It's my turn to protect you now
They're absolutely fucked, and Ciri is more than aware she's going to die. Die from freezing in a stupid blizzard, only a couple more peaks away from this mythical keep her would be protector had muttered about whenever he had a lucid moment. And die hungry and exhausted, drained from weeks of travel and even longer having the privilege of any food slipping past her lips. She's dizzy, so tired, she cannot go on. Cannot drag a body more than two hundred and fifty pounds heavier than her on top of his poor horse and bound him to his beast, cannot summon the strength to stumble and drag her bleeding, blistered feet up and down even more mountains trying to find this keep that her protector had told her about.
It had been easier at the start, Geralt could he the strong one between them. Could tell her about this place he said was a safe haven up in the mountains. Could keep her safe on his horse when the storms hit, keep her warm with fire streaming out of his fingertips. Could keep her fed and warm with fox pellets and boar meat. But as the days rolled on and winter grew nearer and nearer, the fight in Nivillen's manor had changed all of that.
Vereena had sliced through an old injury at his leg, and suddenly the witcher had become weaker and weaker, collapsing after his toxins had worn off. Ciri had been terrified and tearful, yelling and slapping him, begging him not to die like the others had. And somehow in that pain, the weight in her chest that she had only felt in that deadly scream she's so terrified of had come out, and suddenly the three of them were incased in a bubble of magic.
Ciri didn't know how she did it, but she had soon figured out that it was impenetrable by blades, and somehow kept Geralt stable. No more blood or spreading infection, but it didn't heal him, which is what she really needed to happen.
When he came to, as best as he could, he muttered something about going north, downed the potion bottle Ciri had brought him, and promptly fainted again. The would-be Queen of Cintra had figured that this strange place he kept muttering about, and this Vesemir who's name he kept whispering could help him, and knew she had to get him there for both their sakes.
So, the next morning, Ciri had popped the bubble, pushed at the horse until she lay down, folded at the legs, and pulled at Geralt's unconscious body until he lay on top of Roach, using some of his saddlebag spare rope to tie his wrists around the horse's neck, covered him with his cloak, and began to walk north.
But that had been weeks ago. She had severely underestimated how treacherous this mission would be, stumbling through the snow covered woods, her feet so sore she would regularly find blood stained footprints behind them. Legs almost blue from the cold, using nothing but the stars to navigate north.
She let Roach have a few minutes every day to eat as much grass and drink as much river water that hadnt been frozen over. Got Geralt to drink as much as she could, gave him a few mouthfuls of cold water every few hours. The oats he had probably kept for Roach were the only food they had, so she let him have a few mouthfuls of cold water and oat mush. The three of them surviving on nothing but those and whatever berries and leaves Ciri could find.
The only solace was in the night when Ciri could walk no longer. When her body was too cold, feet too sore and bloody, head too dizzy that she would beg and plead until the magical bubble came and gave her some precious warmth, as fleeting as it was.
She'd untie Geralt, pull the bandages aside to pour more water and whatever vial he managed to nod to over the wound. The only times they were ever apart were the few minutes Ciri would skulk off with the blade he kept in his boot, fingers stained with blood and berry juice when she returned to him, arms laden with whatever she managed to find that hadnt died from the cold. It gave him time to relive himself and take whatever potions he didnt want her to see, while she went and foraged whatever she could dig from the ground or pluck from the trees.
He'd frown when she'd return, fingers blue and bloody, but soon shut up when Ciri gave him his fill of whatever measly portions shed managed to find. He'd do it again when she'd skip her portion to give it to roach, and just fill her stomach with water instead, but it seemed most logical to Cirilla that he and Roach had whatever food she managed to find. She needed her protector alive -no matter how their roles seemed to have been reversed- and the only thing keeping her from having to drag him up to the blue mountains herself was the horse, so Roach needed more than she did.
As the altitude got highter, Ciri was relieved and terrified at the same time. Sure, she was getting closer, but going uphill was so much harder than staying level. And she was exhausted, so tired and hungry, but they had to keep going.
It was then she got desperate in her nightly foraging. She brought a larger blade, begged and sobbed when there was nothing but dead grass and frozen mud under the snow. And when a bird came charging towards her, Ciri didn't hesitate to throw the blade as soon as it came close, taking its head in one smooth, savage motion. The same night, a boar had thrown her to the ground, and whatever was in her mind snapped as she slit the things throat as soon as she got a hand on the hilt. She flipped them over and continued to stab at it and scream her grief and desperation and absolute fear until her cheeks were wet with tears and everything else was wet with blood.
Geralt had looked terrified when she staggered back to the strange, magical camp they shared, dripping in blood. But she didnt have the strength to say anything to him, her mind somehow both blank and full at the same time, stripping the bird of its feathers with swift, sleek motions of his blade. She didn't even blink the times she had accidentally sliced her own fingers and hand in the process, and somehow that scared her more than the boar attack.
She had intended on resting a while and then going to find some sticks to cook the bird, and was surprised and nauseated when the witcher swept in with his hand and ate the thing in four bites, bones, blood, innards and all. Blood dripped from his lips, but somehow Ciri wasn't frightened at all. She simply wiped it away from his chin, gave him his potion bottle and worked on the boar. Cutting and slicing skin and innards until she found what she assumed was meat, handing him the chunks she carves.
He lets her for a few moments, before he starts refusing and pushes it towards her instead. She doesn't want to, but she knows she has to, so she chokes down as much of the raw meat she can, prays she doesn't vomit or die from some disease this thing might be carrying, and saves the rest for however long she might be stuck on his godforsaken mountain with the sickened witcher and his noble steed.
And that appears to be now. The boar is long gone, no more foraging treasures. Injuries she didnt realise she had in the boar fight bloomed the next morning, slowing their progress down even more. She tredges on, pulls Roach's reigns, but it's useless. She's too cold, her feet and bare shins have been almost constantly in snow. She can no longer feel them. She's so tired, hasn't realised how little she's slept since her country was slaughtered. On the run alone, with Dara, with Geralt. Barely eating, barely sleeping, always on the move.
Her disorientation is proven by the fact that Geralt's bounds are looser than they should be. They've came loose three times in as many days, and she no longer has the strength to pull him on top of the horse again. She's so tired, so weak, so without hope and so regretful than she cannot move another inch. Her body hurts too much, she's so regretful to Geralt that she couldn't keep them going. Regretful to her grandmother that she couldn't survive, that she and Eist and Mouseack and her whole country died for her, for nothing.
"I'm sorry." She whispers, reaching over to touch Geralt's hand. Tears stream from her eyes, sliding over her nose and into her eat. The bubble will only last as long as she will, and she knows they're done for. She's going to die of starvation, of dehydration, of being frozen from the inside out. The bubble will die, and if Geralt isn't taken by his infected wound, then he's going to wither away like this too.
Not a happily ever after, after all.
She sniffles, closes her eyes.
Ciri's heart stops. She hasn't heard another voice since Vereena and Nivillen. Apart from Geralt's grumbles and Roach's snorts, she thinks she'd be forgiven for thinking they were the only three left in the continent. But they're not. Someone's here.
Her eyes open, and she staggers up to sit.
It's a blizzard outside of their little bubble. She can barely see through it, forcing her eyes to focus until three large figures come into view.
Dread fills her stomach. She hasn't come into contact with another human ever since she was with Geralt. Had only had to fight off animals and that was with a blade. Now? She has nothing, is ready to collapse and die any moment. She can't fight off anything.
"Geralt?!" The voice yells. It's deep but she can hear the desperation in it. Whipped away by the winds, it's quiet, but it's a man. And clearly one who knows Geralt.
They come closer, and Ciri wills herself to let the bubble pop. Geralt will be safe, that's all that matters. They'll take him and Roach, and Ciri will make peace with her God and will soon be in the warm arms of her mother and grandmother. These men will offer her nothing, and life has nothing more to offer her. Cirilla will die, and Geralt will live. And she finds a little bit of peace with that.
Once the bubble pops, Ciri bites back a scream as the winds ravage them. Cold and biting, like knives on her skin. Snow and ice pelt at her, and she somehow manages the strength to cover Geralt's face. He breathes still, that's good. Still alive, she's kept him alive.
She swallows thickly as the men come into proper view. All are tall and muscular. One with grey hair, one with firey red curls and the other with long brunette and absolutely terrifying scars that Ciri might be frightened of if she had any strength left in her to be scared.
"Who are you?" The red head growls. All of them come closer, and she swallows, trying to drag herself and Geralt backwards. "Who are you to our brother?" Neither she, Geralt or Roach actually move when she tries to make them, and the fact she tries to protect him even now softens the brunette.
He comes closer to them, crouches down, tries to smile. Ciri can only blink, somehow barely bothered when the lines on his face move with his half grin, but she can see the fear on his face when he glances at her protector.
"Hello, little one. I'm Eskel."
"You know him?" She whispers, her voice is so hoarse and quiet that it's a miracle he can hear her at all with the blizzard around them.
Behind Eskel, two other figures approach, all four that aren't Eskel are closer now. But they aren't surrounding her, they're coming closer to Geralt.
"He's our brother, little one." Eskel brings her attention back to him.
"He-he's sick." Ciri stutters, her body trembling with shivers, fingers tightening on Geralt's shirt as the grey haired one crouches down and lays a hand on his face. Ciri swallows nervously. "Infected wound. He needs help."
All of them look at each other in complete symmetry for a moment.
"We need to get him out of here, then, hmm?" Eskel tries to smile for her, but he touches Geralt, begins to grab him. She feels anxiety rise in her stomach. Ciri knows she has to let them take him, but the thought of Geralt being taken from her makes her more frightened than she can say.
She says nothing as the lot of them pick him up, lead him away to lay him on a cart that's lead by an enormous black stallion. Roach is coaxed up from the floor, and Ciri is left alone in a rapidly increasing blanket of snow.
Tears fill her eyes as she watches the men load Geralt into the cart. She has to let him go, they know him, they won't hurt him. She knows that, and Ciri finally feels a bit of pride that she held up her promise. That she got him to the blue mountains, to this Vesemir he needed.
Her head spins, body becoming completely numb from the cold and the exhaustion. Tears slide down her cheeks, horifically ironically warm despite the cold all around her. Her body collapses into the snow, it quickly surrounds her. But she's not cold anymore. Her eyes grow heavy again.
"G'Bye Geralt." Cirilla murmurs, her eyes closing.
Until they open again when large hands grab her. She's picked up out of the snow and cradled like a child, and when she properly looks, it's the fourth man who came for Geralt. Dark skin, no hair, scars on his face.
"Come here, little one." He holds her close to him. And he's warm, so warm that Ciri can't stop the sob that leaves her lips.
"You're takin' me too?" Somehow being rescued by witchers along with Geralt never crossed her mind.
"Of course we are." He sounds shocked that she even questioned it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world that she'd be taken too.
She can feel the the witchers eyes on her and her alone when shes layed out on a wagon next to Geralt. They stare at the blood covering her white dress, probably the blue covering her skin, too. But none of it matters when blankets are loaded upon them both and Ciri turns her head to look at Geralt. He's unconscious again, but she can feel him breaths next to her. Her hand finds his underneath the blankets, and Ciri finally feels warmth begin to seep into her body.
The wagon lurches, and they begin to move.
"We did it." Ciri whispers. "We're gonna be okay now."
And with that, Ciri finally gives herself permission to sleep.
