A Hundred Years and One More Day

Yennefer taps her fingernail on the old, time-worn tabletop. The nail hasn't yet fully regenerated after her torturing in Stygga, and the sound is less eloquent than the sorceress would like it to be. “So… how long have they been there?” The words ooze out through her tightly held lips in sparse drops. Poisoned drops smoking with hatred. “Weeell…” the old witcher drawls. The last thing he wants is to get involved in this sudden family squabble. The sorceress casts just one look at him, and Vesemir freezes despite himself, hypnotised by the depths of the lilac pools that are her eyes. “Truth be told, I’ven’t seen ’em since last night. “So,” Geralt’s voice is all but deceivingly calm, “Nilfgaardian honour and truth to an oath, he said, that son of a bitch…” “Such is the way of youth.” The old master smiles faintly, trying to cool down the unreasonable heat of the situation. “We’re talking about my daughter.” Yellow eyes with vertical pupils narrow like those of a snake, nothing but a promise of pain to be seen in them. Lots of pain. “Hell with them, but how could you let it happen? “What was I supposed to do?” Vesemir knows for sure that he has nothing to justify himself for. “Maybe lie down between ’em?” Yennefer snorts. Geralt curses. A loud moan echoes through the high vaults of Kaer Morhen. “I’m going there.” The witcher makes for the stairs, drawing his steel sword as he does so. “Take out the silver one too. To reinforce your point.” Vesemir decisively blocks the path of his former apprentice. “Are you out of your mind? What d'you think is going on up there, to come in like that, with a sword… As if you yourself have never… Geralt pants, the first of his free hand clenching and unclenching, yet the sword slides back into its sheath. “Feels like I… got a bit carried away…” These words are muttered through set teeth. Heavy and bashful. “And I think you didn’t.” Yennefer’s voice is cold and impassive. As are her eyes. It was this look that she was wearing into the hot bath in Stygga, where she was meant to stay forever. “Why can’t you see that this is all a trap? A game. Manipulation. Their meeting, everything that followed, it was all planned, down to the smallest detail. Or do you think that the great-nephew of Assire var Anahid was sent after the princess of Cintra by pure chance? A high, desperate sob escapes the chest and ricochets off the vaults of the main hall with a hundred stirred echoes. Ciri stands on the steps of the partially collapsed staircase. Her shirt is only half-buttoned. Ashen fringe covers her suddenly reddened, pain-sodden eyes, her breathing heavy, ragged. Whitened fingers clutch the banister. “Is it true?” The words sting, cutting her mouth from the inside with their jagged blades. They are impossible to neither utter nor to hold back. They make Ciri want to choke on them. Yennefer lowers her eyes and bites her recently healed lips. Can the truth justify what her girl is going through at this moment? “Daughter, I…” “Is it true?” Ciri tilts her head, bares her teeth. Like an unruly, cornered foal. The sorceress wants to jump up from her seat, to hug the girl, to stroke her tousled hair. She wants to explain that this is all for her own good. But can one hear the arguments of reason through the suffocating veil of evaporated hopes? And so the sorceress simply nods, curtly and mercilessly. Ciri groans, digging her teeth into the knuckle of her index finger and sinking onto the dusty steps. Geralt is already there, already cupping her wet cheeks with his rough hands. The witcher groans, thrashing and trembling in his arms. “Easy, child…” the witcher mutters, helplessly stroking her ashen strands. “They… they… mate us… like cattle… bastards!” Ciri sobs and chokes on every word as she gasps for air, big mouth stretched by ugly crying. Her thin, calloused fingers tremble, clinging to criss-crossed straps on the witcher’s chest. She feels breathless and sick. Tainted, as though she has been dipped in a vat of ink, the same ink mages use to write treatises on her magical, rare, cursed blood. She wants to forget, to erase the sorceress’s words from her head, to scorch away their poison with hot iron. Then perhaps she will be able to think about what has happened over the past few weeks without this disgust that is smothering her. There is a rhythmical tapping of wood against the cracked granite; it falls on the time-beaten steps with a thump and rolls down their black jagged keys. Cahir staggers, leaning on the banister, and stares into the witcher’s pale face. She hides her eyes, the green of them suddenly dull. She cannot find it in herself to tell him that the stars that raced before them weren’t theirs. Theirs were only dry scrolls of magical treatises and the intertwining of bloodlines. But the Vikovarian is calm. No muscle trembles on his young, sun-kissed face. With his strong hand propping against the banister – all hope for picking up the crutch abandoned – he hops towards his princess on his good leg. Which would be comical… if he didn’t lean against the banister and slid down almost gracefully to find himself face-to-face with Ciri. His calloused, weathered hand moves over her sharply outlined cheek and gently tucks a strand of hair behind a bit protruding right ear. The witcher wants to jerk her head, to pull away, the touch burning her skin with bitterness and shame. And yet she reaches for his fingers, like a stray kitten reaching for a bowl of milk. “They… they… deceived… forced… mated…” Thoughts are scattering away, like frightened mice. “Easy, easy,” Cahir pulls Cirilla close, pressing her to his broad chest. She slips out of Geralt’s arms and into those of the Vikovarian; White Wolve bites the tip of his tongue as he feels his paternal jealousy cloud his eyes. “Does it matter?” Ciri hears the dry, hot lips whisper in her ear. “Does it matter what they want from us? It only matters what we want. I want you. Only you. Mages, emperors, elven kings… You are not their puppet anymore. Your power, your life – it all belongs to you. You decide whether to share it with anyone or… The former princess, shaking like a blown horse, presses her lips to his, cutting him off mid-sentence. Having lost his balance, Cahir falls back, his head hitting the edge of the banister. Ciri only smirks at that, never breaking the kiss. There’s no more fear, no more anxiety. Now she knows what has been stirring in her chest like a restless, spiky beast. It is as though she's drinking the power of his words straight from his chapped lips, knowing for certain: the Nilfgaardian is right. Only she knows where she belongs. “With you,” she whispers in his treacherously reddened ear. “I want to share it with you…” …Yennefer looks at the pale, crippled, strong, loving man who holds her daughter in his arms so gently as if he could break her at any moment. The sorceress feels angry, unbidden tears welling up in her violet eyes. Those are tears of shame for making Ciri doubt him. Tears of joy for her daughter, who has found that which is most important. Tears of bitterness and resentment for what has never been…