#never forget he is the black knight of cintra… | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seancekitsch · 4 years

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Intended: Chapter 2

warnings: none i think??? talks abt betrothals and gender roles, canon witcherverse stuff

You arrive at the gates, half starved and littered in cuts and bruises. You cling to the dagger like it is the one thing keeping you alive. Foolishly, you had not rolled up the bed roll and taken it with you, so now your back bends at an odd angle filled with exhaustion and discomfort. After a stern conversation with the guards at the gates, the people of Brugge welcome you in. Lady Venzlav, the widowed sister of the queen, taking you in like an adoptive grown daughter. First thing she does is give you a much needed bath. She gives you new dresses, ones that go to the floor and do not show off your riding boots, ones that are suitable of a lady of the court and not of a vagabond or a traveler. You get new plaits in your hair gifts of jewelry from men at court to replace what you lost and as an attempt at flattery or courtship. For all intents and purposes, you return to your old life. Only, it's not. Your family, your home; it's all gone. You struggle to find new friends, a new place in the court despite Lady Venzlav’s encouragement and the welcoming of everyone else. But there is a twinge of pity in their eyes, and you feel it when your back is turned, you feel it licking at your back like the flames that Cahir- stop. You are safe. You are in Brugge; You can reinvent yourself as a Bruggian. You can forget the knight and the week in the woods.

Exactly a month and six days later, you find yourself waking from your fifth dream of the night in the black armor and his soft smile that used to make you swoon. These dreams are bittersweet, reminding you of the future that could have been, what you almost had. But they also stir up his lies. Cahir had looked you in the eye, kissed you, laid beside you and held you in his arms all while lying to him. He kidnapped you, but somewhere deep down you knew it wasn't meant like that. You know that every time you practice in your chambers, swinging clumsily with the dagger, sloppy movements in the mirror alerting you to all of your inadequacies. It reminds you of what else he could have taught you.

Lady Venzlav is a nice woman, if not set in her ways. She encourages the book reading, the writing, all of which you always loved. She encourages music and dancing, which are fine. But it’s the scripture and the belief of a woman’s place that tend to upset you. She believes you should be a good and dutiful wife, demure and obedient once you are betrothed to a suitor. She proactively considers you betrothed in her mind, and has been watching you closely. Had she known there was a dagger concealed in your stays when you had entered through the gates, especially a Nilfgaardian dagger, she would have had it destroyed. This was your big secret, one you were sure you'd be punished for if anyone were to catch you practicing combat with a weapon belonging to the enemy. The dagger feels heavy in your hand, it's a comforting heaviness, one that feels like safety and comfort. One that you can hardly bear to think about, for it reminds you of an embrace by a campfire. You're confident in your abilities, as clumsy and foolish as they might look. You had a good teacher, that you couldn't deny, and you know with practice you will only be better.

The dagger keeps your mind at bay. Your slashing and weaving in the mirror with a torn chemise and stays you kept hidden from Lady Venzlav making you feel strong and self sufficient like being on your own had made you feel. Lady Venzlav had been less than subtle about taking up your parents' mantle of having you married off sooner rather than later. Your status of a spinster did make you a questionable wildcard at court, and she already had several prospects for you. A small charity, she was going to let you pick from the possible suitors; all of them twenty years your senior, known for being womanizers or brutish, all abhorrent in their own special ways. Of course this is because you are an outsider. Although you may adopt the identity of being Bruggian, you are not, and you will not be afforded the luxury of a choice of Bruggian in your marriage prospects. Not that you mind better choices either, you intend to snub them all as you did the suitors in Cintra. Before your heart belonged to you alone, but now you fear you may have left it in the woods. You angrily throw the dagger to the ground, huffing at the thought of being resigned to the title of wife.

Cahir wanders alone. Heading slowly east, but mostly hoping to avoid any detection. He knows, should he be found to have failed his mission, to have failed to bring Cirilla back to Nilfgaard, makes him an enemy and a fugitive in his own right. He faces imprisonment, possibly execution, if he returns home. Truly, if he had just let the woman go, sent her to another kingdom or let her to her own devices, he might have been able to find Cirilla before she found herself with the witcher. He might have been able to succeed in the quest and been able to bring her to Nilfgaard, where he would have been rewarded and maybe even given a shiny medal or some other trinket that seems inconsequential now. But he knows that slim chance dried up like a stream in a drought, and now he walks in hopes of finding you, the one living soul on this continent that he would feel safe seeing, and even then you might run him through with that dagger when you see him. Cahir knows he would not blame you if you tried.

He had never, truly, intended you the harm or heartache he caused. He had realized the moment he entered Cintra that there was no good reason whatsoever a man like the emperor would want a little girl. Cahir always longed to be a knight, like the ones he would read about in legends and would play pretend as when he was a child. He wanted to be a hero, to help someone and be dashing and put his life on the line and return home with a hero's welcome where a nondescript beautiful lady would give him her favor and they'd fall in love, just like in the books. When he saw you, savage and hardy, the face of the woman he imagined as a child came into focus, features unblurred, sharpness set in. He knew he had to save you, even if he didn't fully realize what he was doing yet. He realizes the moment you leave that knighthood is no longer on his list of priorities. The moment he wakes up alone, his priorities in life become a humble one, wanting nothing but to be back by your side and to make you happy. Cahir is a realistic man, however, and knows traveling must be done by moonlight, and that if he is truly going to defect he must lose this armor somewhere along the way. He has been shunned from three towns he tried to search for you, and hopes none of them were where you were. There was one where he was able to work for a horse, and now saves his muscles riding. He has a good feeling about the next country over, about Brugge. This is where he heads now.

“Cahir, I mean to ask,” you start, a little nervous. What if he wasn't the man you knew him to be? The armor he wore did not reflect the gentle man he was. He nods, encouraging you to keep talking as he carves the fish he had caught earlier for dinner.

“Why don't you have the Nilfgaardian accent? You have the armor. You look the part, but you don't sound it.”

At your words, his posture straightens, a look of pride flashes across his eyes as he sets aside the fish to talk with his hands presumably.

“Ah,” he begins, “Beauty and extremely perceptive. That's because I’m not Nilfgaardian. I’m from Vicovaro.”

“Isn't that one of the Nilfgaardian vassals?”

“Yes, but it is also so much more.”

You can tell that this is a point of pride for him in the way he can't hide a smile, and the way his hands are already gesturing before his thoughts are fully out of his mouth. You fiddle absently with the hem of your skirts as he tells you of the beautiful sunny shores, the memories of the sun tanning his skin as a child, the magnificent sprawling schools, the beautiful ancient castles and lush greenery. He’s proud of his mother’s homeland and to bear her name along with his own. There is a difference between Vicovaro and Nilfgaard, how silly you were to not know it before.

“Vicovaro,” you repeat, tasting his home on your tongue. You'd only known Cintra, though you know you weren't a born Cintran. The cold and wind didn't suit you, often spending the winter months hiding indoors by a fire and writing away in your journals.

“Maybe one day I can take you there,” he offers, truly meaning it. You scoot closer to him, curling your fingers around his palm and bringing it to your lap.

“We could make it home,” you say, equally truly meaning it, “I’d follow you anywhere, Cahir.”

You lean in for a kiss.

Lady Venzlav’s screaming in the hall outside your chambers snaps you out of your memory. You scramble to hide the dagger back in your stays as her voice gets closer and what she says becomes more clear.

“It’s the army! The Nilfgaardian army, they’re riding to the gates!”

Again? Again you must flee from this army? Again you must watch your home and all of your belongings burn around you. Not this time, you resolve, you will not go down without a fight. There's no knight to kidnap you and spare you from whatever fate you face and that's how you want it. You tighten the laces on your boot and move across the room to fling the door open to find the lady your mentor.

“Nilfgaard is here? At the gates? We must fight!” you exclaim, head swiveling in search of anything to rip off the walls to help arm other women of the court if you were to need it.

“We must hide,” the older woman counters, no doubt remembering the sacking of Cintra, no doubt remembering the friends she lost. You decided it best not to tell her of the knight that helped you from the flames and the letter opener you’d swung screaming like a banshee and his gentle care in guiding you from peril, despite how you hope you'd never see him again, nor do you care what his fate might be.

“If hiding does not work, we need to have a choice,” you spit with finality, the scar on your collarbone looking garish in the torch light and reminding the good Lady Venslav of what you’d seen. She nods solemnly and goes further down the hall, no doubt to alert the other ladies of what they must do.

You, however, run to the window of the staircase at the end of the hall, the only one that gives you a view of the gate. There is exactly one knight on one dark horse making his way to the gate. Nilfgaard would never send just one soldier, you think, they are not in the business of parlay or envoys before an attack. It has to be a trick, a trap, a diversion, but why? It's not any of those things, it dawns on you, and your heart lurches into your stomach. It’s him.

You descend down the stairs in a fury, blindly pushing past guards and other nobles on your way to any level that will grant you access and force your way through until you reach the servants kitchen. There's always an exit in the servants kitchen. You untuck the dagger and hold it tightly in your hand, like a lifeforce in its own as you push through the heavy door that leads to the grounds. The grass is muddy, no doubt from the cold misty rain of the evening, and your boots sink slightly, slowing down your hellpath to the knight.

He immediately spots you, skirts flowing and the same ethereal anger following you as the night he met you and the night he lost you. He halts his horse and waits for you, a smile gracing tight lips despite the snarl he sees on your own face. You stop several feet away from him, the man you visit every night in your dreams but haunts your waking thoughts.

“Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach,” you address him with his full name, commanding attention you've already won.

“At your command, my lady.”

#cahir the witcher x reader #cahir x reader #my work

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Witcher of the Night (Chapter 18)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

UPDATES FOR WITCHER OF THE NIGHT WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NOW IN MY TIME (GMT +8)

CHAPTER 17

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: The Djinn effects had reasons. A miracle for the Witcher but a threat for everyone in the Continent and this mystery had you placed under a curse that will give you bad fortune for you future and a child that he sorceress plans on ruining.

Warnings: Mention of MCU. Iron man too. Blood. Witcher monster and sign. Curse words and degrading ones. Corporal punishment said and involved.

Words: 8.4k+

A/N: Ghost readers, please do reblog my fic if you’re reading this so others can see it as well. Also people who are in my taglist, I hope you leave even just an emoji of feedback or reblog if you’re done reading. I appreciate the tiniest dot of comment ISTG. I’ve been in a writer’s block (and also mentally exhausted from writing too) but I’m trying my best to give y’all content or an update for WOTN. My mind has been jumping from one character over another so feedback will be nice to receive. Thank you and stay safe.

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! This is kinda a rough draft. I apologize for many errors, this has been a result of fast editing.

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

The Kaedwenians had the last laugh.

Jaskier couldn't keep you safe from anyone, not even a tiny fly. All he could do was be a distraction and be the special wingman for a witcher. But, when it's about protecting the ones he takes care of, Geralt has always been the answer to keep one safe---that he couldn't even take care of himself when he's caught in his shenanigans and monkey businesses.

His mutant friend could always be counted on, by hook or by crook.

Yet, he certainly will disappoint him when he knows what threat and problems happened after a day; only a darn day that he was away and kidnapping arose and hindered everything that the witcher wanted to avoid.

How did they know where his family even were?

Jaskier was limping alongside with Cirilla who has hauled him on her side, an arm slithering over his waist to drag him to where the dining chairs where. One out of ten? hence, this particular sunflower surrounded by a bunch of poison Ivy has been a bard all along.

Sunflowers don't have thorns nor poison. They were harmless. Soft. Bright. Just like him. But, the bees surely did its attack considering how he'd sliced two men on their necks. Nonetheless, it wasn't enough to keep you out of harm.

"Those bloody knights did a number on me!" he suddenly exclaimed out of nowhere; wincing and grumbling out profanities from his wounds as Cirilla went around to grab onto an empty pail, sprinting straight out to quickly come back with her bucket full of water for the bard.

Dried up blood designed his busted lip; plump and ruptured from the constant clouts he'd received. His lower lip were out in a pout, frowning his way from lightly tapping his wounds with a clean cloth; holding up a small mirror to his face. Disheveled doublet untied, the collar of his inner white tunic being a sketchpad of a kid who loved his red paint. Another nasty curse accidentally slipped out of his broken lip when Cirilla loudly dropped the bucket on the table with an obvious sight of panic, fright and anger written on her face.

Her thin, candle-like fingers slightly trembled from the handle and Jaskier had gotten a glimpse out of her fear, terrified for an important person in her life to be in the brink of death. Again. She didn't want it to happen especially when the princess has finally found comfort and light from you; like how her heart hoped to meet a woman who she could treat as her rightful mother.

She didn't want you to die; not like this, never. If only you could live long enough, longer than a normal human then it would be a part of her wishes.

"W-Will she be okay, Jaskier?"

Jaskier was hissing as he tried to take off his doublet. In his unfortunate case, he'd probably earned a fracture or two over his ribs and arm. But, it was far from any organ that will give him demise. He'd thought about it again before deliberating on leaving it on to continue patting the blood off his face, "No. I swear to the death of Valdomarx that the rat will not be fine in their hands, Princess Cirilla."

The bard went on in jawing away over his thoughts with some painful complaining here and there as he tried to wipe the blood off his face with a heavy amount of strength used because of how his arms were sore and aching, "Ow-ow-ow! Geralt needs to give what they want. However, going to the south swamps will be the only solution to alert the witcher,"

Jaskier tutted in exasperation when his dampened cloth grazed through the wound, making him sigh and close his eyes to calm down. The child has done the same, copying his reaction before reaching out to grab onto the cloth and tried cleaning his wounds for herself. He bellyached away over how she's been cleaning the wrong places but a simple sharp, warning of her blue eyes kept the toubadour fidgeting from the child care.

"It's been how many hours already since she was taken?" he sounded incoherent from trying to talk with his mouth never closing as Cirilla tried to pat over the pillows of his lips. She made him repeat his question, moving away from him to dip the cloth inside the bucket and squeezing the excess water out.

When she'd heard him repeat it much clearer this time, she thought for a second before turning her heel to face him again, raising a finger to show him the time it took.

"An hour or two."

He weakly nodded more to himself. The accident was utterly fresh inside their minds and Jaskier couldn't help but worry as the clock ticks by because he knew and understood that the people in their world were more cruel and grating to be with than in your kingdom that you have lived in for years, the bard was anxiously bouncing his leg up and down with his thoughts and solutions going in places.

"We can't go to where Geralt is tomorrow," he noted as a matter of fact, pausing to glare at Cirilla who leaned close and started caring for his wounds with heavy hands, "---all we can ever hope for is wait for the gods plan. Hush now, princess."

In Cirilla's point of view, hearing his response drove her bananas. They just couldn't wait for Geralt to arrive when he'll be taking up three days before telling him what has happened. What if you were already being punished because of their false accusations about you? Geralt's child of surprise has heard everything. Even from the time that the troopers has been kicking up a fuss over the woman named Savia that looked entirely like you.

She'd even saw the fight between Kolby; seeing him run away so suddenly broke her heart as much as yours did. Will he ever come back? the princess thought at the back of her mind from overrating. Will you ever come back to their lives again or will Geralt be too late to save you from their dirty hands?

The lion cub of Cintra has pulled away from treating Jaskier's wounds, straightening her back when she began to let the negative thoughts go to her head.

"How about Kolby? I---I've seen him run away!"

Jaskier grabbed the cloth out of her hands, trying to sanitize his wounds instead. He'd tightly blinked his eyes, the left side utterly benumbed from their sucker-punches and he knew a black eye would come forth soon whether he likes it or not. The bard wasn't even on an adventure with the witcher, yet why has there been an incident where he'd been belaboured till he was bleeding with a hobble.

"He'll come back, dearest Cirilla. We can only hope for the best and also for Geralt to do his witchering---the heightened senses, I mean. Do you think his hearing can reach from here?"

They've been surrounded by silence after that. It was already morning by the time that Cirilla has successfully helped the bard to his feet, earning minutes of pure inveighs against what they've done and why Geralt decided to leave earlier than they have arrived. Their house was left as it is and it seemed like the only job that they needed to do was hold you ransom for what they wanted from the witcher because they knew what was happening beyond the four corners of their house.

The Kaedwednians have acted like they knew you were important to their family; beneficial to be taken for hostage and a crucial person for Geralt that would make him cave in to their desires.

Hence, they probably were right when Jaskier and Cirilla has heard the fast, pitter-patters of a horse from a distance; riding towards the house in a canter. Geralt's family looked at each other with knowing faces before Cirilla's face fell from thinking about the pessimist side of her head.

"I--I hear galloping!" she exclaimed before Jaskier noted the pale look of her lips like she has been thrown a bucket of ice on her head, "---What if its them again?" her lips began to tremble this time with a high pitch tone that says she was nervous and scared because she wasn't ready yet.

"What if they're back to capture me this time?"

They have been living in a world that scares her and when the right time comes, Geralt promised to take her where she'll be trained better to become like him for when danger and chaos tries to make them stay, the princess will know how to defend herself from the risks and threats. But, the witcher would still protect her no matter what happens because it is his duty and also because she has already been an adopted daughter to him. A daughter that he cherishes despite acting cold and dispassionate about the idea.

You knew she was important to him, a daughter that he somehow cared for from the moment they met. Geralt has told you this in the middle of the night, trying to tell you stories as he slept, managing to ask him about Cirilla and how she was involved in his life. The witcher never did plan it along but their destiny has made it happen for them to meet. She was the girl in the woods that people have been telling him about and the law of surprise that he has given voice that had you in awe because their world consists of beliefs and preternatural principles that never existed on earth.

Jaskier felt like his whole body grow numb and forgotten what the pain that the cavaliers has inflicted upon him when he suddenly stood up, apprehensively grabbing onto Cirilla's shoulders and looking around to find her somewhere to hide.

The heavy set of footfall started to tread near, out of the threshold of their front entry. With a swollen face and bloody clothes, he grabbed onto her wrist and tried to pull her out of the kitchen and onto the back door of their house with a need to keep another person safe and away from danger. They've already taken you and Cirilla was out of bounds.

"No. No. That can't happen. They have no idea who you are. Run in the woods. Away from here, alright? Don't worry, I'll get to find you---Geralt will find you again, I promise you---has he taught you little tricks here and there? If not---"

The loud crash of a door opening has got Jaskier in full-protective mode; pulling along Cirilla to stand behind him with a hand outstretched open in front of him to tell this person to stop from their attacks. Until they've seen a person whom they were praying to the gods appear before them utterly shambolic to their shock.

"Geralt?! Oh dear, gods! What happened?!" Jaskier yelled out loud, their breaths hitching from the picture that stood before them.

Geralt's ruined armor was off; keeping the black under tunic on that has been torn with holes. The openings held blood under the apertures of his ravaged shirt. His face seeming to be the only one left untouched from the burns and wounds. His hair was dirty from soot and darkened, moist like sand but his breeches has been surprisingly free from the scratches that his upper clothing has received from.

Cirilla couldn't help but feel the warm, hazy moisture of her eyes fill her vision from seeing him stand in the middle of their hatch, the fish bones that stuck inside her chest finally breaking free from Geralt's appearance because hope has arrived for them.

"Geralt! You're here!"

The latter couldn't believe his eyes. They were safe. His family was safe from the show that the Kaedwenians tried to scurry them off with.

Relief washed through Geralt, his Aureate peepers widened from being stunned at seeing them both.

"Jaskier. Cirilla. You're both okay." he stated in a monotone manner, his gaze examining their forms when he'd realized Jaskier has been beaten to pulp.

The hold on his sword that rested on his palms tightened from seeing red. If there was blood involved, then something bad has happened especially when he'd lately realized that his family was missing one special person that came with the ménage he had.

You. There was no midget. Were you just hiding in a corner? Trying to be playful like the person you are? Where you hiding upstairs and planning to surprise him?

Jaskier paid heed to his sudden silence, the peeved look within his eyes that held a flicker of catastrophe because he couldn't see his midget with them.

He didn't know nor realize that seeing you gone like you never existed felt like an Nightwraith has tried to rip his heart open and eat it to their satiation.

Cirilla sprinted to where Geralt stood, immediately wrapping her arms around her step-father that she also holds dearly till the moment; she'd hug him, the embrace simply an allegation of fear, telling him that it was the right thing to come back earlier than they expected him to.

"I'm so glad you're here!"

The witcher wholeheartedly accepted the embrace, patting her head that was shoved to his chest despite of the wounds he has; just thoroughly relieved that she wasn't taken. His sword fell on the side with a loud thud as he'd look away from Jaskier, his eyes shifting from high and low, finding the Hirikka not in his place under the dining table as well.

"The midget? where is she?"

Howbeit, knowing the answer. He still wanted to hear what happened from the poor bard.

Jaskier subtly coughed, alerting that his tale was ready to be told. But, Cirilla has cut him off with her voice bawling out to Geralt, frowning against his chest as she loudly sniffed. The tears in her eyes dripping down as she couldn't help but keep the emotions balled up inside her chest anymore. Shock. Fear. Worry. Care. All together, it was brought and made with tears.

"Th-they've...they've taken her away from us! She saved my life for the second time, Geralt! You owe her everything!"

Geralt didn't answer at that and just patted her braided hair to soothe her worries---her braided hair that you have fixed before being taken. He was already too maddened on the inside to even hear that Jaskier began to start his story.

"So, do you want a simplified version or the dramatic one? I hear you choose the second option, so here it is!"

Cirilla sobbed against his chest when Jaskier started. His thoughts was filled with you. He was angry, irritated and dumbfounded that you've been offering your life in exchange for Cirilla to be safe. You always did. Hence, he didn't know if he was thankful of your selflessness or utterly vexed from how kind you were at heart.

"Fuck." he whispered to himself, Jaskier's voice going on and on in the background as if it was their music, his next words sounding exasperated as he simply sighed out of his nose and closed his eyes in frustration.

"---Midget..."

Jaskier was unaware that Geralt wasn't listening to his nonsense blabbers until he got straight to the point. He'd even told him how he rearranged and hid the bowls where you couldn't find it which made the witcher give him a simple raise of his brow.

Cirilla cut the hug when she was feeling dandy enough. Geralt gave her one final reassuring and affectionate pat on the head before grabbing on his fallen sword with a scowl on his face as he listened to Jaskier run his mouth.

"---So, I've been punched in the gut from different kind of Cavaliers. The Kingdom of Kaedwen can suck my arse---I've learned that from the rat by the way---and I've bled to the end of my second life. Hence now, this is my third---Hallelujah!---Kolby listens and follows every command but he's gone now and we don't know where he is---even tried to save me and her but the vampire is too strong---not that it isn't surprising,"

The simple action of grabbing onto his sword inflicted pain onto the fairly large wound on his lower rib which made him hiss. It was from the burning blood of the Bloedzuiger that he somehow managed to not shield himself with; forgetting to use Quen in the midst of battling.

"Tybalt." he understood completely, knowing exactly who tried and planned to get you from him for their use. They still haven't found the witch and needed to find her as soon as possible. Geralt wandered over the kitchen, closing the door behind him as he lowly grumbled to no one in particular.

"---They still want me to lift the curse. They want me to kill their monster,"

Their ears perk from the admission; watching the witcher peel his damaged under tunic off with an aggravated sigh as he stood in front of the dining table. He'd taken a lot more injuries than he most likely does; even had his energy spike to its lowest due to wanting to get the job done in less than half an hour. Hence, this resulted in accepting more wounds and detriments by rushing the whole task.

Geralt has already taken potions for him to heal on the way. Some of the smallest wounds has been healed. Though, the deepest wounds did not yet. It would certainly earn him a scar or two from it but he never cared.

"You're bleeding, Geralt. Where are you going?" Jaskier sauntered to his side with a wince from seeing more blood than what he normally sees, Cirilla also pulled a face and watched the witcher heavily sigh from examining his opened wounds. He deeply had a grimace on his face as he does when he tried to explain.

"It's from the Bloedzuiger's blood," he gruffly muttered, only answering the troubadour's first question.

His talkative friend circled around him to be met with the nastiest laceration that he has seen. Jaskier's nose scrunched in repugnance from what stood before him for the first time in years, "You've never taken enough damage like this before," he claimed as a matter of fact; in deep conjecture as to why he seemed to be in adrift prior to his hunt.

Geralt's attention was solely on the gash that could make him lowly groan in the back of his throat; rough and sounding uncomfortable from the pain it was giving.

"Jaskier, stay with Cirilla. Keep hidden and never go out until I come back with the midget," he gruffly started when the princess has rushed upstairs to find gauze to help with his lesions.

The Weccan leaned over the table, his palms on either side; flat on their wooden dining table with his ruffled hair framing his features and his head bowed down as he deeply pondered, his worries all about you because they've kept you ensnared. They knew he would come for you. They knew they will be expecting a witcher to welcome and they were right.

"---we can't leave the midget within their reach. They'll know her existence---Ingrith of Helmfirth already knows her existence,"

The bard's eyebrows were knitted tightly together in confusion for what he has heard, stammering from all the questions inside his head that kept on bothering him. He leaned on the table beside Geralt, bright blue eyes inquisitive and confused, "What? how---how did you even know she was gone? I thought you didn't know the sorceress?"

"The Djinn placed the midget and I in a spell where I can feel what she feels and I knew she was in danger,"

Jaskier gave a hesitant nod, deliberating over what he's trying to figure out from all the phenomenon that he has encountered, "Like some curse?"

Geralt shot his head up to nonchalantly give him a glimpse of his convinced golden peepers, pursing his lips, looking away to stand straight and lean away from the table.

"If you put it that way, we can call it a curse then."

The white wolf left Jaskier in the kitchen and drifted towards the stairs, making him trail behind; walking with a phrase of protests over the half naked witcher taking his flight.

"We need to treat those wounds before you step foot in the castle, Geralt."

There was no need to beat behind the bushes in Geralt's protective instincts. Specifically when you were in a risk to be hurt by their filthy hands. He took the staircases with his heavy footfall, roughly reassuring the bard from his worries.

"Already did. I'll be fine, bard."

Once they've reached the second floors, all wounded and bloody; both Geralt and Jaskier, they stood in the middle of the wooden hallways. Eye to eye as they were having a serious talk. Their voices echoing all over the place, "She saved Cirilla's life for the second time around," Geralt huffed and gave one seething sigh when the pain on his lower rib was burning. He certainly needed them to gauze his wounds before leaving.

"---even helped you forget about that knight you were fond with. I need to save her,"

Jaskier's mouth fell open from his bluntness, believing that you have been used as a person to forget his previous ones. He'd wiggled those slim shoulders of his, hands on his hips and keeping his head held high. A fake cough left his lips, thinking of ways to get back from being attacked figuratively by Geralt for a lot of times already.

"I won't let another slip away again, Jaskier."

Jaskier raised a knowing brow, sharing a bloody compact with the witcher as they stood against each other dripping with their own wounds and blood; an understanding that they both could only comprehend and would silently agree to, "I understood Durriken now," he gave a firm nod, convincing himself for his sentences.

Geralt squinted his eyes back at the bard, judging him from the back of his head and reading between his lines.

Jaskier talked to Durriken when they've left the other day. He tried to know what they've talked about because the bard was full aware of how the switch has turned inside Geralt's peculiar, introverted mind from that moment in the marketplace.

Durriken knew before everything could even happen---perks of being a fortune teller, believing that you had a reason why you've arrived.

Jaskier raised a finger to his front, a sassy brow raised as he firmly claimed, "She's the witcher's destiny. The reason she's here is because..." pause. "---of you, Geralt."

Julian just couldn't keep still and watch everything unfold. He knew Geralt and what ticks him, understood the simplest gestures that had a whole lot of meaning behind it. Jaskier can't help but pry around when it involved the white wolf.

This was why he was the bard who stood by his side because he tried to understand him for who and what he was. A person who truly cared, a friend who truly accepted him; though, most of the times, he was there to annoy the shite out of him.

"And that's why she needs to be saved. I can't let her die, Bard." Geralt honestly spoke, the truth being said rather than staying silent like how he would usually do.

The bard has given him a satisfied smile, his beam widening once he jested, "Oooooooh! I've waited for this moment to come so I can finally say it after decades---In other words," he playfully bantered, finding the right words to get back for receiving his bluntness, "---you love her, Witcher. Don't you?"

Cirilla held the ripped, long, white clothing to her chest. The door to her room slightly opened as she tried to listen onto what they were arguing about, they weren't. The word 'love' peaking her attention when Jaskier lightly tried to poke on Geralt's honesty, irking him to the bones and hoping to get something out of his sudden uprightness.

Lo and behold, as soon as the witcher opened his pretty mouth, they were left disappointed from a hum that he'd habitually does everyday when he wanted to stay silent.

"Hmm."

Retrieving no answer from such an important, scandalous question that would be a fact once it was positively answer; a simple 'yes' would've been evidence that the white haired witcher was actually capable to experience a certain feeling that would make him more human than he can ever be.

All you could see was darkness. No visions nor imagery of where you were going as an empty sack has been forcefully placed around your head. Tybalt has kept you immobilized within his arms that surrounded you. The sack was needed so there was no risk of escaping which can happen if you knew your ways just like their previous capture who happened to be a thief that knew the directions of the kingdom.

The sack was tightened around your neck, making you choke once they roughly shoved your shoulders to move as you were curtly placed down by the vampire. Pavement. Rock pavement. You silently thought as you felt rough hands grip your arms so tight. On either side, they were controlling you and assuming who they were; you knew it was cavaliers.

The gates seem to open as you've heard the loud screeching of a sound. A couple of harsh tugs; here and there. Some offending remarks you've received when you tried to thrash against their holds. They were calling you 'the witcher's whore' or his tramp that made you frown behind the empty sack of potatoes used for your head.

Footfalls can be heard all around you. They were everywhere and all heavy, marching as if they have a purpose as to why they were there. There was no idea as to where they tried to confine you; in a large cage? a building where all their prisoners are there in jail? or were you in a castle? their palace?

The men on either side of you dragged you strengthfully towards where they wanted; making you bark back despite of being temporarily blind for their purpose.

"I know how to walk, okay?! Stop dragging me around like I'm your rag doll!"

Tybalt loudly scoffed from behind, walking through the stoned hallway that directed straight towards the hoosegow where an Elven has been kept for a month, "Prisoners shan't be complaining, ye' know?"

A loud thump and squeaking of a door made you hastily look around in panic; thinking that you might be thrown in a huge fireplace so your body can be burnt to dust because they knew your existence here didn't actually existed and if you do get to be cremated, nobody would even care.

Will Geralt try and save you for the third time?

From the day that you have been taken and cared for in their home, it was already an act of protection. He didn't think twice to adopt and let you have a part of their house; saving you from an Alghoul who was hunting you down and planning to make you its meal. But, Geralt killed it for you.

The white wolf has even killed men for you to feel sympathy for. When Geralt of Rivia protects one person, he would surely not think twice but to put an end towards their life; as long as they were evil or hurting another.

He was one of a kind and the affection you have for him needed label. You were understanding everything now; the care and worry you feel whenever he goes for his hunt, how the sting feels inside your heart whenever he tends to become a lot more quieter rather than usual, thinking that he was avoiding you because he'd realize how much of a burden you are in his life.

Also considering the feeling of happiness whenever he sweetly touches you, feeling his skin on yours like it was destined for sensations to occur. Sensations that only he can transpire out the the earth's perimeters.

You comprehended it very patently. It was love that you had for him. You hoped it was because lust or infatuation never has given the effects like what you've been interpreting from the witcher.

No secrets can't be revealed as long as it was true especially with undisclosed matters. Hence, you planned to tell Geralt as soon as you get to see him again.

That is, if your future around the Kaedwenians won't involve you and death rolled together as one.

Their tight grip has made your arms sore. You were flailing your arms away from their grasp and the violent reaction that they have gotten from resulted in you being pushed to the ground, creating your healing gash with another deep wound that made you yelp. They've quickly yanked the sack off your head; all unkempt from being cramped, hurriedly keeping you inside the slammer as they marched away to lock up the thick, metal railings like you've committed such a harsh crime.

You've held onto your scrapped knee, seeing blood on the pads of your finger and it made you aggressively scream from where you've laid hunched over the cold stones beneath you; igniting the tiny, surprised jump from the knights who were guarding your cell.

The tight coil on the top of your stomach was starting to move; meaning to say, another panic-attack was starting to give rise because of how uncomfortable and eerie does it felt to be in jail from the past era. It was more ominous and uncanny rather than what jail looked like in the modern period.

You were heaving breaths, turning around and staying flat on your bottom to see the armored men squinting their eyes back like you were some weird creature, the notion of being Geralt's lover sickening their bones as if they were much of a better man than he is. They weren't. Geralt was better than them---soul-wise. Their gauging eyes made you giggle aloud in a sarcastic tone.

"I can't believe you are all actually humans---"

The lock of the door jiggled, people behind the entrance loudly pushing it open; in which Tybalt and a lady with glowing purple eyes emerged from the hatch.

"My lady," Tybalt started with a sultry tone dripping on his tongue, subtly nodding his head off to where you were hunched over.

This woman in front of you didn't look entirely human after all, you mentally thought. Glowing purple eyes; with her shoulders rolled back with a head held up high, such stance that made her look powerful. It was enough to make you cower.

She was a beauty even. Utterly bewitching from a woman's perspective. A high bridged nose, glassy dark skinned complexion that came with a pouty lip. The grotesque woman was enchanting in the eyes of men if her physical aspects could make you dumbfounded.

"Incredible." the latter spoke in fascination, taking heedful steps close amongst the lines of metal hinges. The luminescence of a torch has caught her purple eyes, glowing against the light as if magic was flowing through her veins; utterly strange because no normal human had eyes like hers, nor have you seen one in Geralt's dimension up until today.

"Another...you," she continued, her eyes cast upon you when she took heed of your familiar face.

"---It's true. There has always been another dimension,"

You've looked around, avoiding her discretionary gaze, a gaze that held corruption or malign beneath the colorful hue of her beautiful colored irises. They were winsome; however, her allurement came with a thorn that would surely make you bleed when touched.

"I'm..I'm not---"

Straightforwardly, she pointed out with a silent and warning tut, "There is no use of lying, little one. You are talking to a sorceress,"

As that has been mentioned, you couldn't help but snap your head and turn to look at her. Your eyebrows knitted together with eyes scrutinizing her features. Was she the sorceress that Geralt has been in love with? you questioned mutely to your alter ego. Ingrith was hasty enough to know that judging look in your eyes because of how your witcher has been involved with sorceresses after sorceresses or mutant and mystical beings.

He was known for it and based on how you were judging her, your mind was also well aware of how infamous he had been with women.

Geralt of Rivia was given a lot to choose. Yet, he has chosen a powerless, vulnerable, less of a beaut than what he would've picked and Ingrith wanted to laugh for his choices---what he planned to be destined with a dangerous life ahead.

"You're the Yennefer one?"

"How do you know her, thief?"

An obvious shake of your head was given; shaking the worry away from seeing Geralt's long lost love working in a castle and also for the queen and king. That wasn't just the reason why you didn't want to see Yennefer anymore, another justification as to why you didn't want to was because of the bigger chances that you would be going home in one way or another when the white wolf wanted to because there was no proof or evidence that he wouldn't send you home. Sure, he has said several times already that you were his home---however, what if his feelings changes especially that his relationship with the sorceress has been ruined from a certain fight you didn't know about?

Did Geralt feel the same way about you? Was it love or merely just infatuation?

"Nevermind. You're not her." pause. "---also, why are you calling me a thief, lady?!"

Your eyebrows knotted closer than ever from her assumptions. It wasn't just Tybalt or his goons calling you a thief, even the sorceress too. Ingrith pulled away from the bars, dusting her gloved hands from the dust that was transferred to her leather mittens like the people sitting behind closed bars were infectious. She'd given Tybalt a look, her face indistinct of what she wanted to feel for seeing the real you.

She ignored your yapping as she asked the vampire beside her, "Are you sure she's destined with the witcher as a lover?"

Tybalt gave her a small nod, arms crossed in front of his chest as he watched you give him a glare back, "Yes, my lady. Last time I stabbed the little woman, the witcher was all feral, ye' know? It was quite fun to watch, nevertheless. This whore seems to be very important for him,"

"He'll be coming then."

Your knotted eyebrows suddenly went up your hairline at that. She sounded too enthusiastic for Geralt to come by; her voice masking a mixture of anticipation for seeing him and also hoping for something else when he arrives. It was a tone that only women could understand in their own language and you couldn't help but go livid.

She wanted something from your witcher and it doesn't look nor does it feel right because you could sense your eye twitch.

"Hey, sorceress of doom. I'm not a child. My womanhood is fully developed if you wanna know because you sound like you're insulting my height---thank you very much because that wasn't a first---Also, you sound like you want to fuck my witcher!---My witcher!" you bluntly stated, the tip of your tongue feeling vile and bitter from the truthfulness of your words. Jealousy being the root of it all and probably intimidation over this sorceress.

She wasn't that Yennefer yet. What if it was her already?

"---Find your own witcher! He's coming to save me, not give you a rumpy pumpy while you are all keeping me in prison!"

Ingrith could feel her temples have gotten flicked from that. Your attitude was making her blood boil---a know-it-all in a world you hardly knew about. She was beginning to come to a realization that your mouth needed barricade, it needed to know where you stood because apparently, she was having the upper hand and you were munching on her toe figuratively.

"Are you sure about that?" Ingrith spoke as a matter of fact; her lips curling into a sinister grin and this is what gets her going, "---you sound like you don't know your witcher too well, child."

"---You haven't heard the truest tales of him then. Your witcher loves to bed women in all brothels---Witchers leave all the time because that's what they do. They travel anywhere to hunt monsters,"

Your mouth was ready to throw curses after curses. A few steps close toward the bars made her grin wider to see your tough facade falter in the tiniest, seeing it from behind those confused eyes of yours. A mixture of fighting for what you had with a self destructing insecurity that makes you overthink of the future despite not talking it through with your mutant of a lover.

Ingrith didn't back down to that fight you have been mentally trying to assault as she was wiser to knowing your existence had a count down with them around.

She only needed to know where the portal was; options would be a sorceress back in your world which transported you to the continent. Second is a physical egress that has been never found nor discovered by anyone yet. From your kingdom to theirs. It wouldn't just be a theory because when the conjunction of spheres started, all hell broke lose in the continent. So, the idea wasn't completely a hypothesis that didn't hold zero percent chances of it.

All Ingrith needed was evidence and she will surely get the answers out of you even if she'll be using corporal punishments---even to the point of drawing blood until you say words she wanted to hear.

The sorceress began to wind you up a lot more, finding amusement from the reactions and tiny twitches of your face which tells how upset you are as she ran her mouth with endless gibes, "---your beloved Witcher can't be satisfied with one woman in all his life especially with a human like you because one ages slower over the other."

She crouched before you behind bars, gritting her teeth together like a feral hound trying to mark up his or her prey.

"You don't have magic. You aren't mutated and you die like normal men," Ingrith seethed, her eyes piercing and full of hatred towards you.

---Or maybe from mankind itself. You tried to understand where she was coming from or what she was taking a stand to. The sorceress in front of you thinks of herself as if she is higher than most human alive and probably a power-hungry feline where she would take revenge on whoever has hurt her.

It was that, or she just thinks she's above all because of the power and magic that she has been lucky to have.

"They have no capacity for emotion because of the combination of their hard training, genetic modifications, and seclusion from society. I suppose love is important and heartfelt in your world, correct?" the sorceress articulated with a scorn, "---Not to Witchers, my dear. I doubt he would love you as you expect him to. You'll only be the woman who tried to substitute over Yennefer of Vengerberg's position,"

You've given her a petulant expression and a moue that could make plants wither from the hate of seeing the sorceress. She couldn't help but send a ridicule as Ingrith also feels the same, "You are not special. The Witcher needs a person who does not give him more weight on his back---he needs a strong, independent woman who can save herself from being locked inside a cage and not screaming help for him,"

Ingrith of Helmfirth brought to a stand, her eyes throwing daggers over your kneeling form. You were easy to intimidate and certainly effortless to scare away just by the height differences. She simply chuckled when all you've ever done was give her a purse of your lips and a death stare that has probably killed her inside your head for a lot of times already; yet, you were helpless, inundated and incapable of doing such from a mortal.

She knew it; sensed that you held no magic.

"I didn't need you attacking me this way," you quipped with a shake of your head, sighing from the tiring conversation that was taking a toll on you no matter how unaffected you try to appear. But, you were futile to their world and even to a government that was quite unfamiliar to you, authorities that didn't care about the welfare and lives of people.

Sitting back on your derriere with your legs in a criss-cross position, you've held your guard down and went on with the flow. Suddenly, on the midst of prompting down in a comfortable position, you've heard the metal door swinging open and saw the sorceress holding up a hand to you like she had some repulsor; thinking she was Iron Man from how she pointed her palm at your face.

Your face was warped in irritation and ambiguity. You knew what she was doing; her magic is what it is. With a slap of her hand away from your face, barks of remarks has been said out in the open, "What? you need a high five after insulting me like that? even had to pry over what relationship I have with Geralt?---or are you Iron Man dressed as a lady? am I in the MCU?"

The vicious sorceress had a nonplussed look on her face, analyzing what was wrong with the spell she tried to cast upon you, but it seems like her runes has been blocked by someone or something she couldn't understand. Ingrith knelt before you and quickly grabbed onto your throat, her fingers roughly wresting along the line of your jaw as she made you look into her eyes.

None. You had no magic; really knew no witchcraft.

"You should be fainting right now," she lowly mumbled to herself, her gaze intently examining your face while you spat out dry cough from being choked alive, gagging in the process of being pounced on.

"Excuse---E-Excuse me, I'm not. You---You suck! You're not a real sorceress then!"

Until such time, she'd realize the light, chain of metal attached to your neck. Ingrith has straightaway pulled the collar of your sweater down until it has been slightly ripped off. You yelped and resisted to comply from her wishes. However, she'd slapped you hard enough on the same spot as Tybalt did which has made you cease from shrieking as the ache in your jaw started to double up more than ever.

They were literally treating you like a doll that they could hurt or ignite pain and you want nothing more than to see Geralt and lull you to sleep, being taken care of by your own witcher as he tells stories about his adventures with Jaskier or Cirilla, appreciating the difference of being in his family's arms and the people whom they've warned you about.

They have been right all along.

Ingrith pulled the collar down until she'd seen such Cicatrix engraved in between the valley of your chest; the medallion of the Witcher and his school, you were destined to be with him and to create a progeny---his progeny in this world you were in. The lesion now looked like a birthmark, turning darker against your skin and it was enough to presume that the process has finally began.

Along came with an ornament; specifically, the fae necklace that had enchantments to rebound ill-fate has turned from coral green to black like her incantations have been reversed.

"Impossible!" she exclaimed in the middle of the slammer, the Elven who was in the same stockade you were in has given her a look from her loud guffaws, "---you're under a curse---the Warp of the souls. Who'd curse you?"

The sorceress urgently demanded, her fingers tugging your arm as she pulled you closer to her face; seeing the beauty you once saw turn monstrous over the hate that was controlling her to live.

You shook your head, eyes all wide from the frustration, anger and hopelessness being confined inside a dungeon, "I don't know! I haven't met any mages except for you, bitch!"

Ingrith pushed you off to the side, making you stumble on your back flat that has made you groan.

"You're being protected," she stood up on her feet and dusted off her hands straight to your face; all feral with barred teeth, you've given her the stink eye and a nasty scowl, wanting to spit of her foot for her malign, "---Did the witcher find you a Djinn and planned to throw you off back to where you came from?"

"I'm not fucking answering you!" you loudly yelled, voice echoing inside the stoned slammer.

"It is a yes, then."

The sorceress turned away at that, paving her way to the entrance of your spectral, cold cage. She stepped out of the hatch with a lour and most likely with such ire, the curse being a stronger fuel to the fire as she scanned you from head to foot, her gaze lingering longer on your stomach.

Her glowing purple eyes that was quite difficult to decipher when she'd step out of the cage has made you hold a hand on your belly. Why was she staring at you in a way as if she was planning something? did she wanted to eat your intestines?

"---It's that...kind of wish, Tybalt."

Her right hand man has been silent all through out your conversation with the sorceress. The vampire kept his mouth shut, listening to what information they could earn from Ingrith's interrogation. He immediately understood what she meant about 'that kind of wish,' and it was confusing him because of the Witcher's inability to conceive such children.

Tybalt was thinking that your existence never had any reason as to why you've stumbled across the continent. Unless, you've been brought by destiny to produce and make miracles for Geralt's life?

The sorceress leaned closer, her mouth near to his ear as she quietly spoke; not risking for you to hear, "Starve her. Leave her alone with the Elf until The Witcher arrives---or better yet, cudgel her until she speaks answers." she huffed a breath, full of detest over what powerful being was protecting you from her---your curse making her loathe you even more as you were fertile enough to give Geralt an offspring. He shouldn't have been given that luck because he was destined to be completely barren. But, here you were being a complete wonder as to why the curse was a success.

Ingrith hated the concept of an offspring especially that she was also an infertile woman and she couldn't risk the likelihood of a child and its genesis of being a successful heir of a djinn's given malediction; a byproduct of the spirit's potentials in one human to be protected by a witcher.

It could be a threat to her and you were certainly a hazard that she needed to control.

The sorceress speedily left the cell with Tybalt following suit. Her palms itching to go berserk over being futile to your existence, "---She must not produce an heir with the witcher," she sauntered through the path with raging blood. The higher vampire swiftly tugging onto her wrist with his agility.

"But, witchers are infertile, my lady. I doubt they may produce a child,"

"She's made a wish. She has never been infertile from the start nor is she mutated. This thief does not possess such magic but she can give the witcher a child as long as she's protected by the Djinn. The Djinn would give their heir his own magic to create madness in this world which is why she's under a curse. Their child will hold power that no one can ever understand with the help of it,"

"---To make sure of it, we shan't walk around bushes. Spells or maybe poison shall do the trick. We don't need another damned prodigy in this world!"

Tybalt has given her a look, puffing out his frustrations for how she was a foot farther away from the future. The sorceress and her intentions was thoroughly getting out of hand from the moment the prince has been cursed for years. They were present when the curse for the prince has started; more so, Ingrith lasted longer than him in the castle from the moment he was seized by her when she was younger and he respected her for it, even thankful for abducting her when he was a vagrant.

"Ingrith, this is beyond the plan," he spoke through gritted teeth; tightly clutching onto her arm. She raise a brow back at him with a sarcastic reply.

"Do you want the witcher to have a child who may possess black magic then?" Tybalt shut his mouth at that, listening to her reasons and opinion about the whole tragedy that was about to happen in the future, "---you don't even know who that child with Ashen hair is. She can't be his child---he's protecting her from someone---even the thief because she is having his child,"

Ingrith forcefully yanked his hold away from her arm, giving him a sharp look of warning as she continued her gaslighting, "I remembered saving you when you were down and dirty, covered in grime in the caves because you have been abandoned as a higher vampire from your guild,"

The higher vampire's features turned adamantine; features withdrawn and never believing what words he was receiving as it felt like she was making him feel the indeptedness for taking him in.

Ingrith couldn't help but give him a mordant smile of her lips, tilting her head back at him as they stood in front of each other; eye to eye as they both had the same height. She'd seen and read the look within his eyes, conceding to her request of assenting over what side she was trying to fight as her own opinions is what matters and has always been right.

"You're strong, Tybalt. Stronger than the witcher. His sword is no match for you. You're smarter, agile and inevitable. Though, you have a weakness and I suggest you fight that vulnerability of yours---that foolish sympathy for humanity because pity for others isn't what this world needs,"

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means you couldn’t be tagged, Bb. Please check your settings) @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @turkish276 @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernaturalhero @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @deadlydemon @cheesecakeisapie @angelofthor @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi, @a–1–1–3, @gutfucks, @raynosaurus-rex, @britty443, @suhke3, @shadowclawstudio88

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza, @crazybutconfidentaf

General taglist for Henry Cavill: @agniavateira, @iloveyouyen, @rahdaleigh, @silverkitten547 @henrythickcavill @kaatelyyynn

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lunarthedragon · 4 years

Text

Demon!Jaskier moments because it won’t leave my head!

+++

The meat suit ages around him. He can feel it grow every passing year, stretching and contorting over a too-big entity.

The original soul died far before it was born into this world. It allowed him to step in and takes its place. His brethren are like vines that choke out trees, retaining their shape even as the mighty oaks or pines wither and die beneath them.

He is like a weed with a lovely flower atop it. Mistaken for something meant for a bouquet, but even when identified, still plucked for flower crowns or innocent gifts.

Eventually this body will fail and he will move on, finding a new host. He remembers all his previous, and he will continue to remember. He likes mischief, not malice. The physical world already has enough of the latter and he finds himself falling more and more in love with this world with every life.

+++

He calls himself Jaskier in this life. He always gives himself another name. He’s a bard this time, traveling and experiencing with a song on his lips.

He meets all kinds of people. Some are so kind and jovial. Some want to spread love in ways he never understood but feels deep in his bones.

Some try to hurt him. Swindle him. Take what little he has. Cut him down and make off with the meager coin in his pocket and lute on his back.

With black eyes and black veins and fingers and claws as dark as night he faces these people down and leaves them as nothing more than stains on the side of the road.

+++

Jaskier likes Geralt of Rivia. He has liked many individuals within his lives, but Geralt is unique. That is rare, to find someone that stands out through thousands of years of lives.

Geralt thinks he’s a nuisance, but sometimes looks at him strangely. Like he can’t figure him out.

The Witcher can tell something is wrong. Can smell the sulfur deep under Jaskier’s flowerier scents. He doesn’t understand it, though, because Jaskier doesn’t act like a threat. He simply wants to experience life and see every corner of the world.

“You’re not quite... right...” Geralt says once and Jaskier doesn’t look up. Doesn’t quit playing his lute, even when the beds of his nails turn black.

“Not quite wrong, either,” he says back and Geralt is silent.

+++

Jaskier has no sway on physical monsters, but the incorporeal? They fear him. They know something is not quite right with him. An ancient darkness that lurks, too big a shadow for too small a frame.

Some have called him energumen before, but he is too old for that. Too powerful. He still walks in the shadows of fallen castles. Bones ache from cries of battles long fought. Eyes burn from the conjunction of the spheres, like it happened only yesterday.

He is not energumen. He is not a hag or a spirit. He is not a monster.

He is Jaskier. At least... this iteration is.

+++

His bodies always fail from old age or when they are too damaged for even he to mend. It is rare for the damage to be too great, for earthly weapons can leave no permanent damage.

He has held his severed head atop his shoulders and forced the skin to knit back together. He has shoved his heart back into his chest then pressed his ribcage back together. He has grown new eyes and limbs when absolutely needed.

Every time, his blood runs black, he stinks like volcanic rock, and all the sounds around him die out in fear for the entity that does-not-belong-too-much-too-little-too-cold-hot-choking-screaming-maiming-mending.

+++

The art of holy infusion has been lost to time... Which is nice for him. Holy weapons are the only things that can do him harm. Not his body. Him.

But with a shift in beliefs, a change in knowledge, a war and “cleansing” of the lands, the practice is no more. It makes his journeys far less worrying. It is still not pleasant to be run out of towns or stabbed in his sleep or shot in the back with arrows, but he at least knows he will not perish.

He still has a scar on his right thigh, a deep gash, from an angelic blade suffered millennia ago. It follows him in every body he takes, a permanent marking he will always carry.

+++

He can smell the magic wafting off the princess the moment he and Geralt walk into Cintra’s court. It is rancid with untapped potential, forced down deep into her body, crying out for release, and growing sour and sharp with every passing day.

He knows it will hurt her if she does not let it out.

He thinks the magics of this time are a step backward from what they once were, but if he said that outloud he fears he would sound like a crotchety old man. And, after accusing Geralt of being just that, he’d rather not.

So he plays, avoids angry spouses, flaunts about, avoids a few more angry spouses, and does his job as a famous bard.

Queen Calanthe reeks of chaos, too. Not the magical kind. The kind one chooses to wield. As if, rather than inheriting the magic, she harnessed it in her blades and armor. In her words and decrees.

She does not hold it back, either, and it sends cold shivers down his spine.

He plays some more. Only bright, playful jigs, at the queen’s request.

When the knight arrives Jaskier can feel the curse, like the air before a lightning storm, long before the helmet is removed.

Duny does not wield chaos. It coats him like chains. It tethers him down to a manmade fate. It feels wrong, but more like a sore on your arm that wasn’t there before. Something to be mended. To be treated.

Not wrong-but-right like Jaskier.

He tries not to get involved, even when Geralt jumps in. The Witcher is heroic to a fault, no matter how much he says he isn’t. It may be one of the reasons Jaskier finds himself infatuated with him.

Not in love. Not yet.

But when the fighting slows, seemingly ending, and Jaskier can feel the chaos whirling around Calanthe’s intentions, he knows things are not yet done.

When Princess Pavetta screams, the pent up, acrid stink of her chaos erupting into something thick and crushing, everyone is knocked away. Except him.

He forgets to be knocked down. He stands right where he started, whirlwind ripping apart the room around them, enamored with the way Pavetta’s chaos changed upon release. It is beautiful, in a way. It makes his skin tingle like mint.

As he steps forward, unbothered by the maelstrom, his eyes turning black, he approaches the floating couple with a smile. He takes ahold of the princesses ankle and gives a gentle tug, somehow managing to gain her attention. She’s in a daze, enraptured with the cursed knight, and when she looks down at the black-eyed bard, she isn’t afraid.

“I think you have made your point,” he says, not raising his voice yet somehow still heard over the storm.

Pavetta stares. And stares. And stares. Then nods before she and Duny begin to sink to the ground and the storm dies out around them.

Geralt won’t stop staring at him, even though his eyes are no longer black. He offers no answer, only keeps smiling, and Geralt is only distracted when Duny speaks of returning a debt.

When Geralt - exhausted and confused and ready to be done with the evening - calls for the Law of Surprise, Jaskier tilts his head curiously. He can feel the two souls within Pavetta long before she vomits onto the floor. Not a possession. Definitely not a possession.

Jaskier slips away before anyone can recover from the shock and ask him questions he doesn’t feel like answering.

+++

Jaskier does not see Geralt for a year after that. They travel on their own, yet Jaskier can always feel the Witcher hot on his heels. Not that he is being purposefully tracked and followed, more like a tugging of souls. Heart strings tied together and pulling each other along.

They will meet again, he knows, so he is in no rush.

He travels to places long, long forgotten. To corners of the world not meant for mortal eyes. To pockets of space hidden away from wandering fools.

He travels.

+++

“Jaskier,” Geralt heaves, breathless and covered in blood, both his own and the monsters’. He’s gasping for breath, sword held in one fist hanging low at his side. The night is lit only by a sliver of a moon, but Geralt can surely see everything, what with Cat running in his veins. His eyes are pitch black, skin ashen, and black veins creep over his face.

Jaskier’s own black eyes stare back at him, monster blood dripping from black hands held loosely at his sides, black veins arching over his shoulders and neck and chest.

A hoard of wyverns, a nest of them, lay dead at his feet. Some dropped dead, seemingly with no injury, others with chests burst open from the inside, others still cut clean in half.

All with their heads intact, so Geralt can collect what he needs. Jaskier knows the drill.

“I always liked this look,” Jaskier says, waggling his claws at Geralt, a smile on his face. “Copying my style, I mean. Very flattering.”

Geralt stares, seemingly unaware of the multiple injuries coating his body. Adrenaline is surely running high, along with whatever other potions he’s consumed prior to Jaskier happening upon him.

He doesn’t mind traveling at night. He needs no sleep and nothing in this world frightens him. No monster or blade, anyway.

It was how he happened upon Geralt fighting a losing battle and he had to step in.

He tilts his head when the Witcher says nothing but keeps staring. “Allow me to treat those wounds, then, yes? You’re in no state to do much of anything but sit there and look pretty.”

He takes a step forward but stops when Geralt raises his silver blade at him. The glare leveled at him is hot, black eyes meeting black eyes. “What are you? What have you done to Jaskier?”

He huffs and sets his hands on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed. “I am and always have been Jaskier,” he says, Geralt’s brows furrowing and his nose flaring.

“Sulfur,” Geralt says slowly, beginning to piece things together. “You’re an energumen.”

“Close, but no.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Are you not a demon possessing a human body, then?”

“This body was stillborn when I stepped in, and I suppose the closest qualification for me, in broad terms, is ‘demon,’ but energumen is a modern term. I am older than such labels and I do not, quite, fit,” he says flippantly. “Not quite wrong. Not quite right.”

Geralt stares at him in silence, attempting to determine what his next course of action should be, and Jaskier grows tired of waiting.

“Enough with the sword, too. Silver. Steel. Platinum. Iron. Doesn’t matter. None of them will work on me,” he says and, suddenly, he’s in front of Geralt and the silver blade is back in its sheath. The Witcher’s arm is still extended and he flexes his empty hand in surprise, before lurching back.

“What--”

“Stop moving so much!” Jaskier snaps, grabbing hold of Geralt’s shoulders and shoving him to sit on the ground. “You’ll aggravate your wounds, you big lug. Let me see.” He doesn’t wait for a response, blackened hands moving to remove armor.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Geralt demands as Jaskier treats his wounds, cleaning them as best he can with no stream nearby.

“My apologies, my dear,” he says brightly, offering a thin smile, “But, do tell me, is revealing I am an otherworldly, eldritch horror, parading around in a new flesh bag every lifetime, with powers long dead to your world something I should reveal on the first or second date? I know I’m meant to save sex for the third, but I was never good at following that rule.”

Geralt glares at him and he keeps smiling, unfazed.

The silence stretches on for a bit until Jaskier gets Geralt standing again and making their way towards where he can sense Roach’s presence. They will fetch the wyvern heads later.

“I wouldn’t have killed you,” Geralt says on a whisper, beginning to sound tired a his potions wear off.

“You couldn’t have,” Jaskier replies.

“I wouldn’t have tried.”

“Good to know, but I enjoy living a normal life. The physical plain is an intriguing and lovely place. I do not find sharing my true nature to be of the utmost importance.”

“How long have you been alive?”

“This body has been alive for 28 years.”

“Not the body... you.”

“I am not alive.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, clearly getting frustrated, and Jaskier smiles to himself.

“How long have you been around?” the Witcher growls through clenched teeth.

“Long, long before the most recent conjunction of the spheres.”

“Most recent...?”

But Jaskier waves him off as they reach Roach. The Witcher’s face has returned to its natural color, the veins are gone, and his eyes are golden once more. Jaskier, on the other hand, hasn’t changed back and Roach whinnies in alarm. It’s a little insulting, but Jaskier just pauses to lock eyes with the horse and push some of his own essence towards her until she calms in recognition.

He smiles, pleased, then digs out the rest of the medical supplies from a saddle bag to finish patching his Witcher up.

+++

Part two to come? Maybe?

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #nonhuman jaskier #demon jaskier #fanfic #geraskier

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gayregis · 4 years

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In your opinion why is the "stars reflected in a pond" the most quoted metaphor from the books? Am I missing some profound thoughts there? Bc I think the truth described as a shred of ice has far more impact and poetic sense than that. Speaking of which, thoughts on shred of ice?

it’s likely because vilgefortz is the big bad boy of the series (even when he’s kind of not and imo leo bonhart is way more intimidating than him, but i suppose vilgefortz faces geralt which makes him the main antagonist) and the main antagonist’s dramatic phrase is bound to be repeated. i honestly don’t even like that phrase that much, i actually think “you’ve always had a talent for pissing into the wind, witcher, but here at stygga, you’ve pissed into a hurricane” is a much better quote from vilgefortz just because it’s such a direct metaphor and easy to understand

i think the “stars reflected in a pond” quote is also so easy to take out of context and apply to anything to make it sound dramatic. thus twn fringilla just saying it randomly in which it has no impact, and twn cahir replying with quoting ithlline’s prophecy... it just SOUNDS mysterious but doesn’t have to actually mean anything

i like the quote “the truth is a shard of ice,” the only issue quote-wise is that it’s a little specific to yennefer and geralt’s relationship and thus it might not be able to be FULLY taken out of context, but... geralt and yennefer also represent being traumatized to the point where you don’t want to let anyone else in... so it is able to be decontextualized, to an extent

quotes from the witcher that are much cooler than vilgefortz’s pond thing (chronologically, as best as i can remember (i’m too lazy to get up and go through the books):

“there are less and less monsters, and i? what am i?” (by vereena in a grain of truth... kind of summarizes the whole thing the witcher has going on around what is a man and what is a monster)

“the truth is a shard of ice” (about trauma and love)

“a little sacrifice is far too much” (about sacrifice in love and reciprocity)

“the sword of destiny has two edges, you are one of them” (about one’s destiny and fate, it compells one to take charge over their own destiny, but the other edge of the blade is death)

“something more” (about family and love, some would say it’s overrated but i really enjoy it)

ciri’s quote about indifference/neutrality in blood of elves and how one must never be indifferent

“do not mourn for the cabbage when the forest is burning” (a quote from dandelion that’s meant to be humorous, but i still think it’s poignant)

dandelion’s hallucination from toc telling him that “i never thought someone could lose everything, but the witcher has...” about how he lost the woman he loves, the child he had, several pints of blood, his sword, and now he doesn’t even have a razor... geralt has lost everything and the only thing he needs and the only thing dandelion can give him is friendship, thus “i want to go with you. i want to be by your side” (about the value of friendship and love)

“they were the children of contempt” (about the rats in toc, about trauma and hatred)

“there was no black knight of cintra” (not able to be fully decontextualized, but it is about imperialism and the anomynity of war)

“you’ll pass through fire... a baptism of fire, i’d say” and “and that was their baptism of fire” (about penance, suffering, but also suffering together as comrades or allies)

“life, miss vigo, may begin in a dream, may end in a dream... but it is a dream you must actively dream. therefore, the road awaits us...” (about life, again urging one to take control of their own destiny)

“i gave you that sword, remember?” and the action that follows, and then “i told you, i always remember” (from ciri to bonhart, it’s about her sword, but it’s way more about how she’ll never forget the trauma he inflicted and she endured, and the symbolism of the sword as both a burden and a defense, and this is why she “remembered” - was able to predict/react quickly enough to his treacherous final stab)

“something ends, something begins” (from the story of the same name)

#the witcher #anon #ask

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hamliet · 4 years

Text

The Rose and the Raven: Ciri and Cahir’s Journeys

Or the post analyzing their foiling throughout The Witcher Saga.

While there are quite a few characters who undergo development in the saga, I’d say the four most complete arcs are Yennefer’s, Geralt’s, Ciri’s, and Cahir’s, because all four of them follow the same Jungian/alchemical structure. I’ll write something on Yennefer as the Red King and Geralt as the White Queen (no, those terms are not me mixing them up) later on, but for now I want to focus on Ciri and Cahir, because they are utterly necessary for each other’s arcs. They meet three times, and each of these meetings mark particular points in their development.

In this meta, I’m going to focus specifically on the very blatant Jungian symbolism employed by Sapkowski. (Honestly the symbolism is basically Jung 101.) In particular, Sapkowski draws from Jung’s Psychology and Alchemy, which explores alchemy as a metaphor for individuation. Individuation is the main goal of Jungian psychology and literature, and it refers to a person reconciling with themselves to become a complete person, without repression, the best they can be. This “complete person/best person you can be” is akin to the philosopher’s stone in literary alchemy, and that is the journey of Yennefer’s, Geralt’s, Ciri’s, and Cahir’s arcs. Additionally, Cahir is Ciri’s shadow, and Ciri is Cahir’s anima.

NB before we continue: while anima/animus is often romantic in stories, it does not have to be; for example, Jung spoke of one potential frequent anima as a character’s sister. So while Cahir does say he’s in love with Ciri, I’m not delving into that debate in this post. Ty.

The Black Raven: Cintra

Literary alchemy begins with the prima materia, the primary material that comprises the entire world and from which the philosopher’s stone will be formed (the reason alchemists want to form the stone? It creates the elixir of life, which grants eternal life. This is important for The Witcher’s themes). The Fall of Cintra is where the main saga begins, and it’s also where Ciri and Cahir meet. Cintra itself is not the prima materia; rather, Ciri and Cahir are.

Cahir describes his mindset before the fall of Cintra as, essentially, the opposite of the ultimate goal of individuation:

A soldier does not question commands... He does not analyze them, he does not think about them, and he does not expect an explanation of their meaning. This is the first thing they taught us soldiers.

Whereas Ciri is quite literally a child at this point: innocent, mischievous, unaware of the horrors that await her. A child relies on adults to help them survive; they cannot individuate because they need people to care for them.

Ciri is in a sense Cahir’s inner child. In Jungian works, true adulthood can only be achieved when the person learns to parent or care for their inner child. Later on, we hear that Child!Cahir is noted to be mischievous and fun, much like Ciri:

Small Cahir preferred running around the walls and fighting with his peers from families who came with their parents for the funeral, burial and ceremony. Cahir was devoted to making mischief by the walls.

But that changes with his brother’s death and his mother’s admonition:

“Remember, my son,” Mawr sobbed, clutching her child to her breast so hard he could not breathe. “Remember this day. Never forget who put your dear brother Aillil to death. It was those damn Nordlings. Your enemies, my son. Be sure to hate them. Never stop hating that damn nation of murderers!”

“I will always hate, Mother,” Cahir promised.

Jung comments that the inner child “represents the strongest, the most ineluctable urge in every being, namely the urge to realize itself;” i.e. someone has to connect with their inner child in order to be able to develop a sense of who they want to become and thereby achieve individuation. Cahir’s goals prior to meeting Ciri are to achieve fame and glory in war, but once he encounters his inner child, that gradually becomes less important.

The first stage in alchemy is Nigredo, or the blackening. Nigredo is associated with night, death, dark nights of the soul, and specifically with ravens and crows as well. In fact, Jung called the darkest parts of Nigredo “the raven’s head.” (Yes, really.)

The Fall of Cintra and Ciri and Cahir’s meeting takes place at night, and Ciri’s main memory of this is the knight with raven wings on his helmet, marking this as Nigredo in both of their developments.

But even more than that, Nigredo can be divided into further steps. George Ripley’s Magnum Opus (which influenced Shakespeare, among other well known writers who shaped literary tradition) identifies the first stage as “calcination,” which refers to heating something to extremely high temperatures (thus, the blackening). To rescue Ciri, Cahir has to ride through literal flames.

The second step is “dissolution/solution,” in which something dissolves. The bath scene is dissolution, as Ciri is covered in burns an coated in blood, feces, dirt, and smoke. However, this is traumatizing for Ciri, because she has no idea why this stranger who can’t even bring himself to speak to her is bathing her. Cahir regrets it as well.

The next step is “separation.” Cahir falls asleep and wakes up to find Ciri gone. Jung cites this separation as being a particular separation of the anima and animus. But it’s this that gives Cahir time to reflect on his life choices and his allegiance to Emhyr (even if he doesn’t break right away with Emhyr): “I cried with anger against an emperor who likes chasing little girls. I cried for a year while sitting in a cell in the Citadel.”

Following their first meeting, Ciri has nightmares about Cahir, and Cahir has dreams about Ciri.

Ciri sees Cahir as a nightmare, a nightmare she needs to face rather than repress, in order to find hope for herself after all the trauma she’s been through. But at this point, she can’t quite do that, and at first is somewhat imprisoned by the nightmares. This marks Cahir as Ciri’s Jungian Shadow (the archetype Jung associated with Nigredo), which is essentially the part of ourselves that we try to repress. Ciri cannot remember exactly what happened with Cahir (a sign of repression), but she does remember his helmet and her fear. She is afraid of him in her dreams.

The White Monster: Thanedd

Prison and repression are strong motifs in both Cahir’s and Ciri’s arcs, but the difference is that Cahir is the one who starts out imprisoning himself whereas Ciri’s is more natural as a result of her being a literal child. Cahir is not going to grow at all by taking Ciri prisoner, but he tries to do so because he himself is a prisoner. He’s a prisoner of his family’s role and then a literal prisoner in Emhyr’s dungeon, condemned to die for over a year. He’s allowed to go free specifically because he’s literally the only Nilfgaardian who has seen Ciri and thereby they need him. Thus the concept of Ciri sets him free, but you can’t be truly free when you’re seeking to imprison someone else.

Yet Cahir still dreams about the girl with a rose tattoo. Cahir sees Ciri as a rose (something beautiful rising from thorns/pain), as his destiny according to the line of thinking that destiny is hope. The rose is red, symbolic of Rubedo, or what Ciri will become and what Cahir needs to aim for: philosopher’s stones, capable of producing eternal life.

I do think it’s important that the Ciri Cahir expresses himself as in love with is the one who appears in his dreams—as animas often do (Anima is the archetype of the Albedo stage, according to Jung). Jung says:

It belongs to him, this perilous image of Woman; she stands for the loyalty which in the interests of life he must sometimes forego; she is the much needed compensation for the risks, struggles, sacrifices that all end in disappointment; she is the solace for all the bitterness of life. And, at the same time, she is the great illusionist, the seductress, who draws him into life with her Maya – and not only into life’s reasonable and useful aspects, but into its frightful paradoxes and ambivalences where good and evil, success and ruin, hope and despair, counterbalance one another. Because she is his greatest danger she demands from a man his greatest, and if he has it in him she will receive it.

Seductress doesn’t have to mean sexual in this context, FYI. Think of the anima as tempting/seducing the man to grow as a human being. The point is that it’s this dream that encourages Cahir to grow, thereby setting himself free on the path to individuation.

Their second meeting comes at Thanedd, signifying Albedo, or the whitening. If Nigredo is the process of breaking things down, then Albedo is the process of cleansing away the impurities. “Conjunction” is a term in which all the separated parts that can be salvaged from the Nigredo come together: for Ciri, in the persons of Geralt and Yennefer and the like; for Cahir, it’s more internal (again more fittingly, because he’s an older teenager at this point). What he has left to grasp cannot be grasped as who he is currently, but he’s freed because of Ciri, and needs to continue to pursue what Ciri represents. That’s kinda all that’s salvageable.

They fight, and Ciri spares his life, marking Ciri’s decision towards individuation... because Ciri sees her inner child in Cahir, a bruised innocence she chooses not to kill:

There was no black helmet, no wings of a bird of prey, whose sound had pursued her in her nightmares. He was no longer the Black Knight of Cintra. Instead there was a pale dark-haired young man writhing in a pool of blood, a young man with blue eyes and his mouth twisted into a grimace of terror. The Black Knight of Cintra had fallen under the blows of her sword, had ceased to exist, the wings that caused her to be afraid were no more than limp feathers. The frightened boy, bent over, vomiting blood, was nothing. She did not know him, had never seen him before.... She was not afraid of him, did not hate him. She did not want to kill him.

She threw her sword on the ground.

This marks step towards maturity and towards reconciling with her shadow for Ciri.

Sapkowski then focuses on emphasizing just where we are in Ciri and Cahir’s refinement, making sure we recognize the white motif in this scene. Like, we get it, Geralt has white hair. It’s repeated so often for the symbolic purpose (emphasis is mine):

A white-haired monster attacked them. He jumped from the wall. From a height it was impossible to jump without breaking a leg. It was impossible to land softly, turning a pirouette that blurred to the eye and killing a split second later. But the white-haired monster did it. And he began to kill.

The Scoia’tael fought fiercely. They had the advantage. But they had no chance. Cahir gaped in horror at the sight of the massacre that was carried out. The gray-haired girl who had struck him a moment ago was fast, was incredible agile as a cat who was protecting her kittens. But the white-haired monster who jumped upon the Scoia’tael was like a Zerrikanian tiger. The gray-haired girl from Cintra, who, for unknown reason, had not killed him, had seemed to be crazy. The white-haired monster was not crazy. He was calm and cold. And calmly and coldly killed...

When Cahir opened his eyes, the monster was right before him. ‘Don’t kill me...’ he whispered, abandoning his attempts to rise on the floor slippery with blood. The hand that had been wounded by the gray-haired girl had stopped hurting and was numb.

‘I know who you are, Nilfgaardian.’ The monster with the white hair kicked the helmet with the broken wing. You’ve stubbornly pursued her for a long time. But you couldn’t even hurt her.’

‘Don’t kill me.’

‘Give me a reason. Just one. Quickly.’

‘I..’ whispered Cahir ‘I was the one who took her from Cintra. The fire... I saved her. I saved her life...’

When he opened his eyes the monster was gone, he was alone in the yard, alone with the bodies of the elves. The tinkling water from the fountain, poured over the edge of the pond, washing the blood from the floor.

Not only is there emphasis on white, but there is emphasis on washing away blood, or impurities, for Cahir. His reputation in Nilfgaard cannot be salvaged; only his soul, which chose to save a girl once, can be.

But guess what the next steps are in Albedo (if you said happy, you’d be sadly wrong): “putrefication” and “congelation.”

We see putrefication (focus on death and rotting) in Ciri, when she’s wandering the Frying Pan and trying to survive, her mind breaking and frustration and abandonment welling up inside of her. While this marks a darker, negative turn for her character, it’s actually very necessary towards getting Ciri to a place where she can accept her shadow self, represented in the person of Cahir.

In Cahir, putrefication lands him captured, to brought to Nilfgaard chained in a coffin. This is not subtly symbolic of him listening to his mother and chaining himself to an idea of hate that was born in death and can only ever end in death. When Geralt (the white monster) frees him, he is reborn, in a sense, and given a second chance not in the same sense Emhyr gave him a second chance: he cannot spend a second chance doing what brought him there in the first place. No, he has to change. This is further symbolized by Geralt giving Cahir the knife and telling him to free himself or wait to be found by other Nilfgaardians, sharply contrasting with how Cahir was freed before (for the purpose of serving Nilfgaard).

Congelation involves heat and requires lots of water, which is also seen in Ciri in the Frying Pan (for her, putrefication and congelation are kind of combined; this is not unusual in alchemical stories). When Cahir is freed from the coffin and when he later asks to join Geralt, Milva, and Jaskier, it is noted to be raining: “After the summer drought, the land was now soaked with water and the forest paths had turned to mud slides.”

Buildup to Stygga

So... I know I said I would be talking about their three meetings, and I am doing so, but technically there is another stage between Albedo and Rubedo (red), called Citrinitas (yellowing/golden). However, it’s most often compressed into Rubedo. So you could see Citrinitas as the buildup to Stygga and thereby part of Rubedo, and I kind of do, but I’m putting it in its own section for now.

Citrinitas focuses on the light, or fire. Basically, it’s where everything starts to go very, very wrong for Ciri.

Life isn’t kind enough to let Ciri continue as an innocent, merciful child. She literally draws from fire to save the unicorn, but ends up in a dark place afterwards. The next stages are “cibation,” “sublimation,” and “fermentation.” Ciri’s journey through these stages are quite clear: cibation is with the Rats, in which she distracts herself but also feeds herself with skills she will later use in her journey, sublimation is when she literally travels to a different world for (with sublimation meaning solid becoming air, and Ripley describes it as “in the air our child must thus be born,” which very much reflects Ciri’s journey back to her world), and fermentation... Stygga. It’s also telling that Ciri encounters Jung’s archetype of the wise old man in Vysogota during these stages, because Jun associated Citrinitas with that archetype.

Cahir, however, has a slightly different journey. Cibation is when he joins the hansa and starts to learn from Milva, Geralt, Jaskier, and Regis--in particular, from Regis, his own wise old man archetype, he learns redemption. They feed him in a spiritual sense. Sublimation is when he finally reconciles with his inner child as himself, exemplified in his relationship with Geralt.

For starters, Cahir acts like a child in punching Geralt for accusing him of betraying them, and is then treated by a child by Milva when she literally uses her whip to spank them apart. Then, Cahir gets injured and Geralt has to save him, which marks a moment at which both Cahir and Geralt reconcile with their inner child. (While I plan on writing a different post for Geralt and Yennefer, this point in Geralt’s development matters for Cahir’s own journey; hence its inclusion.)

Geralt has been blaming Cahir because he fears Yennefer has betrayed them, and so lashes out at someone he knows hurt someone he loves once, projecting his own insecurities and fears he abandoned Ciri onto Cahir. Geralt is only able to get over his distressed fears about Yennefer’s betrayal by acting like, well, a dad to a feverish Cahir, who opens up at last and keeps asking for reassurance like a child:

Cahir finally showed some signs of life, and shortly afterwards – miraculously – he stood up, cursed himself, and held his head. They continued on. Initially, Cahir moved quickly. Then, he slowed down. Then, he fell.

Geralt took turns carrying him on his back and dragging him, groaning, pushing against rocks.

...

“Geralt?” “Yes.” Cahir straightened the logs in the fire with the help of a leg bone he had found. “In the mine, as we fought… I was scared, you know?” “I know.”

...

“I've seen her constantly in dreams… I see her still, as a woman – beautiful, confident, provocative… with details, such as a fire-red rose tattooed in her groin…”

“What are you talking about?”

“I do not know, do not know, myself… But it was, and still is. I see her still, in the dreams, just as I had seen her in a dream back then… So, I agreed to take the mission on Thanedd. That's why I wanted to join you later. I… I still want to once again… to see her once again, to touch her hair, to look into her the eyes… I want to see her. Strike me dead, if you want. But I'm going to stop pretending. I think… I think I love her. I beg you, do not laugh.”

“I am not laughing.”

In a sense, Cahir’s role in regards to Geralt is giving Geralt a chance to see what Ciri has become before they reunite: an innocent mistreated by the world, a red rose striving to grow even among thorns, marked by her trauma but strong. Geralt helping Cahir is Geralt coming to terms with his inner child in both Cahir and in Ciri. And for Cahir, he comes to term with his inner child in himself, and acknowledges Ciri as not just his anima, but as a necessary part of the philosopher’s stone he’s becoming. Ciri’s tattoo is notably red, the color of Rubedo, of completion. The red rose is a sign of what Cahir has to pursue.

The Red Rose: Stygga Castle

“Exaltation” is where, according to Ripley, all things combine at last. He quotes Christ from the Bible as saying: “if I exalted be/Then shall I draw all things unto me.” Hence, Stygga is where everyone and everything comes together, from Ciri to the Hansa to Bonhart to Vilgefortz and Yennefer to Emhyr himself.

Exaltation is where “two contraries together shall meet.” By the time Ciri and Cahir reunite, they have both changed. This time, Ciri still is afraid, but then she recognizes the idea of redemption inside him, because it’s one she’s had to grapple with herself now. In doing so, she is no longer afraid of her shadow self. He apologizes and she sees him as a human and not as a nightmare, she accepts her shadow, thereby freeing herself from her fear that she is irredeemable. In other words, Ciri is brought closer to individuation than ever before.

Cahir, likewise, decides who he is and who he will be right there, thus achieving individuation and fulfilling the Jungian Self archetype (which is the archetype Jung associated with Rubedo). Cahir goes from being Ciri’s literal nightmare to being the one Ciri trusts to protect her from her nightmare in Bonhart:

“Run,” Ciri whispered, seeing who was coming down the second passage. “It is the devil incarnate. But he wants me and will not chase you… Go. Help Geralt…”

Cahir shook his head. “Ciri,” he said mildly. “I’m surprised at you. I cross the whole world to see you, and now that I found you, to redeem myself, to save you and defend you. And you want me to run away now?”

“You don’t know who you are dealing with.”

Cahir tugged on his gloves, removed his coat and wrapped it around his left arm. He waved his sword and swung it until it whistled in the air. “I would know.”

At the sight of the trio, Bonhart stopped. But only for a moment. “Oh,” he said. “There was a rescue? Your friends, witcheress? All right. Two more or less, it does not make a difference.”

Ciri suddenly thought of something. “Say goodbye to your life, Bonhart,” she cried. “This is your end. Here is your match!”

Undoubtedly she exaggerated. Bonhart caught the false note in her voice. He looked suspicious. “The witcher? Really?”

Cahir swung his sword, standing in position.

Bonhart did not waver. “Well, well, the witcher is younger than I thought... It would be more sensible, in that case, to get out of my way and flee. I want this wench, I have nothing against you.”

“Strong words,” Cahir said calmly. “Let’s see what else you can do. Angoulême, Ciri, run!”

Cahir’s being equated with Geralt in the above fight with Bonhart is significant. Ciri is Geralt's innocent side, and Cahir his not-so-innocent side. That Cahir both is held accountable by Geralt and comforted by him is important for Cahir and Geralt’s respective growths. By growing towards Ciri, his anima, Cahir has become more like Geralt, and towards Cahir’s ideal self as well: a knight who really saves people. He has become a philosopher’s stone.

The scene where Cahir dies describes quite a bit of red, noting that his blood falls at the feet of a statue like a sacrifice. He knows he doesn’t have much of a chance against Bonhart, but instead of the terrified boy begging Geralt to be spared, he’s willing to lay it all down to give Ciri a chance to escape. And he’s able to do it knowing that she expressed that she believed in him, and was trying to unnerve Bonhart to give Cahir the best chance possible.

Cahir’s mother told him to fuel himself with hate, but in the end, Cahir died for love, and he was better for it.

It’s also no coincidence then that after reconciling with her shadow in the person of Cahir, Ciri is finally able to defeat Bonhart. Nor is it a coincidence that she extends Bonhart the same mercy she once showed Cahir, sparking his redemption, to Bonhart. She can do this now, because she is no longer afraid of her mercy, her inner child, or of her darker side. She is fully herSelf. When Bonhart tries to kill her anyways, she is able to do what she has to do in that situation and without blaming herself.

Only then does Ciri truly mature and then reunite with her parents in Yennefer and Geralt (black and white, as Ciri is gray in hair; not coincidentally). She is exalted, then, as the philosopher’s stone. She is able to express her innocence and darker instincts together, weeping when she is told to say goodbye to them, and it’s the sight of that innocent child, the one that coexists inside her now, that spurs Emhyr to free her.

Neither Geralt nor Yennefer. Never again.

That awareness, in one fell swoop wiped away her fake mask of courage. Ciri’s face contracted and contorted her eyes filled with tears, and her nose ran. The girl fought with all her might, but in vain. A wave broke the dam as the tears made an appearance.

The Nilfgaardians in salamander cloaks looked on silently. And amazed. Some had seen her on the stairs covered in blood, had seen her talking with the Emperor. A witcheress with a sword, who was defying the Emperor himself. And now they were stunned, seeing a simple girl crying and sobbing.

...She struggled, but to no avail. The more she tried to restrain herself, the more she cried.

...

“A strange thing, fate,” she heard him whisper faintly. “Goodbye, my daughter.”

Of note, exaltation is where “man and wife” are “bur[ied] together/To be after revived in the spirit of life.” Geralt and Yennefer are sealed in a bath to commit suicide together, but make love first, and Ciri’s being freed means that they do not have to die after all. As the philosopher’s Stone, Ciri is able to produce the elixir of life.

Multiplication is the next stage, which is less overt in the text because in literature it’s often quantity, but it can be quality as well. Ciri taking her own destiny in her hands before the council of mages increases her quality as the philosopher’s stone; thereby I’d call that multiplication. Cahir dies during exaltation, but you could perhaps see his sacrifice as a way of enabling the multiplication and projection of Ciri.

Ciri’s ability to produce the elixir of life is further seen in the end scenario, where Ciri spirits both Geralt and Yennefer away to Avalon. Whether they are literally alive or not is not clear nor important, because they have transcended life itself. They have become legends, living eternally in them, as has everyone who traveled with them. Ciri telling Lancelot her story is projection, the sharing of the legend, the stone, the elixir of life, with the whole world... or in this case, worlds.

#the witcher #the witcher meta #ciri #cahir mawr dyffryn aep ceallach #cirilla fiona elen riannon #princess cirilla #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt of rivia #yenralt #alchemy #literary alchemy #jung #emhyr var emreis #vysogota #leo bonhart #andrzej sapkowski #ciri x cahir

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