Chapter Text
Kaer Morhen, 1946
I never expected a happy ending. A witcher has no emotions? Yea, right. A big fucking lie.
Geralt shielded his eyes from the intruding sunlight. Vesemir is dead and Ciri... He turned toward the crumbling wall and sighed. Geralt knew he'd failed them both.
W. Ilde Hunt changed the face of the Continent. Hunt’s cult of crazed warriors could travel between worlds without blinking an eye. Geralt and Ciri had beaten them, but at a cost. Hunt took Vesemir’s life; the old witcher was once Geralt’s teacher, mentor, friend and partner, together they patrolled the Continent–but no longer.
Witchers - a dying breed thanks to wars, infighting and fear, learned to adapt for survival. Those who lived no longer followed the old ways - guns replaced steel. Silver bullets took the place of silver swords and offering help to those in need–even for coin–no longer the path of the witcher. Geralt refused to abandon Vesemir’s teachings, shutting himself away from contact with anyone.
Noises from the lower floor alerted Geralt to an intruder at the bottom of the stairs. The clink of a glass bottle kicked aside. Loose stones tumbled under encroaching footsteps. A curious thief maybe, he thought.
His medallion didn’t hum; an early warning of magic and danger, the wolf’s head medallion hung around his neck. A quick pat at his chest revealed Geralt wasn’t wearing it. He had a vague recollection of removing the medallion at some point and discarding the piece in the mess of his bedroom. Without warning, the sounds intensified and changed, a snarl followed by a hiss. The thump of large paws and growling grew louder as two beasts continued up the stairs. Geralt knew his swords were across the room–at least they should be. He could take on one of them unarmed, but he’d need a weapon to face two at the same time.
He readied himself for the impending attack until a breeze moved through the room. Perfume. Lilac and gooseberries. These are Yen’s illusions, not beasts. He called out, “that’s not funny - go away, Yen.”
The snarling beasts dissolved as she pulled back on her magic. Yennefer of Vengerberg, adviser to kings and the emperor when it suited her wiped the dust and debris from an upended chair to sit. “I’d say it was lovely to see you again Geralt, but I’m afraid I’ve come to enlist your help. Whatever our past may still be worth, the truth is - I need you.”
I need you. Her gentle plea once carried a very different meaning. Their time together ended when Ciri did not return. “Not in the mood.” He groped around the bed for the bottle of Erveluce opened the night before.
“It is not your bed I seek, Geralt.” Her eyes focused on his search of the bedsheets. “The bottle you hunt for spilled in front of the bed. This isn’t a social call; I need a witcher. I need you.”
“No. Go find Eskel. He’s somewhere in Velen.” Geralt punched the pillow and buried his head again.
Her heeled boots clacked against the floor. He shifted in response to the mattress sinking where she sat near him. “Please, Geralt, this is about Cirilla. I received a package from a messenger boy in Skellige, a simple brown paper package and a note.” Yennefer touched his shoulder. “Geralt, it’s the bracelet we gave her. Would you please stop this utter nonsense and look!”
A heavily scarred arm rose, palm faced up. “Fine, let me see it.”
The new scars on his arms and back she did not remember. Time lost between them resulted from his desire to blame himself for Vesemir’s death and Ciri’s disappearance. The last words spoken between them gave her no reason to suspect Geralt would leave.
“She is strong Geralt, Cirilla will return”. Geralt waited for days for Ciri and only at Yennefer’s insistence did he return to Kaer Trolde with her until he left one morning and did not return.
Geralt distanced himself from her and everyone without explanation. The few remaining witchers took Geralt’s disappearance as proof their time was over.
Embittered at his withdrawal from the world, her irritation grew. She pushed away from the bed and pulled on the bed sheets. “No, Geralt. I’ve had enough.”
“You’re pissing me off, Yen. Go away.” Even without the medallion, he felt her magic swell. If pushed too far, she might try magical influence.
Despite her frustration, she quelled the anger within and kept her voice low and controlled. “I’m not even getting started yet, but if you will look and tell me your thoughts, I will leave you to your drink and your misery.”
Geralt turned to accept the package. It was Ciri’s bracelet. He examined it, remembering when he’d commissioned the work. Silver filigree with a sapphire in the center. She’d had it on her wrist when she left. He’d need to see the note as well. “The note, anything there?”
Leave Cirilla to her rest.
He did not recognize the scrawl, but the words smudged under his thumb. Charcoal, he thought, paper milled, not pressed. Rural. Farmland somewhere. “Problem is, could be from anywhere.” Whoever delivered the bracelet to Yennefer did so for a reason.
Yennefer couldn’t follow his comments. “What? Do you see something?”
Turning to look at her, he smiled without thinking. She wore the leather jacket he’d given her and from head to toe adorned in her preferred color of choice. “Do you own anything that isn’t black?”
She grinned in return, “do you own anything that isn’t wrinkled?” Yennefer guessed he’d slept in the same trousers and shirt for a few days. She fell easily into teasing him, her eyes settling on his short hair, cut not for style, she could only surmise the chopped hair and haphazard lengths were casualties of his current state of mind. “What have you done to your hair?” The shock and sadness on her face at the loss of his white hair loosened her reserve. “Oh, Geralt, please, leave your hair and beard to grow, I do so prefer it long.”
His heart thumped in response. Closing his eyes, he muttered, “I can’t do this, Yen.”
“What do you mean?” Yennefer’s downcast eyes pulled at his chest.
“You. . . me. . . .us. I’ll find Ciri. I need to visit a few people, get a line on the paper.” He pulled on his suspenders and reached for his cloak tossing it to the bed. Yennefer said nothing, but recognized it was the one Vesemir always wore.
“Then . . .I shall return to Skellige, unless - may I give you a lift somewhere?” She asked.
“A portal? No thanks, I can walk. See you.” Geralt rummaged around the large dresser until he found his medallion. “You should go.” Reaching for his harness, he felt her hand touch his back.
“If you need me, do you still have the talisman?” Yennefer gave Geralt a talisman from the Aen Elle- the realm of the elves, they weren’t forbidden, but if he used it, she held its mate. A portal would take Geralt to her side in instant.
“Lost it. I meant to give it to Ciri before she left.” Geralt started, “look, you need to go before anyone learns you’re here.”
Yennefer’s patience dissolved. “Who would know? Tell me? The bloody wolves? You are hiding in the middle of these mountains. Two years, Geralt, two years. You don’t know! Radovid and Emhyr . . . you should have killed them both! Instead you stew in alcohol and who knows what else.”
“That’s enough, Yen,” his warning was clear, “it’s too late.”
Yennefer sensed the lack of conviction in his voice and continued. “No, it’s just the beginning. You want me to go, fine. I shall leave you. But you will find Cirilla, am I clear?” Yennefer could trust no one else to the task, but his current state worried her. “Geralt, we are descending into chaos in the Realms and you–Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf - are needed.”
“I’m not him anymore, Yen,” Geralt said, “I can’t fix everything.”
She held her words for fear of the irreparable harm they might inflict. The phone’s shrill ring cut through the silence between them. “Your ride, Geralt,” Yennefer nodded towards the phone, “I’ve arranged everything you might need.” A few muttered words and a spherical portal appeared in his room as papers and bottles moved with the magical force the portal enacted in the enclosed space.
He watched as she turned back to look at him, a soft smile crossed her face, “it’s never too late, Geralt, not for me,” Yennefer straightened her jacket and stepped into the portal.
“Dammit, Yen. Why now?” Geralt cringed as the phone rang again. Snatching the handset from the cradle, he barked into the mouthpiece. “What!”
The chipper voice at the other end of the phone did not help Geralt’s mood. “Geralt! Dandelion’s taxi at your service! Yennefer arranged everything, there should be a car arriving in a short while but you must get to the access road, are you . . . able to walk?”
He grumbled at the veiled implications of possible inebriation. “I’m sober. Who’d you send?” Silence met his question. “Dandelion, it’s a simple question. Who?”
“Zoltan.”
“Not the best choice for an escort.” Geralt and Zoltan together often led to overnight accommodations in the local jails.
“Not today, I promise. Zoltan is under strict orders to pick you up and get you back here in one piece.”
“You’re full of shit, you know that right?” Geralt shook his head. “Fine, I’ll be there, hopefully he’ll wait for me.”
“Of course he will, Geralt!” Dandelion’s phony laugh only annoyed Geralt more, and he slammed the receiver down cutting off the conversation.
Geralt grabbed his pack, surprised to find it heavy. Flipping the pack open, he found bills, coins, potions and other travel items. Yennefer. Damn, I messed up.
Descending the stairs, he took a long look at his home. “This really is a shithole. I should fix it up, restore it or something.” Kaer Morhen was once a sprawling keep, a school and home for witchers. Left by his mother Visenna when he was young in the care of the witchers, Geralt grew up under Vesemir’s tutelage.
“Time to go,” he chastised himself and hurried down the staircases into the main hall, flipping the cloak around his shoulders, Geralt secured his harness and blades and lifted the hood to obscure his short hair.
Known for his long white hair, Geralt had chopped it an angry rant several weeks prior and didn’t want to explain each time someone saw his handiwork. Geralt hurried out of the gates and down the mountain path.
Zoltan Chivay was not the most patient dwarf. “If Geralt weren’t so bleedin’ tall, I’d shove me boot straight up his arse for makin’ me wait. Bleedin’ witchers do whatever they please.” Zoltan took a moment to take in the mountain air and then resumed complaining.
“Sends me out into the weeds to find Geralt. I know how ta find Geralt, lay out a trail of booze and boobs.” Zoltan laughed at his joke. “Booze and boobs.”
Zoltan and Geralt met by fate’s decree, placed together in the same unit during the Third War of the Northern Lands along with several others they formed a bond unbroken by time. Zoltan swore fealty to no seat, no crown only to the men he called friends. Geralt was the one he’d connected with the most, and Zoltan would often sacrifice his own goals to aid Geralt whenever needed.
The hidden path led Geralt out of the mountains and to the entry gate where he found Dandelion’s car. “Now where did Dandelion get his hands on a Silver Wraith?” Geralt looked over the sleek black car; the Wraith, meant for luxury not deliveries seemed out of place. With a body several inches longer than the standard limousines seen around the realms, the Wraith boasted a fender configuration shaped like a rolling wave, originating from the rear of the vehicle and culminating in a crest over the wheel base; a striking black interior from seats to carpet gave it even a more pretentious presence. He whistled in appreciation but Geralt concluded this was not Dandelion’s car. “This is something the Emperor would put on display. Flaunt something so decadent as to be the envy of others.”
“Yer not far off there, Geralt.” Zoltan pushed Geralt out of the way and opened the door, “Your car, sir?” Zoltan laughed.
Geralt unbuckled his harness before sliding into the rear seat. He lifted the side bar cover to find it empty. “Not very hospitable, Zoltan.”
“That’s not my doing, I promise.” Zoltan turned around from the driver’s seat. “What’s your poison, magic or petrol?”
Magic or petrol? Geralt only knew of a handful of vehicles adapted for use of magic. “This is Yen’s monstrosity, isn’t it?” Zoltan’s soft chuckle answered the question before he replied.
“Not entirely, my friend, a gift from Emhyr var Arsehole if I understood the tale. The lady accepted it, made a few minor adjustments and here we are. Now, oh great one, there’s a crystal there, give her a little love and we’re on our way.”
Geralt drew the Aard sign, and the crystal bathed the car’s interior in blue light. Without warning, the engine roared to life and shot forward, slamming Geralt into the back seat.
“Sorry about that, forgot to mention she has quite the kick,” Zoltan said laughing as Geralt righted himself against the back seat.
“Should’ve taken the portal.” The journey to Novigrad, even at this enhanced speed, would take the better part of a day, Geralt settled in for the long drive as Zoltan talked about the current state of the Continent.
The Continent, made up of the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardian Empire was a chaotic mix of mobs of varying degrees. Radovid, Redania’s mad king sent mercenaries out daily to take whatever he wanted, including people. Emhyr var Emreis–he’d used decoys and doubles to prevent any assassination attempts. Vernon Roche ran a mercenary police force; goons for hire quick to beat a criminal to death instead of bringing them before a magistrate. Even if someone managed an arrest, the various factions owned all the magistrates. Sigismund Dijkstra, Novigrad’s crime lord ran the thieves and the assassin’s guilds from the far Isles of Skellige to the mountains in the south, and proved to be the only decent fellow in the bunch next to Roche.
The Lodge of Sorceresses, a faction of women once feared for the magical strengths had all but disappeared. Most of the Sorceresses scattered to the winds. Some suspected a few might have shifted into other dimensions to avoid servitude. Still others hid in plain sight, advisers for hire.
Zoltan continued to chatter on, but Geralt nodded off.
Novigrad–Hierarch Square
Novigrad: a dark city even in the light of day where the only goal is to remain in the good graces of the men in control. Fallen out of favor for an unknown reason, Dmitar, the sole armor smith in the city planned to travel to Kovir to unload his inventory. He’d need to find work outside the rule of the city’s factions.
A messenger arrived with a note promising a lucrative commission and Dmitar stared at its message. Turning it over again in his hands he read the implied salvation and hoped his luck had changed.
Your work is unmatched in the realms. I wish to discuss a commission.
The underside of the note contained a precise location and time for the meeting in old town. “A strange place to meet, I’ll send someone in my place.” The armorer showed his wife the note, fear of skulking about the city alleyways in the dead of night pushing him to decline the request.
She argued with him through the evening meal and in the end convinced him to meet the patron in person. The only armorer in Novigrad should have far more work with the various factions in the city. Sigismund Dijkstra cancelled all his orders two years prior without explanation. The others followed his lead. Dijkstra, the uncrowned king of the underworld had branded Dmitar’s shop as unfit.
The gunsmiths made the most coin in Novigrad, but Dmitar had provided dimeritium plates for protection, vehicles, and helmets and other attire. He hoped this commission would lead to new business. His meeting was set for half past midnight. Time for evil, his mother’s warnings returned to him, only thieves, beggars and the unblessed walk the night.
Dmitar disliked the back alleys in old town; blind corners, hidden alcoves between the buildings left him wondering why such a strange place would be chosen for a meeting. Through twists and turns, he reached an alcove to find a table with two chairs. The Novigrad News rested atop it. Dmitar sat and picked up the paper. “1944? The paper is two years old. What is the meaning of this?”
He turned the paper to the front page.
Royal Heir Disappears–Magic Claims Beloved Daughter
His heart quickened. An image of a young woman covered the space below the headline. He remembered her. She asked for repairs to cloak and gloves, but never returned. “I remember you,” he whispered.
The city fell silent. Not even the wind moved as before. “This is magic, I can’t stay.”
“This is magic?” The voice is female, rich and refined. There is no doubt to her sarcasm as she continued. “You left her without her protection. How could you? You knew who she was–did you not?”
She was young, Dmitar could tell, but her swords were well-crafted and her coat was fur lined at the hood, she was no beggar. He commented on the unique design of her cloak.
“It’s from Skellige, a gift. But I wish for it to have an underlayer added, perhaps draconid leather, cured?” The girl knew her materials; he did not stock the cured leather, but could receive it in a day or two.
“A day or two to receive the materials, another two for safety, would that be too long?” Dmitar would have to use most of his funds unless the woman paid him up front. “An advance would be helpful as well, half now, the rest due upon delivery?”
She smiled and nodded. “That would be perfect. The materials are quite expensive, two thousand now and another thousand when I return, would that be sufficient?”
“T-t-two thousand? That’s far too much.” He could not take more than would be proper.
“Nonsense! The entire cloak reinforced, and a pair of gloves. I shall leave you this pair for the pattern.” She handed him a tattered leather set. “If you would, to the elbow I think. Yes, definitely.” She smiled as she passed the gloves to him.
To accept her offer would be wrong, the materials wouldn’t cost two thousand and to add another, he couldn’t. “Miss. . .”
“Ciri, my name is Ciri.” She said smiling as she ran off. “I expect your very best work!”
The clacking of heeled shoes on the cobblestone alleyway echoed. An echo? How is there an echo? Dmitar felt the shift in the cool night air as a warm blast filled the small space. “I must go home, my wife-“
The figure of a woman stepped into the dim light. Cloaked in black velvet a hood obscured her face from view. Her wrath was clear in her words
“How dare you abandon her? Your incompetence killed her. She faced her enemy unprotected because of you!”
Unbalanced in fear and confusion, Dmitar fell backwards as he tried to stand. “No, you must believe me. She did not return! I swear it; the items are still in my shop. I never sold them, never discarded them. They still wait for her, please!” He prayed silently someone would hear them and intervene.
“Fool, you still do not understand. You played your part well; protest all you like. You and your conspirators will pay. You are the first. I assure you–I have not forgotten.”
He tried to search his memory. “I met her only once, I didn’t know who she was. She was kind to me, offered too much for the work, I finished it early. I would never have taken advantage of her kindness. Why won’t you believe me?”
The woman stepped closer. “You took the one thing that kept the balance in this world. You set the path in motion.”
Another blast of warm air filled the space. It reminded him of spring at his family farm, the lilacs his mother loved so well.
A hand emerged from beneath the cloak. The hand and fingers seemed too delicate, too perfect. He willed himself to rush towards her and escape, but could not. Dmitar’s eyes widened as a violet ball of light formed in her outstretched hand. “You are Dmitar Yesenia. You have been judged. Death awaits.”
Dmitar fell to his knees and prayed as the violet flames surrounded him.
_________________
Shaken from his sleep, Geralt groaned. “Unless you plan to buy me a drink, or give me a kiss, fuck off.”
Vernon Roche backed out of the Wraith and into the street, “Sorry Geralt. I’m on duty and frankly, you’re just not my type. Get up you lazy bastard, I’ve got a problem.”
Geralt opened one eye and looked into the grinning visage of his old friend. Roche ran the mercenary forces in the major cities as guards and police. His appearance now meant trouble. Geralt waited to see what he needed this time around. “You know Roche, there are creams and ointments that can help. Lay off the prostitutes, it’s the best idea for someone in your line of work.”
Roche didn’t have time for Geralt’s usual quips and humor. “You should know. I’m not trying to be funny, Geralt, this is serious. There’s a body in a nearby alleyway. Dijkstra lent me the extra men to close off the area.
Geralt pulled to full attention. “You’re helping each other? This isn’t good.” He climbed out of the car and settled on his feet.
“The problem is this involves you too. An armorer from the Square is dead. Magic killed him. I need your help.”
“Get in line, Roche.” Geralt could not take sides in another turf war or petty fight between factions. He needed to find Ciri. “I have a much bigger problem.”
Roche handed over a lady’s glove. It was silk, black silk. Out of habit, he inhaled the perfumed scent. “This is Yen’s glove. Is she all right? Where is she?” Geralt’s senses engaged as his concern for Yen took control.
“I was afraid you would say that, Geralt.” Roche pulled him towards the door of Dandelion’s club.