - Jaskier? - clenched his jaw. His head whirled, thoughts spinning in a chaotic void of emptiness. “I haven’t the faintest idea what on earth you’re talking about. If I’d met a witcher, you’d have heard about it. Trust me on that one,” he said.

The bearded man’s smirk never faltered. “Looks like the little lark refuses to sing for us. How terribly tragic.” His tone indicated, however, that it was not terribly tragic at all. Slowly, the man shed his jacket, revealing a thin, cream-colored shirt stained with dark spots of… blood. It looked like it had never been washed since its purchase.

The man crossed to the table with the tray on it and picked up a long, thin blade. He twirled it in his fingers, eyes holding contact with Julian’s own. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia and his little lion cub.”

A spark of annoyance mixed with pure, unadulterated desperation roared in Julian’s gut. “I don’t know this Geralt you speak of or the-the lion cub! I swear it! Just let me down from these cuffs and we can have a nice chat about-”

The first cut came as a shock. Burning pain erupted from where the blade met his skin, slashing a strip just below his collarbone. “Fuck,” he hissed as blood slipped down his chest in small rivulets.

“I’ll ask again, bardling,” the man said. “Where is Geralt of Rivia?”

“I don’t know!” Julian cried again.

And so it repeated. The bearded man would ask a question, Julian would reply with the only response he had, and a cut was made. Over and over, it happened until blood spilled down his chest, painting it into a stomach-turning portrait. 

Eventually, the man grew tired of his knives and turned to whips. The loud crack came and pain burst across his skin. Tears spilled down his face, mixing with sweat. “Please!” he would beg and cry, and still the pain would not stop. With every moment, his world became sharper, and things began coming back to him.

Then, the man set down the whip and grabbed a butcher’s knife. “Tell us about Geralt of Rivia, or I will start cutting off your fingers. You need those to play your precious little lute, don’t you, lark? Don’t you need them to play your tunes of mutants and monsters?”

Julian’s throat had long since been filled with razors and had been made raw by hours - or was it minutes? Days? - of screaming. “Please,” he croaked. 

The man simply sneered and came close to him; close enough for Julian to feel the other man’s hot breath on his face and he allowed his eyes to slip closed. “Disgusting witcher’s whore,” the man spat. Julian winced as he felt the spit land on his cheeks and chin.

Seconds later, a fist made contact with his face, and his eyes filled with stars. The tangy copper of blood permeated his mouth and he coughed it up, allowing it to dribble down the sides of his mouth. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see his fingers get mutilated. Then, the tell-tale sound of footsteps rang out, then a clatter of metal on metal, and finally, the thud of a heavy, metal door slamming closed.

His eyes opened and he found the room to be empty. The tray had been left on the table, tools stained with blood. His blood. Bile rose up his throat and, before he could stop himself, he threw up all over the stone floor. He couldn’t even wipe his mouth for god’s sake.

Blood still oozed down his chest and pain overwhelmed him. His throat and wrists shared the same raw ache and his torso screamed in agony. Whoever Geralt of Rivia was, he had condemned him to this.

It wasn’t long after that day that the dripping started.

---

At first, it felt good. A nice drip of water that was a welcome change from the pain that riddled his body. It fell from the grate above his head and he reveled it in, enjoying every moment. However, the torture continued. Julian wasn’t sure how long it went on. He just knew that, when the sun went down, one single meal would be brought to him and he would be fed. Beyond that, he ate nothing and drank nothing. Sometimes, he almost thought the knight giving it to him looked… sympathetic. However, that simply couldn’t be true, even if it was always the same man. The days soon blurred together in a flurry of screams.

He found it easiest to repeat a couple of words over and over.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, the bearded man whose name Julian did not know, brought red-hot brands. They burnt his skin, melting it and sending waves of fiery pain through him. The knives and whips seemed to be on a rotation, but the one constant was that little drip of water.

Every few seconds, a small drip would land on the crown of his head. Even during the hours when he was mutilated. 

His body shook from exertion, every muscle wanting to give up, to give in. He wished he knew the answer to their questions. He just wanted it to stop. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

His mind became clearer and more fogged at the same time. That once welcome drip became insufferable. His skull ached with it until it became a pounding instead of a drip. Over and over it would come. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Soon, white-hot pain became a constant. He learned to live with it. Even when they broke his fingers with the barred device, apparently called a thumbscrew. He simply lived with the pain. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

After that, every few days, a dark-skinned woman in long, flowing robes would come in. She would chant and whisper in his ears and feed him herbal mixes. Every once in a while, she would curse and say a feminine name under her breath. It was familiar and yet completely foreign. His mind became more splintered on those days and after she left, he would have a pounding headache.

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

Sleep came in fitful moments that never truly left him feeling rested. His mind sunk into a desperate state of confusion. 

“My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I am a bard by the name of Jaskier and I don’t know who Geralt of Rivia is.”

The words he kept repeating to himself slowly started to slip through his fingers. They melted into a flurry of ‘pleases’ and ‘don’ts.’ 

He just wanted it to end. Why wouldn’t it end? His eyes itched and his throat burned from the power of his sobs. The tears reminded him of that omnipresent drip that haunted him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Somebody help me,” he whispered, in the dead of night, when he was absolutely sure no one would hear him.

---

Sweat poured down his back as he raised the axe, swinging it down in a brutal swipe. The log split down the middle, coming apart in two neat pieces. Monsters never came apart this easily, Geralt thought absent-mindedly as he split another log.

The wood would be good for making fire and would be desperately needed as the chill in the air increased with each passing day. The cold autumn sun shone down upon the little cabin in the middle of the vast forest. Ciri sat upon the small steps leading up to the door, humming a soft tune and twirling a small dagger as a breeze swept through the trees, making the grass dance and the leaves shake.

All in all, it should have been peaceful. It was peaceful, except for… well, except for his nightmares. Geralt couldn’t get the image of two bright blue eyes, ringed with gold near the center, and the way they shone with unshed tears. The picture of a face usually lit up with happiness falling into something unrecognizable and cold. A mouth so fond of words becoming nearly speechless. 

“That’s not fair.”

He brought the axe down, ripping the piece of wood in two.

“See you around, Geralt.”

Geralt tossed the axe aside, not caring where it landed. A gentle hand appeared on his bicep and tugged on his arm. “Come on, Geralt. It’s getting cold out here,” Ciri said, tucking her dagger into a sheath on her hip. It was no colder than it had been earlier, besides the gentle breeze, which made him realize her true angle. He recognized the act of kindness for what it was and gave her a tight smile and a pat on the head.

Ciri smiled and slapped his hand away. “Your hands are so filthy,” she complained with no real heat behind her words.

“Hmm. Only because I’m cutting wood to keep you warm,” he said, his lips quirking a little.

Ciri scrunched up her nose. “You know you get cold too, Geralt. Now, can we please go inside?” 

He patted her head again and Ciri giggled, hitting his hand once more then gathering some of the wood into her arms. She trudged into the house, light blonde hair streaked with the tiniest bit of dirt. Geralt picked up the rest of the firewood and carried it inside, humming a soft tune to himself. It took him a moment to recognize it, to really hear what he was singing, and immediately, guilt filled him and he froze on the doorstep into the house. His chest clenched and a familiar voice came into his thoughts, unbidden.

“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh Valley of Plenty.”

He bit back a curse, remembering the deep, lilting tone with ease. In fact, he couldn’t get that damn voice out of his head. Not for a lack of trying, though. He shook his head and headed further into the abode. The bundle of wood in his arms felt heavy, even though he knew it couldn’t be. 

He set the wood down and took to making a fire, Ciri sitting next to him and observing his movements. For a while, the pair stayed quiet, not a word being spoken. Geralt used to pray for that, used to pray for his blessed silence, yet when he got it, he wanted to throw it away in exchange for soft smiles and endless chatter.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood.”

“I’m here to drink alone.”

“Good. Yeah, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

The fire began to spark and catch on the wood as he used Igni to light it. Ciri’s eyes shone with wonder as she gazed upon the flames that quickly swallowed the logs before them. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through Geralt’s chest. Even though he would never admit it, he had come to rather care for the child that destiny thrust upon him.

Ciri brought her hands up and let the fire warm them, rubbing them together every so often. “When is Yennefer coming back?” she asked, eyes still focused on the flames dancing in the hearth.

Geralt sighed, sitting back and allowing the fire to mesmerize him. “I don’t know.”

Ciri stared at him, as if waiting for him to elaborate or provide a longer answer. “Ever the conversationalist,” she mumbled, going back to admiring the fire created by magic. A pang jolted through Geralt and his chest constricted, making it feel ten times too small for his heart. Why on earth did she have to be so similar to… to him? Destiny and its endless taunting, he supposed, and internally cursed it once more.

The day soon fell into a cold, suffocating night and inky blackness filled the sky. Still, he stayed sitting on the hard, wooden planks in front of the fire. He knew that, in the morning, the stars would be drowned out by a frosty dawn and a new sun would rise, then he would regret his lack of sleep, but that was the problem of tomorrow’s Geralt. When did he become a poet anyway? Scratch that, he knew exactly when, but knowing and admitting… well, they were very different things.

The absence of endless, mind-numbing chatter and the strumming of a lute as a soft voice worked its way through countless renditions of the same song…

It hit him harder than he expected.

What are we looking for again?

Blessed silence.

Yeah, I don’t really go in for that.

Ciri, thick blanket in hand, made her way over to Geralt and plopped herself down next to him. Without a word, she moved his arm and curled into his side. Instinctively, he pulled the girl closer, his heart warming at the lack of fear in her scent. He hated constantly being able to smell emotions. It made him feel unnatural and freakish, though, he supposed that was true. After all, if enough people scream something at you whilst also spitting on you and cursing the very ground you walk on, you begin to believe it.

However, the little lion cub of Cintra never had a hint of fear in her scent. Not in regards to him, at the very least. The essence of daisies and petrichor clung to her, filling the air. The girl had come into his life like a storm, so it was only fitting that she smelled like one, he supposed.

He held her that way as the fire crackled steadily in the hearth and the night continued on. Soon though, he heard those soft, tell-tale snores coming from Ciri and chuckled. A gleeful, fond feeling filled his chest and settled in his stomach as he lifted the girl into his arms and properly stood up, carrying her to the room they shared. She liked to sleep close to Geralt because, like him, she had nightmares. Companionship eased the pain.

He laid her down on one of the two beds in the room and tucked her in beneath the blankets. That fond feeling grew as Ciri, usually so strong and unshakable in her resolve, curled up and finally allowed herself to be at peace. He tucked a strand of light golden hair behind her ear and retreated to the other bed. He rid himself of his boots and socks then slipped under the thick wool blankets. A sigh escaped his lips, unbidden, as he sunk into the comfort of the bed.

Luxuries such as baths and beds were things he wouldn’t have even considered before a certain bard entered his life. Simple human things usually went unnoticed to Geralt, but Jaskier? Jaskier insisted on showing him the finer things in life, chattering on about how grand life could be when you decided to truly live it. He wondered what it would be like to truly live life, as Jaskier had said. What ifs plagued him. What if he had never made a wish with the djinn? What if he had gone to the coast with Jaskier? What if he had kept a lid on his damn temper and not blamed the innocent bard for every single thing that went wrong in his life?

And that’s how he laid, thoughts of bards and the possibilities of a world where he himself wasn’t such a cruel freak running about his head, until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

---

The bard stood before him, and the inn that had been bright with color was dull in comparison to the man. Geralt couldn’t speak as those blue eyes tore into him, stealing his words, his breath, and his reason. Jaskier took a step forward, his lute cradled in his arms, and his eyes full of… friendship and love. Geralt didn’t deserve either.

Jaskier stood there, silent as the night, until the inn faded away, replaced by a mountaintop and framed by a gray sky. “See you around, Geralt,” the bard said, turning on his heel.

Geralt opened his mouth, and a desperate cry for Jaskier to stay, to never leave him, died on his lips as the air swallowed the memory. Then, the bard turned back around, his eyes dull, cold, and lifeless. “Geralt,” he whispered and blood began to wet the front of his doublet in a quickly growing stain.

Jaskier fell backward, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The air had been punched out of Geralt’s lungs as the world slowed around them. “No, no, no,” he yelled, rushing to the bard’s side. He fell to his knees and shifted the other man into his lap, his hand rising to cup his cheek and when he did, the skin underneath his fingers melted into dust. Then, slowly and with building speed, the rest of Jaskier disintegrated into nothingness, the remains of his body caught in the wind.

Geralt longed to cry, to weep for the loss of his bard, and yet… he couldn’t. His body wasn’t capable of shedding a tear, not even for the obnoxious, kind, sassy chatterbox that had clung to Geralt for over two decades. Had it really been two whole decades? Time flew, especially for mortals.

Geralt slowly got to his feet and then, he heard it. The screams of townsfolk calling him a butcher, a monster, a freak, and no one came to his defense. No bard raised his lute and yelled back, drowning out the voices.

Though, Jaskier did speak and his words were carried by the very same wind that had swept him away, “Geralt.”

Geralt turned, hand outstretched.

“Geralt,” the voice shouted, this time with more urgency.

He grasped at the wind.

“Geralt!”

Geralt gasped, cold air filling his lungs as the world slipped back into place. Ciri shook his shoulder from her place in his arms. She must’ve crawled into bed with him at some point during the night. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft and gentle.

“I’m fine,” he managed. Having an audience for his nightmares unsettled him and anyone seeing his weakness made him want to toss up his dinner. Had he even had dinner the night before? He couldn’t remember.

Ciri’s eyes shone with a thinly-veiled concern, something he had only truly seen in… “Jaskier,” she said. “You kept saying his name in your sleep. That’s the bard that used to play at my birthday banquets, you know.”

Geralt lifted his head off the pillows in alarm. “He what?”

“He used to play the sweetest, most lovely songs. I adored him. How do you know him?” Ciri asked, looking up at him with those frosty blue eyes.

He realized he wasn’t going to get out of this with a simple ‘oh, just a friend from back when.’ He would need to fully explain and so, he did, “We met in a tavern in Posada...” After those first words, the rest came flowing out more easily. He wove a tale of their two decades together that he liked to think Jaskier would’ve been proud of, even if the words were halting and didn’t come easily. 

When he had finished, Ciri’s eyes danced with emotion. “After two decades, you just… pushed him away like that?” she whispered, not daring to break the soft calm that had fallen over the room. “Please tell me you went after him and apologized.” Geralt stayed silent, not meeting Ciri’s gaze. He didn’t want or need her judgment, but he knew he would get it anyway. 

Ciri’s little exhale sent daggers of guilt flowing through him. As if he needed another reminder of how badly he fucked up. She cleared her throat. “Geralt, as much as I love you, I think you need to talk about your actual feelings more. You pushed away the man who had been in love with you and following you around for the better part of twenty years and-”

“He wasn’t in love with me!” Geralt sputtered, a tinge of growl seeping into his tone.

Ciri fixed him with a stern look that slowly melted into something almost… pitiful. He hated it. “Oh, Geralt, you must be joking. He tagged along on your adventures, sang your praises—quite literally—and somehow stuck around even though you punched him in the stomach and made jabs at him at every possible opportunity, if your account is accurate. So, if that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.”

Geralt stayed still, shocked into silence. Then, slowly, as if the stars were finally aligning, everything clicked into place. “Fuck. He was… and I… Fuck.”

Ciri nodded. “Exactly! We need to find him, Geralt.”

“No. We can’t. We have to keep you safe, and Yennefer wouldn’t know where we went. Anyway, we don’t know where Jaskier is. Even if we did, why would he hear me out?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Ciri glared, her brow furrowing. “It sounds like a bunch of excuses to me, and you know what? He would forgive you. I just know it.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. Then, finally settled on a few words. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. Go to sleep.”

Ciri pouted a little bit but snuggled into his chest all the same. He held her close and ran soothing fingers through her hair until her breathing evened out and her body went lax and peaceful. Moments where he could just protect this girl, the one who had wriggled her way into his heart and who truly became his daughter, those moments were what made running from Nilfgaard worth it.

Geralt sighed, allowing himself to relax, and sunk into thoughts about Jaskier. When sleep finally took him, he dreamt of warm hands, soft smiles, garish clothes, and songs sung at far too high of a volume.

---

The slamming of a door broke his fitful sleep. Geralt sat straight up, Ciri groaning slightly as he jostled her. He leapt out of bed and grabbed his sword, which was leaning against the wall, then carefully crept over to Ciri and shook her awake. As her blue eyes fluttered open, he held a finger to his lips and pointed at the door.

She nodded and slowly slipped out of the bed. Her dagger and its sheath had been placed on the dresser the night before. Geralt kept his eyes on the door as she grabbed the dagger. He motioned for her to stay put and readied his sword as he heard approaching footsteps. The door stood five yards away from his place by the bed. He could easily rush forward and take down the attacker if need be.

The door swung open and an irritated feminine voice filled the room along with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. “Geralt!” Yennefer said, pausing in the doorway. Her eyes swept over his defensive form and the blade in his hands. “Glad to see you’re already prepared to fight. We have to go.”

Geralt frowned, tilting his head slightly. “Go where? Are we in danger?”

“No. Not yet, in any case,” she said, crossing over to him. Her long, gray dress complimented the vibrant purple of her eyes and the stark darkness of her hair. “The siege on the Nilfgaardian fortress near Novigrad is happening today. Right now, in fact.”

Bells started ringing in Geralt’s head, warning him that something terrible had happened. A deep unease settled into his bones. “Yen, what’s going on?”

Yennefer bit her lip and glanced at Ciri. “Our… informant within the base sent word that someone of import has been captured. They couldn’t provide much more for us to work with, but it spells dreadful news for the resistance. The raid has been moved up to today for that reason. I got here as soon as I could to tell you.”

That deep sense of unease worsened, curling in his gut and twisting in his heart. “Why do you need me? Ciri needs a guardian and you don’t usually call for me.”

Yennefer hesitated. “Listen, Geralt, I… We’re working with a third of the forces we would have had if we could’ve waited. We’re in dire times and we require a strong fighter. Ciri can stay here on her own. We… I need your help.” 

Even though the romantic aspect of their relationship had died out long ago, Geralt still felt helpless to refuse the mage anything. “Lead the way.”

Yennefer smiled, small yet grateful. She turned on her heel, sparing Ciri one more glance, before heading out of the door. Geralt donned his armor, fastening the straps and sheathing his sword across his back, then followed her. Ciri trailed behind them. By the time he had made it outside, the air had already begun to whirl at Yennefer’s demand, and soon a portal formed.

Geralt took a single step towards the portal before Ciri launched into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and clung to him. He patted her head, his movements stiff and halting but still comforting. At least, he hoped they were comforting.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Ciri slowly raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “You’d better. I’ll never forgive you if you die. Oh, and don’t forget that we’re going to find Jaskier after this!” she said, drawing away from him and doing her best to put on a smile.

Geralt sighed, trying to act put out by her, but they both knew he loved her. “I would expect nothing less.” He gave her a small smile of his own and turned back to the portal. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him, but he simply shrugged her off.

The two stepped through the portal and got whisked away to the battlefield.

---

His boots connected with mud and immediately, he sunk into the ground up to his ankle. A loud squelch rang out as Yennefer’s fine shoes also connected. “Ugh,” she groaned. They had stepped directly into a muddy area in the midst of a rainforest. His sensitive hearing picked up chatter from somewhere deeper into the forest. Yennefer began walking and beckoned for him to follow. Soon, they were traversing a maze of trees, vines, and roots intended to trip them up.

The pure ice cold chill in the air was enough to make Geralt regret coming with her.

They finally reached a small camp of tents. Men were milling around, carrying odds and ends. Some were sharpening swords and taking practice swings with them. A balding man marched up to Geralt and Yennefer. He had a scraggly beard and a scar across his jaw. “Ah, you’re finally here. I take it this is the infamous White Wolf?”

Geralt internally winced at the name. Yennefer smiled in her polite fashion, that little hint of danger just beneath the surface. “Indeed it is, Marko.”

The man, Marko, stretched out a hand for Geralt to shake. “I’m glad you’re on board.”

Geralt regarded the outstretched hand for a moment and was about to shrug it off when Yennefer elbowed him. He shot her a look then grasped Marko’s hand and shook it. “Hmm.”

Marko, seeming to think nothing of it, began to lead them through the camp. A small, very unwelcome breeze swept through the trees. The biting air was enough to chill even him to the bone. Soon enough, the air would be cold enough to cause hypothermia for the entire army. How delightful. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but still.

Marko led them in between scores of tents, talking to the odd soldier as he went. His voice carried a tiredness that you only truly found in those who had fought tooth and nail to survive and now carried those memories like a weight on their shoulders. He glanced back at Geralt. “As Lady Yennefer no doubt told you, this raid has turned into primarily a rescue mission. We’ll need you on the front lines, taking down the Nilfgaardian knights.”

Yennefer placed a gentle hand on his bicep. “You won’t have to take them on alone.”

Geralt shot her a look and shook her hand off. “I wasn’t worried.”

Eventually, they reached an area with a small path cut in between the trees and vines. Marko gestured towards the path. “You’ll have to hurry. The first group of our men have already gone out.”

Before Marko could say another word, Geralt headed off down the path with Yennefer trailing behind him. His keen senses picked up on the hiss and slither of a snake somewhere in the forest and the pitiful cry of a hare being struck down by a predator. These were sounds he had become accustomed to in his many years of life.

They walked in silence for many minutes, stalking through the trees with purpose. Then, with enough strength to curdle the blood of any living thing, a scream rang out. It ripped through the trees along with the clash of metal on metal and the racket of battle cries. Hooves beat down on the earth somewhere ahead of them. He broke out into a sprint, hand flying to his sword instinctively.

Yennefer was hot on his heels as they tore through the forest. Finally, finally, the trees broke into a grassy plain, stretching to a mountain where a black stone fortress sat. On that grassy plain, no more than twenty yards away, the blood of fallen men stained the ground. It seeped into the earth and soaked it.

Niflgaardian warriors with their blackened, wavy armor clashed with resistance soldiers. Men fell to the ground in heaps of blood and anguished cries. The heavy stench of sulfur, body odor, and that unmistakable sour tang of fear filled the air. The sulfur clung to many of the resistance warriors and he knew the meaning well: righteous anger.

The sun, slowly making its way higher into the sky, began to chase away the cold of the late morning as it became early afternoon. Geralt pulled his sword and charged into the thick of battle, ignoring Yennefer’s calls behind him.

A Nilfgaardian knight ran at him like a bull seeing red and swung his heavy blade. He was fast, Geralt would give him that, but not quite fast enough. He easily sidestepped the attack made by the warrior and drove his blade into the man’s back, who collapsed like a felled tree. Moments in the heat of battle were the ones he was good at. A battle - no matter how bloody - was like a dance. Keep light on your feet and move with precision or else you’ll fall.

One by one, he struck down warriors who dared approach him. Their screams and the stench of spoiled milk filled the air as they crumpled, blood staining the earth. He didn’t know how long it took for the battle to end, but by the time the last Nilfgaardian man had fallen, the sun was high in the sky and beating down on them with remarkable force. A breeze, now feeling pleasant after the sweat and exertion of battle, swept across the field.

Blood had managed to work its way into his boots at some point, and he was certain his socks would be stained. More to the point, they had been soaked through. He grunted and ignored the minor inconvenience. As the resistance warriors began their march to the looming, ominous fortress on the mountainside, he followed. They made their way across the grassy plain and to a thicket of trees around the base of the mountain.

They crept through, low-hanging vines being chopped off swiftly. He wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. Strange, all things considered. He didn’t usually sweat, but he had a hunch the sense of unease lingering in his bones had something to do with it. This feeling of utter wrongness clung to him, and he couldn’t shake it. Not for a lack of trying, though.

They came across a small gate hidden in the trees that led to the grounds beside the fortress. It had been built partially into the mountain but still had outside entrances. He glanced around at the men who were making their way to the gate. Somehow, he had lost Yennefer in the scuffle. No worry settled inside him, though. He was certain she had found safety.

One of the men managed to get the gate open and cheered in success. The rest of them filed through the new opening and marched forwards, coming face to face with a new bout of guards.

---

Geralt wasn’t sure how long it took them to finally infiltrate fully, he just knew it had happened. At that moment, he stood in the midst of a long hallway, the bodies of fallen warriors left in his wake. He continued down the dark path that was only lit by windows off to his left. As he reached the end of the hallway, he saw a series of doors. Not just simple doors either—these were made of heavy metals and designed to be impenetrable.

He turned to one of the doors and gave it a push. It slowly swung open; strange, all things considered, but he brushed it off.

The sight he saw next would haunt him forever.

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