bialy_wilk | { pfsb } The Isle of Mists

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{ pfsb } The Isle of Mists

He'd had to force himself to slow down, to take their time as they traveled. First to Novigrad, to speak with Zoltan and Roche; then to board a ship to Skellige, where Ermion agreed to assist without hesitation and where Queen Cerys offered the aid of her finest knight – her brother, Hjalmar. He gets a message to Triss, does his best to do the same for Keira and Letho, somewhere in the wilderness.

Geralt sends them all to Kaer Morhen, and knows it won't be enough.

Lan Wangji is a quiet, reserved traveling companion. Geralt feels a pang at separating him from his husband, but it's not enough to make him want to send the cultivator back. Selfishly, he wants the man here, in case Ciri is in trouble. In case he needs to send her with her friend while he himself holds the path behind them.

They rise early, travel all the day, and camp at dark. On the ship to Skellige, Geralt meditates, his only other option to prowl the decks like the wolf of his name. And once they've reached the islands and found their allies, Cerys gives them a small sailing dinghy and sets them on their way.

Geralt steers them to the very edge of the archipelago, past looming, jagged rocks and endless tracts of gray, wavering sea, until they reach a place where the mists curl ethereal fingers along the edge of Lan Wangji's robes. The witcher heaves the little boat to, then reaches for the bottle he's stored in the qiankun bag Lan Wangji had gifted him what feels like a lifetime ago. "This had better work," he mutters, and uncorks the glass bottle to free the firefly spirit which Avallac'h had conjured. It flutters into the air, then describes a slightly wobbling path into the gray, hazy depths of the mists which stretch before them.

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The voice laughs. "Gaspard!" it chortles. "Ivo! Good to hear you, lads. Stand back, I'm openin' the door."

Geralt steps back, leaving room for the small band of dwarves that comes out from the hut, all clapping their two brethren on the back and shoulders. "What of Ferenc?" the leader asks, glancing at Geralt and Lan Wangji as the others tease Gaspard for his sleepiness.

"We were not able to reach him in time," Lan Wangji tells them. "A monster killed him before we arrived."

"Ach," says the leader, shaking his head. "Thanks for looking, anyhow."

"Everything's gone wrong," says one of the others, frustrated. "What'll we do now?"

"Got a boat," Geralt tells them. "You can leave with us. But I need to find someone, first."

"An ashen-haired lass?" asks another dwarf, and Geralt glances at him. "Yes."

"O-oh," the dwarf stammers, and Geralt feels his blood freeze in his veins. "Dreadful sorry."

Edited 2022-06-05 22:07 (UTC)

"What?" It cracks from him as sharply as a whip, without his meaning it to. He's still as stone, desperately seeking answers in their faces, suddenly all too afraid of what he may find.

"She's cold," one of them says. "Spirit's left her."

It feels like one of the fiend's horns has finally found purchase in his gut; he sways, slightly, as if taking a physical blow as the dwarves all shake their heads, grim. "Must've passed shortly before we found her," murmurs one, as they quietly move past a stricken Geralt.

"Let's wait by the boat," another says, quietly, as they solemnly walk past. He hardly notices their passing, reeling as he is from their words.

He is not a man who touches people, or whom people often touch, and in this moment it does not matter. Lan Wangji moves to Geralt's side and puts a hand on his arm.

"We cannot yet be sure," he manages, barely audible. His mouth tastes of dust and ash and remembered blood, the bile of an all-too-familiar desperation rising.

("Wei Ying!")

"It could..." But he finds that he cannot continue. Lying is forbidden, and false hope the worst of all.

He can hardly feel Lan Wangji's hand on his arm. They're too late, after all. If they hadn't stopped in Novigrad, hadn't waited a night to lift the curse from Uma, hadn't been dragged aside to an audience with Emhyr –

Geralt glances at the door, his chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths, then meets Lan Wangji's eyes before he sets a hand on the younger man's forearm. He squeezes it, lightly, before gently – achingly gentle, for the witcher – lifting it free of his own. Turning, as slow as a man in a dream, he faces the door as he would his own doom.

One step, then another. He curls his fingers into fists at his sides as he comes closer, but he finds, at the last, that he can't bear to take the last step, to reach up and push the door open.

He doesn't know where he finds the strength, but at last he sets his hand to the wood and pushes, slow and gentle. The creaking door moves, spilling dim light into the dark cabin. It falls on an old table, a cold fireplace.

And, finally, on a figure huddled without movement or sign of life on a wooden bed across from the door, the murky light reflecting off her ashen hair.

She is still. So very still. Too still, by far, for the bright and vibrant woman he knows.

(oh, it's good to see you, my friend)

The dim light of this accursed isle falls all too clearly on the familiar form. Even lying as she is with her back to them he recognizes her hair, her clothing.

He forces himself to stay still, his glance going to Ciri's true father, standing beside him.

Edited 2022-06-05 22:50 (UTC)

His boots sound softly on the creaking floorboards as he moves, step by reluctant step, into the hut. It could be another, he tells himself, remembering how he'd been fooled by Angoulême's pale hair. He does his best not to recognize Zirael in its scabbard, the dagger at her hip.

It feels like an age before he's standing by the side of the bed, looking down at the still form. No breath lifts her side or stirs her hair, no warmth colors the curve of cheek he can just see or the back of her neck. Geralt sits, heavily, by the girl's side, and reaches for her shoulder.

His hand falters. The witcher breathes deep, and takes her gently by the shoulder, rolling her onto her back, and –

It's Ciri's face, slack in death and not in sleep that reveals itself, her ashen hair soft around her features, and Geralt pushes up, turning away, grief a howling emptiness in his chest.

Her body falls onto its back, graceless and heavy, and as the witcher recoils from the truth Lan Wangji tastes blood in his mouth from biting back a cry.

He cannot allow it, for if he begins to howl his grief to the skies he will not stop. He knows that all too well. No matter what he himself feels at the loss of a dear friend, it is Geralt whose pain will be slicing him to the soul - another feeling Lan Wangji knows too well - Geralt who will need all the support he can offer. He must remain disciplined, in control, and strong. He must.

He moves very slowly, stepping inside the doorway and to the side so as not to block the light and not to interfere. Let Geralt have all the time he can give him. There is no need to hurry any longer.

Edited 2022-06-05 23:10 (UTC)

The last time he'd felt anguish like this, he'd been certain that Yennefer had fallen at Sodden Hill. Again, grief crushes everything in his chest and gut, leaving him breathless with pain. Again, his mind rages against the truth of it, against the impossibility of loss.

He's come so far. They'd found her, at last. And he couldn't save her.

Memory floods his mind, unbidden – Ciri, small and precocious, imperiously ordering him through Brokilon Forest. Ciri, smudged with smoke and blood, running to him through the trees by the farmer's cottage.

("Forever, Geralt?")

Ciri, deflecting a crossbow bolt on the stairs at Stygga Castle. Ciri, curled between him and Yennefer. Ciri, a girl once more, training with Eskel and Lambert, sassing Vesemir. Ciri, her hand full of a white rose, its petals soft and fragrant.

He makes a low sound and falls back to sitting on the bed, then curls into himself, the ache stabbing into his heart as surely as any sword, his thoughts full of the little girl he'd sworn to protect. In a wash of grief-stricken love and tenderness, he turns and reaches for her, gathers her carefully into his arms, presses her cold body against his warm one, holds her head to his shoulder as he gently rocks her. I'm sorry, he thinks, with every sore, aching breath. I'm so sorry.

He doesn't notice the spell-light as it drifts in through the open door, or see it as it lands on Ciri's hair.

But a rough gasp escapes him when he feels her hand shift, before her arms come around him, embracing him with a firm, living grasp.

Edited 2022-06-05 23:20 (UTC)

He watches the gleaming light drift in with no real concern; it is drawn to Ciri by means of the seeking enchantment laid on it, he supposes. But as it dissipates into her and she draws breath, as she holds on to Geralt, Lan Wangji staggers with the weight of his shock and puts out a hand to brace himself against the wall - in part for support, and in part to keep himself from rushing forward.

Not dead, or not truly; only depleted somehow, her spirit restored with the spark of power from the spell-sphere. His jaw firms. If it is spiritual energy she needs, that he can provide.

In his mind's eye, he sees Ciri as she once was – as the little girl, dressed in Kaer Morhen training wear, running to meet him and leaping into his embrace. The witcher makes a choked sound and tightens his arms around her, almost crushing her in his need to feel her breathing, living, holding him back. And then – impossibly – Ciri laughs.

Barely. It's hardly a shake of her breath, but he can feel it and it almost shatters him all over again. "Geralt," she murmurs, her breath warm and her voice soft. He shudders and holds her more tightly, then releases her just enough to be able to look into her face. "I thought – " he starts, his voice a ruin of itself. "You were – "

She lifts a hand and curves it at his cheek, smiling very faintly, then looks over her shoulder with a gasp of surprise. "Lan Wangji," she says, her voice rusty from lack of use. One hand stays wrapped around Geralt's shoulder; the other reaches across the space of the empty hut to her friend.

He moves forward with awkward haste, falling to his knees beside her bed and reaching for her hand with both of his.

"Ciri. Are you injured? Ill?" Blue light begins to form at his fingertips in a way that will be familiar to her as he prepares to test her meridians and support her energy with his own.

A smile touches her still-pale lips, and he thinks she must be thinking the same as him: that he's never seen Lan Wangji move without absolute grace and precision.

Ciri's gloved fingers curl around Lan Wangji's hand, weak but warm. "No," she says, her voice still a rough murmur. "Only a little tired. Lan Wangji..."

Her spring-green eyes are alight with weary happiness. "Oh, it's good to see you, my friend."

Tears fill his eyes and he blinks them back with desperate determination. "And you," he whispers, rough and strained. "Very much so."

Whatever reason for her previous torpor, her own gifts are restoring her now, he thinks. Still, he sends a cool wash of energy into her meridians all the same, as he has done before, reasoning that it cannot hurt and may help.

She gasps as blue light flows from Lan Wangji's fingers and into her wrist, her arm tightening around Geralt as the energy floods her.

The witcher waits until the glow subsides, then clears his throat, gruffly. "I'll build a fire," he says, and makes himself release Ciri, who watches him with fond amusement. "Lan Wangji, keep an eye on her for a minute."

"Yes, qianbei," he says, and settles into a more formal kneeling position beside Ciri's bedside. Lan Wangji gives her a narrow-eyed, assessing stare.

"You were dead," he informs her. "Do not do that again."

She pushes herself up with slow movements to a sitting position, and considers him with a faint smile. "Was I?" she marvels. "I shall try to avoid it from now on."

If she had in fact been dead, it certainly explains a good deal about how she's currently feeling, which might be generously described as terrible.

But she can't focus on that, not when she can see Geralt kneeling by the fireplace, not when Lan Wangji is here, watching her. "You're in my world," she murmurs. "You came."

"Of course." It is perfectly matter-of-fact. "Wei Ying, also. He waits for us at Kaer Morhen."

She blinks back a sudden sting of tears, gratitude filling her in a rush. By the fireplace, Geralt makes the sign of Igni and coaxes cold, dry wood into flame. "Kaer Morhen," she whispers. "You've been at Kaer Morhen?"

"Time for all that in a minute," Geralt says, coming back over. He leans down to put a strong arm around her waist, helping her to her feet. She can stand, but her legs are weak and wobbly and it's good to lean on him as he helps her over towards the fire, then coaxes her to sit before its warmth.

He follows as Geralt helps Ciri to settle on a deerskin rug before the fireplace and sinks into a cross-legged position nearby, leaving the wooden seat for the witcher. His many layers of robes protect him quite comfortably from the stone floor.

She crosses her legs beneath her and reaches to undo the belt which straps Zirael to her back, then unsheathes the bright blade to check it over for any damage.

Slouched on the wooden stool, Geralt grunts. "Guess not all of Vesemir's teachings've receded into oblivion," he says, offering her a soft cloth with which she carefully polishes the blade.

"'A witcher can forget to eat, to drink, to breathe, even, but a witcher must never, ever forget to care for his blade,'" she recites, a smile on her lips as she glances at Lan Wangji. "You've met him now, I suppose?"

"I have," he confirms. "Vesemir-laoshi and I have been discussing the possibility of adapting cultivation practice for use by witchers. He is very thoughtful, clever, and kind."

Ciri beams at him, while Geralt looks faintly skeptical. She looks back at him, marveling. "What creature was it?" she asks, and elaborates when he looks at her, confused. "One that gave you the scar over your left eye. It's new, I don't remember it."

"Souvenir from the cockatrice of Spalla," he tells her. "Another addition to the collection, nothing special." He studies her like he can't get enough of seeing her features. "Yours has healed beautifully, though."

"Avallac'h," she murmurs. "He prepared some special ointments for me. But... that was before the curse gripped him." Her face falls. "Wonder where he is now."

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