Casca and Guts kid that Griffin turned into a botchling by raping her during the eclipse it protected Casca and Guts in its own unique way. Gaunter seems to be implying he made a deal with botchling.
Edit: also that derails Berserk hard
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Acheroraptor
Probably mortal
Damm ye cliffhanger shakes fist at sky but anyways them som good 'eatin
Vengeance
- Location
- USA
His child. The words were more shocking than the lightning that had just coursed through him as he thought of the wretched thing that had fallen from Casca's womb the morning after the Eclipse. The misshapen and misbegotten thing that had once been his child- the thing that could have been his child. Guts remembered the last night that he and Casca shared together well. It was one of the few good memories that he had. It was just before the rescue, all of them ignorant of what horrors would come next.
He hadn't realized he had gotten her pregnant at the time. The idea he could be a father never crossed his mind.
Guts only learned that he could have been after the Eclipse. When that twisted thing fell from the woman that he loved. Tainted, Skull Knight called it. Tainted by Casca's rape at Griffith's hands. It was something he kept far from his mind, snarling at it when it did dare to show its face to him. A taunting reminder of what could have been and what had happened before his eyes.
Now Guts was left reeling, his head a jumbled mess that struggled to form a single thought. "It… he… how did he make a deal with you? How could he? I… I thought… I thought he was…" Part of Guts felt sick. His memories went to Gambino, the man that raised him. How he tormented him. How he tried to kill him. How he sold him. And how Guts had loved him anyway, so desperate for his approval. Now he found himself in Gambino's shoes and more than anything else, that made him sick.
"Power resonates with power. The Godhand are not peerless, nor do they lack in enemies. A little piece of Femto stained itself upon his soul. With it, he cried out into the space between the Spheres, searching for someone to help him. I was the one that answered his call. We struck a bargain -- his soul in exchange for transporting you to this Sphere, safe from the influence of the Godhand." Gaunter explained, a small smile tugging at his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "From there, I set you up on the proper path. To the child of the Elder Blood."
This creature had the child's soul. Guts grit his teeth until they threatened to shatter in his mouth, rage flowing through his veins as he glared at Gaunter. Casca seemed to understand the meaning behind the words even if she didn't understand them because her struggles renewed.
"She seems to be quite the handful. Please, allow me," Gaunter said, snapping his fingers and he suddenly heard movement behind him.
"What- Casca?!" Ciri yelped, realizing that Casca no longer stood with her.
"Don't try to fight him," Guts growled the warning to everyone, swallowing down his own instinct to take a swing. "He's too dangerous."
Gaunter stood idly by, his hands behind his back, watching the others be puzzled by what just happened. Gaunter had frozen time. That wasn't anything he had seen before, and it wasn't something he could counter. Guts could find himself dead with a snap of the fingers. No. This wasn't a problem he could swing at. This was something he needed to think through. "You aren't telling me any of this out of the kindness of your heart. So how about you tell me what you want," Guts growled, catching a glance from Geralt from the corner of his eye.
"Oh, but it isn't about what I want, Struggler. This is about what you want," Gaunter replied, his tone smooth as silk and it made every hair stand on end. "I am but a humble merchant selling hopes, dreams, and wishes."
Casca. "What's the price? My life?" Guts ventured, a frown tugging at his lips. He had witnessed this. He knew what awaited him at the end of this path.
"Your life? Why would I ever want such a wretched thing?" Gaunter laughed merrily with a shake of his head. "You are a rare creature, I will admit. Born underneath a hanged whore into the mud after her death. It was your destiny to die there -- alone, in the mud, your very first breaths being your last. But, you cried out at the right time, to the right people, and your life was spared for a time. Gambino, your father… how many times did he try to kill you? Dozens? A hundred? A boy of five sent on suicide missions, yet you always returned." Guts didn't at all care for how much he knew. "The Eclipse. There, by all logic and reason, you lived. Where you received that brand that allowed you to slip destiny's noose."
"By that logic, it should be a valuable thing," Guts pointed out.
To that, Gaunter nodded, "It should. Destiny is not something easily shaken off. Lovely Casca is a perfect example of that -- to be raped at the hands of the noble her family sold her to, to the many soldiers that nearly defeated her… until her destiny was realized at the hands of Griffith. You, Struggler, have fought against destiny since your very first breath. By all logic, your life should be valuable. Perhaps, to others, it might be, but you and I know the truth, don't we?" His smile seems to grow to impossible portions, "You don't care for your life. You never have. The only reason you struggled against destiny was simply because you refused to let anyone take the one thing that was yours."
There was a troubling echo of truth in to the words. More than Guts cared to admit. Before the Band of the Hawk, he lived for the sake of living. He fought because it was familiar to him. Gold and pleasures were meaningless to him. Even now…
He left the Band of the Hawk to find a dream.
He never did.
"Then what do you want from me?" Guts questioned, and Ciri stepped forward.
"Guts, stop. We can find another way. I don't know who this guy is, but you can't trust a thing he says," she warned him, and he knew that. He did. But… but… he was so close. Casca was so close. He didn't care if it cost him his life. Or his soul. He just wanted her back.
"I take offense to that. I am no mere Djinn, Child of the Elder Blood. I am not bound or captured, looking to cause the death of my captor by exploiting his wish. Have many regretted the deals they struck with me? I would say so," Gaunter admitted in all honesty, his eyes sharp as any knife. "However, rotten wishes lead to rotten outcomes. It is not I that make them so." Ciri stiffened at the mention of her blood, her grip tightening on her blade.
Selfish wishes?
"Guts," Ciri stressed, grabbing into him, as if she couldn't believe he was even considering it. He shouldn't be. He knew how deals like this ended. Yet, all the same, he was considering it anyway. The very damn thing that he killed so many apostles for. For being too weak to say no or to let go.
"Can we?" Guts asked her, his tone flat and Ciri winced. She knew the truth. The Djinn was a last ditch effort as it was. So, he turned to Gaunter, "What's the offer?"
"Haha! Despite it all, Struggler, I do like you. Three wishes shall be yours. You can have anything that you so desire. The eternal devotion of your lady love? Perhaps the heads of the Godhand on silver platters? No, you are the sort to get things done yourself -- how about Power? The kind of power that your dear friend branded you as a sacrifice for," Gaunter offered with a smile.
It would be a lie to say that it wasn't tempting. Three wishes to have whatever he wanted? To have his revenge? And what would it cost him? How many ways left could he be hurt?
Guts cast a look at Casca, who looked up at him with vacant eyes. However, perhaps it was just what he wanted to see, but they almost seemed pleading. Pleading for what, Guts didn't know.
He was a damn fool. And a damned one.
"Fine," Guts decided, looking back at the devil disguised as an angel. He would make the deal. He would take those wishes. And what should be take? What would make it worth all the hell that came next? Power? Revenge? Or… Casca reached out and touched his arm, the only person whose touch he had ever welcomed. The choice was both the hardest decision he had ever made while at the same time being the simplest.
"I wish that Casca's wish comes true. I wish that Casca's mind is restored. I wish that the consequences for my selfish wishes only fall upon my head, that no one else suffers for it."
Gaunter seemed to freeze for but a moment, the mask of his slipping. His cruel smile that seemed kind slowly fell away. He tilted his head, as if he was regarding Guts for the first time. The aggression in his body language and gaze fading away, replaced with… "Three fine wishes, Struggler. Three fine wishes indeed. I shall grant them, but not without a cost."
"Take what you want. I've made my choices and I'll die with them," Guts responded with a sense of finality. Casca would be safe. Ciri would look after her. Casca would take care of her… of their child. As he was, the brat would be better off. Better no father than to have him as one.
"What a pleasure. So very often I encounter those that try to cheat me of my payment. Always looking for clever wordplay or outlandish conditions," Gaunter remarked.
"It ever work?" Guts questioned flatly, wishing that he'd just get on with it. Claim his soul, claim his life -- whatever.
"Not a once," Gaunter smiled. "Very well, Struggler. This is my price. I cannot take your soul, for it is already marked. I cannot take your life, for it is worthless to you. What I shall take from you is the one thing that propels you. The one reason that you keep going and why you're standing here today. What I shall take… is your vengeance." Gaunter intoned, his words brimming with an unspoken power. Guts could feel it in the air as if the wind itself was holding its breath. Guts felt something rising up from deep in his gut, and it wasn't just his horror.
His vengeance.
He'd rather give up his life, but Guts supposed that was the point. To let their deaths go unanswered? To let Griffith get away with it?
His blood boiled at the mere thought of it. Everyone he had ever dared to call a friend was in the depths of hell, suffering endlessly, because of his betrayal. He raped Casca. There was no forgiveness for that. Vengeance was all that he had. It was all that he wanted. It… it was why he was able to keep limping forward, no matter how wounded. It was a far off damn near impossible goal, but it was the reason he was still sane. Without his vengeance, what could he do? What would he be?
"Shall you pay the cost?" Gaunter asked, approaching Guts slowly, seemingly gliding over the floor rather than stepping on it. He came to a stop directly in front of him, holding out a hand with an easy going smile. Guts looked down at the hand like it was a snake.
His gaze flickered to Casca one final time before he steeled his resolve.
"I'll make the deal if you uphold yours," Guts agreed, shaking hands with the devil.
"Oh, I shall, Struggler. Oh, I shall," He said before Guts realized that it wasn't just horror that had been rising up from his guts. Something climbed up his throat and Guts was driven to a knee before spitting up black tar that tasted of poison. "It's been a pleasure, Struggler. Truly, it has. A bit of advice before I go… you still have your life. Learn to treasure it. It's the only one you have."
Guts felt like whatever was coming out of him was dredging up his entire stomach with it. The black bile seeped outward, the sensation so intense he barely registered the parting words of Gaunter. Ciri was by his side, shouting his name but Guts could barely hear her over the sound of his retching. The black bile seemed to bubble when it finally left him, spreading out over the deck. His vision swam when the edges of the bile touched his prosthetic.
Before he could see what was done, everything went black.
…
Guts woke up feeling like someone had scooped out his intestines. He noticed that first, more than the rough straw bed that he laid up upon. It was probably the first bed he slept on since the Eclipse, Guts realized. Reaching up, he dragged a hand over his face, feeling everything but refreshed. He looked around, idly realizing that he was back in the tavern in Novigrad. The… thyme and something. Dandelion's tavern.
"He's up!" Guts heard one of the children scrambling from outside of the door that was cracked open to let a few of them perk in. He glanced that way, but it wasn't what his gaze landed on. It was his armor that sat on an armor rack. The black steel was changed, even if he still recognized it. Most unsettling of all was the dog shaped helm and the slash that marked where the eyes were. It felt like the armor was watching him, Guts decided, swinging his legs out of bed.
It was an unsettling feeling. Though, less so when his eyes landed on his prosthetic. It too had changed -- it looked like the armor with fanged fingers colored of black steel. More alarming was the fact that the prosthetic was more than a prosthetic. The fingers twitched first, the first independent action he had made with that hand since he had cut it off years ago. Slowly, he curled the metal hand into a fist, finding that it responded to his will even if it didn't feel anymore than the iron had.
"What did that cost me?" Guts muttered quietly, taking measure of his injuries. He was covered in a fair number of bandages -- from the lightning or where his skin fused with his armor. The pain was sharp, but nothing that he couldn't ignore. What was more troubling was how weak he felt when he stood, forced to prop himself up against the wall-
The armor on the rack moved of its own accord. It collapsed into that same black sludge that he vomited out, flowing over the armor rack, before it lifted up to slam into him. The strength didn't return to his body, but he felt like he could stand on his own two feet. Looking down at himself, he saw the armor was now on him, fitting like a glove. It felt no heavier than his prior armor, even if there was more of it. A hand went up to the teeth that were around his throat, as if the dog helm was going to swallow him whole.
It was a cold comfort, Guts decided, stepping to the door. This armor… he knew what it was. It was unnatural. The question was why did he have it? The deal was he gave up his vengeance. How did that translate to his hate and desire for revenge physically manifesting as a suit of armor? A test, perhaps? For the devil to renege on his end of the bargain?
Clearing the door, of all the faces he expected to see, it was Geralt to be the one approaching him. He seemed unsurprised to see Guts on his feet, even if his eyes did narrow at his armor. "Casca?" Guts questioned, making Geralt pause before he gestured him to follow. The very next door swung open, revealing Casca.
Casca was in a fitful sleep, Guts immediately noticed. Sweat dripped down her skin while her expression twisted. As Guts stumbled forward, Geralt spoke. "She's been unconscious for about a day. You too," he informed. "Yennefer confirmed that there's some potent magic going on with her, but nothing inherently dangerous." He reassured, and that was a relief. "As for the boy…"
Guts half collapsed in the chair by Casca's bedside, even the small walk had exhausted him. His stomach clenched, "The boy?" He asked, hesitant. An image of his twisted form appeared in his mind, making him clench his jaw. He looked to Geralt, fearing the worst, only to be answered with action. Behind Geralt, peaking out from behind him and the door was…
Was his son, Guts supposed. The child was young, around two or three years old. As old as he would have been. He looked more like Casca than he did him, which was probably a good thing -- his skin was a lighter shade than Casca's, his hair long and dark, while his eyes… Guts saw that he had his eyes.
It was easier facing apostles, Guts decided. That involved swinging a sword. Killing something. The enemy could be defeated. That, he could handle. This… this he wasn't. The child peered at him, his gaze unblinking, saying nothing. Could he talk? When did babies start talking?
"He's powerful," Geralt informed, his tone neutral. "Extremely so. Yennefer and Triss both examined him and say that he's a Source." A holdover from his days as a spirit guarding his mother while his father scorned his existence? "It'll be difficult for him to learn magic, but he could."
There was a small pause that was only broken by Casca hissing in her sleep.
Surprisingly, Geralt broke it. "Ciri's furious with you. Yennefer thinks you're a fool," he informed, and that got a small scoff from Guts.
"She's not wrong," Guts admitted. He was a hypocrite of the highest order. And he found that he didn't care so long as Casca came back. Let Gaunter take what he wished from him. So long as it was taken from him.
"I understand why you did it," Geralt told him, making Guts glance at him to see that he was being honest. "I wouldn't have done anything different in your shoes."
It shouldn't, but that did make Guts feel better, "Thanks," he grunted. "Where is Ciri?" He asked after a moment, looking back to the child when he moved. He slowly revealed himself, wearing a large shirt that covered him from neck to foot. He moved cautiously, stepping around Geralt and approaching Guts like he was a wild animal.
"Gathering up the men to break the siege of Oxenfurt," Geralt replied. "She took your advice, even if she won't admit it. She's using Triss and Yennefer to cover for her powers. As far as everyone will know, Ciri used mages to teleport an army." That was a clever compromise, Guts had to admit.
"When?" Guts questioned, the two of them watching the child as he came to a stop in front of Guts. He looked up at him, his dark eyes searching his face. For what? The wrath that had been in his eyes every time he saw the creature lurking in the shadows? Shame ran through Guts like a river. One without end.
"Tomorrow. The plan did hinge on you killing an army," Geralt remarked, amusement coloring his tone. "He's waiting for you to say something."
What could he say? An apology? Like that could ever be enough. He… Guts clenched his jaw, something starting to well up inside of him, and the armor began to answer it. Anger, Guts realized. Anger at himself. "Thank you," Guts told the child, earning a blink in response. "Thank you for protecting her," Guts told him.. his son. His child.
His son offered a small smile before stepping forward, crawling into his lap. Guts was glad that he wasn't wearing his throwing knives because he seemed fascinated with the many sharp edges of his armor. His hands hovered until the child sat comfortably, leaning his head against his chest while he watched Casca sleep. It seemed to come easier to her now, the restlessness fading away into a more peaceful slumber.
"I can fight tomorrow," Guts agreed, feeling… lost.
"To pay a debt?" Geralt questioned, an unspoken one in the words. While he had been frozen in time, Guts suspected that Ciri told him what transpired. The wishes that were made and the deal that was struck. His vengeance. The one thing that kept him going. His driving force. He gave it up and now he has no idea what came next.
"I owe Triss that much," Guts muttered, gently resting a hand on the kids back. He got a reaction, just not the one he was expecting. The armor melted off of his hand, turning into wisps of black smoke that seemed to be absorbed by his shadow. He might have thought the kid did something if it wasn't for how put out he seemed when his chest piece vanished. The armor… that was a distant concern. A dangerous one, but far less pressing than a question Guts hadn't thought about in years.
What came next?
"Ciri trusts you," Geralt told him, catching his attention. It was a quiet admission. "That's not something easy to earn. About as easy as I suspect it is to earn your trust. She won't say it, but she wants you to stay here in this Sphere." He told him, and Guts suspected as much. Ciri was a friend. Something that Guts never thought that he'd have again. She followed through on the promise of helping restore Casca's mind, even if she did think it was a poor idea to make that deal.
That just meant her reasoning was sound.
"Fighting is all I've ever known. I picked up a sword at three and I haven't set it down since," Guts told him, answering that unspoken question. And, to that, Geralt let out a small chuckle.
"She also told me that you're younger than her," he remarked. "I can't claim to know what you've gone through. Won't bother with the sweet lies either. You're a mercenary, so I'll say this -- you can build a life here, in this Sphere. Ciri, for better or worse, is dead set on unifying two empires. She'll need people that she can trust by her side and having the goodwill of the empress of most of the known world is a cushy position. Your son can learn magic. He'll probably end up one of the strongest in the world, second only to Ciri. Casca… you could have a castle. Or a farm in the middle of nowhere."
Geralt know how to talk to him, Guts realized with some amusement. No flowery speech. Just blunt words.
Guts looked down at the two and tried to picture it. He earnestly did. To own some fancy castle. Having servants. Being nobility. The idea almost made his skin crawl. Still, his own discomfort with the idea was a distant concern. Casca had always been a fighter, but that didn't need to be true any longer. Their kid could grow up to be a spoiled rotten brat that never knew the true horrors of the world.
They wouldn't need to want for anything. Never have to go hungry or worry about a knife between the ribs over a handful of coins. Casca and their kid could be the ones that paid sorry fucks like him to do the fighting for them. They'd never have to know another battlefield again.
That wouldn't be a bad life for them.
"I wouldn't know what to do with a farm," Guts admitted, his voice soft. Geralt chuckled, but their attention quickly shifted to Casca when a low groan escaped her. Guts felt his heart leaping up into his throat, pounding harder than it ever had before. Casca's eyes clenched, almost as if she were fighting to keep them closed.
His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, "Casca?"
That drew her attention, and she willed her eyes to open, her gaze meeting his.
"Guts?"
He hadn't realized he had gotten her pregnant at the time. The idea he could be a father never crossed his mind.
Guts only learned that he could have been after the Eclipse. When that twisted thing fell from the woman that he loved. Tainted, Skull Knight called it. Tainted by Casca's rape at Griffith's hands. It was something he kept far from his mind, snarling at it when it did dare to show its face to him. A taunting reminder of what could have been and what had happened before his eyes.
Now Guts was left reeling, his head a jumbled mess that struggled to form a single thought. "It… he… how did he make a deal with you? How could he? I… I thought… I thought he was…" Part of Guts felt sick. His memories went to Gambino, the man that raised him. How he tormented him. How he tried to kill him. How he sold him. And how Guts had loved him anyway, so desperate for his approval. Now he found himself in Gambino's shoes and more than anything else, that made him sick.
"Power resonates with power. The Godhand are not peerless, nor do they lack in enemies. A little piece of Femto stained itself upon his soul. With it, he cried out into the space between the Spheres, searching for someone to help him. I was the one that answered his call. We struck a bargain -- his soul in exchange for transporting you to this Sphere, safe from the influence of the Godhand." Gaunter explained, a small smile tugging at his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "From there, I set you up on the proper path. To the child of the Elder Blood."
This creature had the child's soul. Guts grit his teeth until they threatened to shatter in his mouth, rage flowing through his veins as he glared at Gaunter. Casca seemed to understand the meaning behind the words even if she didn't understand them because her struggles renewed.
"She seems to be quite the handful. Please, allow me," Gaunter said, snapping his fingers and he suddenly heard movement behind him.
"What- Casca?!" Ciri yelped, realizing that Casca no longer stood with her.
"Don't try to fight him," Guts growled the warning to everyone, swallowing down his own instinct to take a swing. "He's too dangerous."
Gaunter stood idly by, his hands behind his back, watching the others be puzzled by what just happened. Gaunter had frozen time. That wasn't anything he had seen before, and it wasn't something he could counter. Guts could find himself dead with a snap of the fingers. No. This wasn't a problem he could swing at. This was something he needed to think through. "You aren't telling me any of this out of the kindness of your heart. So how about you tell me what you want," Guts growled, catching a glance from Geralt from the corner of his eye.
"Oh, but it isn't about what I want, Struggler. This is about what you want," Gaunter replied, his tone smooth as silk and it made every hair stand on end. "I am but a humble merchant selling hopes, dreams, and wishes."
Casca. "What's the price? My life?" Guts ventured, a frown tugging at his lips. He had witnessed this. He knew what awaited him at the end of this path.
"Your life? Why would I ever want such a wretched thing?" Gaunter laughed merrily with a shake of his head. "You are a rare creature, I will admit. Born underneath a hanged whore into the mud after her death. It was your destiny to die there -- alone, in the mud, your very first breaths being your last. But, you cried out at the right time, to the right people, and your life was spared for a time. Gambino, your father… how many times did he try to kill you? Dozens? A hundred? A boy of five sent on suicide missions, yet you always returned." Guts didn't at all care for how much he knew. "The Eclipse. There, by all logic and reason, you lived. Where you received that brand that allowed you to slip destiny's noose."
"By that logic, it should be a valuable thing," Guts pointed out.
To that, Gaunter nodded, "It should. Destiny is not something easily shaken off. Lovely Casca is a perfect example of that -- to be raped at the hands of the noble her family sold her to, to the many soldiers that nearly defeated her… until her destiny was realized at the hands of Griffith. You, Struggler, have fought against destiny since your very first breath. By all logic, your life should be valuable. Perhaps, to others, it might be, but you and I know the truth, don't we?" His smile seems to grow to impossible portions, "You don't care for your life. You never have. The only reason you struggled against destiny was simply because you refused to let anyone take the one thing that was yours."
There was a troubling echo of truth in to the words. More than Guts cared to admit. Before the Band of the Hawk, he lived for the sake of living. He fought because it was familiar to him. Gold and pleasures were meaningless to him. Even now…
He left the Band of the Hawk to find a dream.
He never did.
"Then what do you want from me?" Guts questioned, and Ciri stepped forward.
"Guts, stop. We can find another way. I don't know who this guy is, but you can't trust a thing he says," she warned him, and he knew that. He did. But… but… he was so close. Casca was so close. He didn't care if it cost him his life. Or his soul. He just wanted her back.
"I take offense to that. I am no mere Djinn, Child of the Elder Blood. I am not bound or captured, looking to cause the death of my captor by exploiting his wish. Have many regretted the deals they struck with me? I would say so," Gaunter admitted in all honesty, his eyes sharp as any knife. "However, rotten wishes lead to rotten outcomes. It is not I that make them so." Ciri stiffened at the mention of her blood, her grip tightening on her blade.
Selfish wishes?
"Guts," Ciri stressed, grabbing into him, as if she couldn't believe he was even considering it. He shouldn't be. He knew how deals like this ended. Yet, all the same, he was considering it anyway. The very damn thing that he killed so many apostles for. For being too weak to say no or to let go.
"Can we?" Guts asked her, his tone flat and Ciri winced. She knew the truth. The Djinn was a last ditch effort as it was. So, he turned to Gaunter, "What's the offer?"
"Haha! Despite it all, Struggler, I do like you. Three wishes shall be yours. You can have anything that you so desire. The eternal devotion of your lady love? Perhaps the heads of the Godhand on silver platters? No, you are the sort to get things done yourself -- how about Power? The kind of power that your dear friend branded you as a sacrifice for," Gaunter offered with a smile.
It would be a lie to say that it wasn't tempting. Three wishes to have whatever he wanted? To have his revenge? And what would it cost him? How many ways left could he be hurt?
Guts cast a look at Casca, who looked up at him with vacant eyes. However, perhaps it was just what he wanted to see, but they almost seemed pleading. Pleading for what, Guts didn't know.
He was a damn fool. And a damned one.
"Fine," Guts decided, looking back at the devil disguised as an angel. He would make the deal. He would take those wishes. And what should be take? What would make it worth all the hell that came next? Power? Revenge? Or… Casca reached out and touched his arm, the only person whose touch he had ever welcomed. The choice was both the hardest decision he had ever made while at the same time being the simplest.
"I wish that Casca's wish comes true. I wish that Casca's mind is restored. I wish that the consequences for my selfish wishes only fall upon my head, that no one else suffers for it."
Gaunter seemed to freeze for but a moment, the mask of his slipping. His cruel smile that seemed kind slowly fell away. He tilted his head, as if he was regarding Guts for the first time. The aggression in his body language and gaze fading away, replaced with… "Three fine wishes, Struggler. Three fine wishes indeed. I shall grant them, but not without a cost."
"Take what you want. I've made my choices and I'll die with them," Guts responded with a sense of finality. Casca would be safe. Ciri would look after her. Casca would take care of her… of their child. As he was, the brat would be better off. Better no father than to have him as one.
"What a pleasure. So very often I encounter those that try to cheat me of my payment. Always looking for clever wordplay or outlandish conditions," Gaunter remarked.
"It ever work?" Guts questioned flatly, wishing that he'd just get on with it. Claim his soul, claim his life -- whatever.
"Not a once," Gaunter smiled. "Very well, Struggler. This is my price. I cannot take your soul, for it is already marked. I cannot take your life, for it is worthless to you. What I shall take from you is the one thing that propels you. The one reason that you keep going and why you're standing here today. What I shall take… is your vengeance." Gaunter intoned, his words brimming with an unspoken power. Guts could feel it in the air as if the wind itself was holding its breath. Guts felt something rising up from deep in his gut, and it wasn't just his horror.
His vengeance.
He'd rather give up his life, but Guts supposed that was the point. To let their deaths go unanswered? To let Griffith get away with it?
His blood boiled at the mere thought of it. Everyone he had ever dared to call a friend was in the depths of hell, suffering endlessly, because of his betrayal. He raped Casca. There was no forgiveness for that. Vengeance was all that he had. It was all that he wanted. It… it was why he was able to keep limping forward, no matter how wounded. It was a far off damn near impossible goal, but it was the reason he was still sane. Without his vengeance, what could he do? What would he be?
"Shall you pay the cost?" Gaunter asked, approaching Guts slowly, seemingly gliding over the floor rather than stepping on it. He came to a stop directly in front of him, holding out a hand with an easy going smile. Guts looked down at the hand like it was a snake.
His gaze flickered to Casca one final time before he steeled his resolve.
"I'll make the deal if you uphold yours," Guts agreed, shaking hands with the devil.
"Oh, I shall, Struggler. Oh, I shall," He said before Guts realized that it wasn't just horror that had been rising up from his guts. Something climbed up his throat and Guts was driven to a knee before spitting up black tar that tasted of poison. "It's been a pleasure, Struggler. Truly, it has. A bit of advice before I go… you still have your life. Learn to treasure it. It's the only one you have."
Guts felt like whatever was coming out of him was dredging up his entire stomach with it. The black bile seeped outward, the sensation so intense he barely registered the parting words of Gaunter. Ciri was by his side, shouting his name but Guts could barely hear her over the sound of his retching. The black bile seemed to bubble when it finally left him, spreading out over the deck. His vision swam when the edges of the bile touched his prosthetic.
Before he could see what was done, everything went black.
…
Guts woke up feeling like someone had scooped out his intestines. He noticed that first, more than the rough straw bed that he laid up upon. It was probably the first bed he slept on since the Eclipse, Guts realized. Reaching up, he dragged a hand over his face, feeling everything but refreshed. He looked around, idly realizing that he was back in the tavern in Novigrad. The… thyme and something. Dandelion's tavern.
"He's up!" Guts heard one of the children scrambling from outside of the door that was cracked open to let a few of them perk in. He glanced that way, but it wasn't what his gaze landed on. It was his armor that sat on an armor rack. The black steel was changed, even if he still recognized it. Most unsettling of all was the dog shaped helm and the slash that marked where the eyes were. It felt like the armor was watching him, Guts decided, swinging his legs out of bed.
It was an unsettling feeling. Though, less so when his eyes landed on his prosthetic. It too had changed -- it looked like the armor with fanged fingers colored of black steel. More alarming was the fact that the prosthetic was more than a prosthetic. The fingers twitched first, the first independent action he had made with that hand since he had cut it off years ago. Slowly, he curled the metal hand into a fist, finding that it responded to his will even if it didn't feel anymore than the iron had.
"What did that cost me?" Guts muttered quietly, taking measure of his injuries. He was covered in a fair number of bandages -- from the lightning or where his skin fused with his armor. The pain was sharp, but nothing that he couldn't ignore. What was more troubling was how weak he felt when he stood, forced to prop himself up against the wall-
The armor on the rack moved of its own accord. It collapsed into that same black sludge that he vomited out, flowing over the armor rack, before it lifted up to slam into him. The strength didn't return to his body, but he felt like he could stand on his own two feet. Looking down at himself, he saw the armor was now on him, fitting like a glove. It felt no heavier than his prior armor, even if there was more of it. A hand went up to the teeth that were around his throat, as if the dog helm was going to swallow him whole.
It was a cold comfort, Guts decided, stepping to the door. This armor… he knew what it was. It was unnatural. The question was why did he have it? The deal was he gave up his vengeance. How did that translate to his hate and desire for revenge physically manifesting as a suit of armor? A test, perhaps? For the devil to renege on his end of the bargain?
Clearing the door, of all the faces he expected to see, it was Geralt to be the one approaching him. He seemed unsurprised to see Guts on his feet, even if his eyes did narrow at his armor. "Casca?" Guts questioned, making Geralt pause before he gestured him to follow. The very next door swung open, revealing Casca.
Casca was in a fitful sleep, Guts immediately noticed. Sweat dripped down her skin while her expression twisted. As Guts stumbled forward, Geralt spoke. "She's been unconscious for about a day. You too," he informed. "Yennefer confirmed that there's some potent magic going on with her, but nothing inherently dangerous." He reassured, and that was a relief. "As for the boy…"
Guts half collapsed in the chair by Casca's bedside, even the small walk had exhausted him. His stomach clenched, "The boy?" He asked, hesitant. An image of his twisted form appeared in his mind, making him clench his jaw. He looked to Geralt, fearing the worst, only to be answered with action. Behind Geralt, peaking out from behind him and the door was…
Was his son, Guts supposed. The child was young, around two or three years old. As old as he would have been. He looked more like Casca than he did him, which was probably a good thing -- his skin was a lighter shade than Casca's, his hair long and dark, while his eyes… Guts saw that he had his eyes.
It was easier facing apostles, Guts decided. That involved swinging a sword. Killing something. The enemy could be defeated. That, he could handle. This… this he wasn't. The child peered at him, his gaze unblinking, saying nothing. Could he talk? When did babies start talking?
"He's powerful," Geralt informed, his tone neutral. "Extremely so. Yennefer and Triss both examined him and say that he's a Source." A holdover from his days as a spirit guarding his mother while his father scorned his existence? "It'll be difficult for him to learn magic, but he could."
There was a small pause that was only broken by Casca hissing in her sleep.
Surprisingly, Geralt broke it. "Ciri's furious with you. Yennefer thinks you're a fool," he informed, and that got a small scoff from Guts.
"She's not wrong," Guts admitted. He was a hypocrite of the highest order. And he found that he didn't care so long as Casca came back. Let Gaunter take what he wished from him. So long as it was taken from him.
"I understand why you did it," Geralt told him, making Guts glance at him to see that he was being honest. "I wouldn't have done anything different in your shoes."
It shouldn't, but that did make Guts feel better, "Thanks," he grunted. "Where is Ciri?" He asked after a moment, looking back to the child when he moved. He slowly revealed himself, wearing a large shirt that covered him from neck to foot. He moved cautiously, stepping around Geralt and approaching Guts like he was a wild animal.
"Gathering up the men to break the siege of Oxenfurt," Geralt replied. "She took your advice, even if she won't admit it. She's using Triss and Yennefer to cover for her powers. As far as everyone will know, Ciri used mages to teleport an army." That was a clever compromise, Guts had to admit.
"When?" Guts questioned, the two of them watching the child as he came to a stop in front of Guts. He looked up at him, his dark eyes searching his face. For what? The wrath that had been in his eyes every time he saw the creature lurking in the shadows? Shame ran through Guts like a river. One without end.
"Tomorrow. The plan did hinge on you killing an army," Geralt remarked, amusement coloring his tone. "He's waiting for you to say something."
What could he say? An apology? Like that could ever be enough. He… Guts clenched his jaw, something starting to well up inside of him, and the armor began to answer it. Anger, Guts realized. Anger at himself. "Thank you," Guts told the child, earning a blink in response. "Thank you for protecting her," Guts told him.. his son. His child.
His son offered a small smile before stepping forward, crawling into his lap. Guts was glad that he wasn't wearing his throwing knives because he seemed fascinated with the many sharp edges of his armor. His hands hovered until the child sat comfortably, leaning his head against his chest while he watched Casca sleep. It seemed to come easier to her now, the restlessness fading away into a more peaceful slumber.
"I can fight tomorrow," Guts agreed, feeling… lost.
"To pay a debt?" Geralt questioned, an unspoken one in the words. While he had been frozen in time, Guts suspected that Ciri told him what transpired. The wishes that were made and the deal that was struck. His vengeance. The one thing that kept him going. His driving force. He gave it up and now he has no idea what came next.
"I owe Triss that much," Guts muttered, gently resting a hand on the kids back. He got a reaction, just not the one he was expecting. The armor melted off of his hand, turning into wisps of black smoke that seemed to be absorbed by his shadow. He might have thought the kid did something if it wasn't for how put out he seemed when his chest piece vanished. The armor… that was a distant concern. A dangerous one, but far less pressing than a question Guts hadn't thought about in years.
What came next?
"Ciri trusts you," Geralt told him, catching his attention. It was a quiet admission. "That's not something easy to earn. About as easy as I suspect it is to earn your trust. She won't say it, but she wants you to stay here in this Sphere." He told him, and Guts suspected as much. Ciri was a friend. Something that Guts never thought that he'd have again. She followed through on the promise of helping restore Casca's mind, even if she did think it was a poor idea to make that deal.
That just meant her reasoning was sound.
"Fighting is all I've ever known. I picked up a sword at three and I haven't set it down since," Guts told him, answering that unspoken question. And, to that, Geralt let out a small chuckle.
"She also told me that you're younger than her," he remarked. "I can't claim to know what you've gone through. Won't bother with the sweet lies either. You're a mercenary, so I'll say this -- you can build a life here, in this Sphere. Ciri, for better or worse, is dead set on unifying two empires. She'll need people that she can trust by her side and having the goodwill of the empress of most of the known world is a cushy position. Your son can learn magic. He'll probably end up one of the strongest in the world, second only to Ciri. Casca… you could have a castle. Or a farm in the middle of nowhere."
Geralt know how to talk to him, Guts realized with some amusement. No flowery speech. Just blunt words.
Guts looked down at the two and tried to picture it. He earnestly did. To own some fancy castle. Having servants. Being nobility. The idea almost made his skin crawl. Still, his own discomfort with the idea was a distant concern. Casca had always been a fighter, but that didn't need to be true any longer. Their kid could grow up to be a spoiled rotten brat that never knew the true horrors of the world.
They wouldn't need to want for anything. Never have to go hungry or worry about a knife between the ribs over a handful of coins. Casca and their kid could be the ones that paid sorry fucks like him to do the fighting for them. They'd never have to know another battlefield again.
That wouldn't be a bad life for them.
"I wouldn't know what to do with a farm," Guts admitted, his voice soft. Geralt chuckled, but their attention quickly shifted to Casca when a low groan escaped her. Guts felt his heart leaping up into his throat, pounding harder than it ever had before. Casca's eyes clenched, almost as if she were fighting to keep them closed.
His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, "Casca?"
That drew her attention, and she willed her eyes to open, her gaze meeting his.
"Guts?"
- Location
- Canada
Is Gaunter going to kill Grifith and the Godhand? Will he literally be taking vengeance?
Legion0047
Retired Shadowrunner.
- Location
- Austria
- Pronouns
- God Emperor
Man, this story continues to be tight
- Location
- United States
Do not really get why you'd read a story where the entire premise was Guts in Witcher if you dislike guts. I get not liking guts not always a massive fan of him but he fits well in this setting imo.
Course you got the right to your opinion, 100% agree the author writes amazing.
Everyone's entitled to their own opinion. Even when they are wrong.
Righteous Anger
- Location
- USA
Guts had no idea what to say. That became readily apparent when he found himself speechless as Casca sat up in the bed, wincing at the light, and peered at him through narrowed eyes. He had been desperately hoping for this moment since the Eclipse -- it was the one hope that he allowed himself, even if he knew he'd more than likely find his death in his quest for revenge. He had wished for it so desperately, yet now that the moment was here, Guts realized he had never imagined what came next. What would he say? What could he say?
Words failed him. He was sat frozen by her bedside, and it was only their child struggling to break his grip that made him aware of the passage of time. His breath felt stuck in his lungs, his mind refusing to budge. The child manage to escape, crawling over to the bed and over to Casca and settling in her lap. Casca looked down at him with some surprise, her brow furrowing… "It wasn't a nightmare," she whispered softly.
"... It wasn't," Guts found his voice, her voice breaking the spell that had been cast over him. His hands curled into fists, his shadow stirring. He grit his teeth to swallow the rage down -- he understood what the armor was, and he almost wished Gaunter had just killed him. It would have been easier. The armor was his desire for revenge. Gaunter didn't take it from him. Instead, he did something far worse.
Guts knew that if he ever lost himself to the armor that lurked in his shadow the deal would be null and voided. The cost of his previous two wishes were suspended because of his third -- that he would be the only one to suffer any consequences. He still yearned for his revenge, he still ached for it, but the armor acted as a noose that would strangle him if he ever tried to pursue it.
He watched Casca's reaction carefully, uncertain what to expect. She gazed down at the child, not looking at him at all. Almost as if she couldn't. "I went insane," her jaw clenched. Despite the raw emotion in her voice, Guts couldn't help but be happy to hear it again.
"... So did I," Guts admitted. He hadn't been mindless, but he was driven every bit as mad as she had been.
"I… it felt like a dream," Casca confessed, still not looking at him. "I still remember everything leading up to the Eclipse, but everything after that… It feels like it happened to someone else. Like I watched it happen instead of experiencing it." Dissociation, Guts figured. He had seen enough trauma to know that it was a common enough way to deal with it. "He betrayed us. He sacrificed us. He- he-" Casca clenched her jaw, the words going unsaid. He raped her.
Guts wished he had something profound to say. Something that would take all the pain away. If those words existed, then he didn't know them. There was a lengthy pause as Casca took a moment to process, her hands going underneath the boy's arms, lifting him up to get a better look at him. He gazed back, his expression vaguely curious.
"He looks like you," Casca said, still not looking at him. She remembered what took place when she was insane? "He looks exactly like I imagined he would." That probably wasn't by coincidence. Their child has been a spirit. With the wording of the wish, Gaunter likely modeled his body after her imagination. "Never thought I'd be a mom."
It felt like they were avoiding the issue, but Guts wasn't any more eager to address it than she was. Geralt, thankfully, seemed to have stepped out the moment he noticed Casca was awake, giving them a moment of privacy. "I never thought I'd be a father. Poor kid."
The kid was indecisive, it would seem, because he held his arms out to Guts, a gesture that he wanted to be picked up by him. After a moment of hesitation, he took the child from Casca, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before she looked away. Guts felt something squeeze his heart, but swallowed it down. The child rested in his lap and took notice of the armor that stirred in the shadows. He might be indecisive, but he had courage because his first reaction was to punch Guts' shadow to little effect. And if there was any doubt that he was of his blood, then those doubts died when he just tried again -- dropping a hammer fist on the wisps of black smoke that threatened to rise.
A chuckle escaped Casca and it was pure music to his ears. It ended all too soon. "Your eye… I thought you lost an eye," Casca muttered, and he saw her gaze going to his prosthetic. Her expression tightened at the sight of it. She would have seen it, Guts knew -- when he cut just enough to weaken the muscle before tearing the rest off.
It was then that Guts realized that she probably had no idea what was going on. They hadn't explained anything to her -- why would they, when she was locked away in her head? "I did. This Sphere -- this world… it rejects the influence of the Godhand. My eye came back. My arm didn't." The conversation felt stilted. Awkward. They danced around the heart of the matter, neither of them having the courage to address it.
Casca made a noise of acknowledgement, "After… you went away. I remember missing you. I… left that cave because I wanted to find you," she muttered and regret gave his heart a savage squeeze.
What could he say to that? "I was… I was insane, Casca. I still might be. After the Eclipse, I wanted blood and I didn't care whose it was. I hunted the apostles for years, and more often than not, those fights ended with me more dead than alive. I… didn't care. I just wanted to make him pay." Guts confessed, and apology in his voice. One that he didn't have the heart to say. He should have stayed with her in that cave. He should have stayed. He chose vengeance over her and without realizing it, he put her in danger.
But, in the depths of his own mind, he knew that being with him then would have been a danger in itself.
"The little guy saved us both. He made a deal on our behalf to bring us here. It's… an odd world, but outside of storybook monsters, it's nothing we haven't seen. I met some people-"
"Ciri," Casca interjected, as if she were realizing the name as she spoke it. "I remember liking her. She was kind. Triss too."
That made things easier. "They helped me help you. We hunted a wish granting creature. The wishes were granted, even if it wasn't by the creature we expected." To that, Casca looked at him with an expression that he was intimately familiar with -- a dull look of 'are you serious?' He received it often enough, but usually when he was being to sparse with his reports. A frequent thing when he left the raiders. She liked to know every detail, and.. well, only the important details ever mattered to him -- numbers, positions, and the damage dealt.
Their eyes met and Casca quickly looked away. She couldn't bare to look at him, could she? Guts couldn't blame her for that. Even with Gaunter wiping away the damage done to him at the hands of the apostles, he felt like he had aged a decade in the past two… near three years.
"I remember your wishes," Casca told him, drawing her knees up to her chest. The statement sounded damning to him. "You gave up vengeance. For me. Us." Guts wished he could tell what she thought of that from her tone alone, but it was impossible to decipher. It was flat and even. Completely neutral.
Guts looked down at his prosthetic, seeing his kid taking another swing at the shadows that churned beneath him. There was a look of intense concentration as he tried to whack it down each time it rose, as if he could beat back the rage with physical force. A rage that had become his backbone. The only reason he was still alive. He lived because he refused to die before Griffith -- he should have died a thousand times over, and he would have, without his rage and hate. And now he foreswore them both. "I did," he confessed after a moment.
"He killed them all," Casca whispered and Guts heard it. The hate in her voice resonated with his own.
"... He did," Guts agreed. He had imagined this conversation in his head a thousand times and it still hadn't prepared him for it.
"He betrayed us. Sacrificed us. For power. We… we gave everything to him. We risked everything for his ambition! We- we fought for him. Bled for him. Died for him! And when he was captured, we fought like hell to get him out!" Casca's voice rose with each word she spoke, her hands curling into fists at the blanket that covered her. She had kept the Band of the Hawk together after Griffith. For a year, they survived being hunted as bandits, waiting for an opportunity to break Griffith out of the dungeons.
Guts reached up and patted the kids head when he seemed alarmed at the yelling. "He did."
Casca was silent for a long minute, the tension growing thick as she chewed on that. He had two years to adjust to the idea, and even with that time, the hate burned just as hot. He just got better at focusing it. Casca didn't have that. So, it was no surprise when she said what she said. "You shouldn't have made that deal. You should have killed him!"
The words stung, but Guts expected them. If their positions had been reversed -- if he was the one driven completely mad and Casca took up a quest of revenge… he would have said the same thing if he learned she gave up a chance to kill Griffith for his sake.
"I had a choice between vengeance and you. I chose you. I don't regret it," Guts replied, and now Casca looked at him. Her eyes were wide, reddened with unshed tears. He could see that she wanted to argue. So, he continued. "I met him once after the Eclipse. An apostle was half dead and he went begging them for help." Casca went tense like a spring about to snap into action.
He paused, chewing on what he heard for a moment. It was a bitter pill then, and it still was now. "I attacked him. He did something to my brand, made me feel hellish pain, but I still managed to take a swing at him. I didn't come close before I got blasted away and he continued on without missing a beat. I hunted dozens of apostles over two years -- those monsters we saw in hell… and I didn't accomplish a damn thing, Casca. Not a damn thing." Guts admitted to her softly, forcing himself to say the words because it hurt.
It hurt more than words could say. Some apostles were more valuable than others -- Zodd came to mind -- but the fact of the matter was most of them were trash. They were fodder. Peasant levies. He killed them and the Godhand would simply make a deal with another desperate human willing to sacrifice their humanity for power. It was painful to admit, but Guts wasn't even sure he had so much as inconvenienced the Godhand.
"That--" Casca started to argue, her expression twisting before she abandoned the expression when she saw his. The sorrow he wore openly for the first time. "You… I'm… I'm not worth that. I'm not worth letting him get away with it." Her voice broke and Guts understood. It was rough hearing that your friends and family would go unavenged because of you. Even if there was only a sliver of a chance of it happening.
"That's for me to decide, not you. I decided that you were," Guts told her bluntly, knowing she needed to hear it. Let her blame him.
Casca's expression twisted -- at first, he thought it was a snarl, but when she buried her face into her hands, Guts knew she was fighting off frustrated tears. She was audibly fighting them off, but her breathing hitched when their kid decided to leap off of him and land on the bed. Guilt gripped Guts heart when the kid tried to hug Casca -- shamed for how he treated him in the past. Guilt for knowing that there was nothing else that he could do. And guilt that such a kind hearted kid ended up with them as parents.
"Can you really live with that?" Casca demanded, a sob in her throat as she tried to comfort the kid even as he was trying to comfort her.
Probably not. "I can," Guts said, not entirely sure if the words were a lie or not. They should be, but they didn't quite feel like a lie when they left his lips. His gaze fell to his prosthetic again, closing it into a fist. It felt odd having an arm again, even if he couldn't actually feel it. "It won't be easy. It'll probably be the hardest thing I've ever done, but I can. We're in a different Sphere and the Godhand aren't welcomed here. We'll never have to deal with them- him again. We… can build a life here."
The best revenge was a life well lived. Guts had heard the addatage before and it always struck him as one of the stupidest things he had ever heard. It reeked of the weak willed justifying their lack of ability to take revenge so they made excuses to help them sleep at night. And, perhaps, that was still true. Guts didn't have the ability to take revenge now if he ever had the ability at all. He gave it up.
"That's it then? We just leave it be? We let him live?" Casca questioned harshly, turning to look at him with a gaze that was sharper than any knife. It cut right through him.
His lips thinned, "I think we've given enough of our lives to Griffith. Let's give him no more." It was a struggle to say the words, and it was a struggle for Casca to hear them. She seemed stricken, a lone tear dripping down her cheek. He hated it. He hated it more than words could ever hope to convey, but he had picked her over vengeance and he would live with that choice. He would live with it for the rest of his life, however short it might be. And, if he had the opportunity to choose again, Guts knew he made the right decision even if it was a hard one.
Casca looked away, chewing on that for a long minute. She pulled the boy to her chest and he seemed right at home, basking in the warmth that Guts had scorned him from. "So… what? We… become mercenaries again?" We. A small fear that had worked its way into his heart was ripped out with the word. We.
"I'm under contract to unite most of the world under Ciri. Never really discussed my pay. Could become nobility. A duke," Guts informed with a hint of a smirk and through the sobs that were lodged in her throat, Casca laughed. It was the single most beautiful sound that Guts ever heard. He had feared that she would never laugh again after everything. Guts wasn't sure that he could laugh. Though, that could be he hadn't found any reasons to in the past few years.
"Duke Guts. You'll have to pick out a family name," Casca laughed, and laughed again when his expression twisted. He hadn't thought of that. "And house words. Everyone thought we rose high when we became knights. Planning to steal a name from them?" Casca asked, and he saw how fragile her smile became, but she was forging on.
"... I don't remember any of the names of the nobles we dealt with, much less their family names," he admitted. She didn't seem surprised by that. "Dunno. Shisu?" Guts reached into his memories for a name that meant anything to him.
Her brow furrowed, "Shishu?" She asked, prompting him and Guts… it wasn't a story that he ever told.
"Suppose you could call her my adoptive mother. Mine died after I was born… or before, depending on how you look at it. I would have died if it wasn't for her. Gambino and his band would have walked right by me if she hadn't picked me up and fought to keep me," Guts said, knowing the story because Gambino constantly reminded him. He had vague memories of her. He couldn't remember what she looked like, but he recalled her being kind and gentle.
"... I didn't know that," Casca admitted. To that, Guts shrugged. The past didn't matter. It was a weight that everyone had to carry, but it wasn't a burden that could be shared. "Duke Guts Shishu. Doesn't really roll off the tongue, but I suppose that's other people's problem." She remarked before her gaze slid to the boy that looked up at her. Her fragile smile fractured ever so slightly when she saw that even the boy saw through her act, but she pressed on. "And I suppose we need to pick a name for you."
The boy perked up, clearly liking the idea. "Most men name their children after their father?" She offered and Guts shook his head with a pinched expression. No. For more reasons than he cared to count, he wouldn't name the child Gambino.
"What about yours?" He offered, only to see the same expression appear on Casca's face.
"My father tried to sell me into sexual slavery to a noble," Casca told him. Hm. That was almost reassuring in a way -- no matter how terrible they were, they couldn't be worse than their own parents. "A member of the Hawk, then." Guts almost wanted to argue -- the names would have far too many memories attached to them. He swallowed the arguments, though -- he couldn't free his friends' souls from the deaths of hell, and he couldn't even avenge them. Honoring their name was the very last thing he could hope to do.
"Judeau," Guts voiced after a moment. The child perked up, looking at him.
Casca lifted the child up, "Judeau. Judeau Shishu. That rolls off the tongue better," she decided. It was the name of a man that meant a great deal to both of them. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was the most cunning. He was reliable and kind. When they needed help, before they even knew they needed it, Judeau was already there with a helping hand extended. If they managed to raise his namesake to be half the man that he was, then Guts could say they raised a fine man.
The young and freshly named Judeau seemed proud of his name, puffing out his face with a pleased expression. Then his gaze snapped to the door a split second before Guts heard the faintest of squeaks. Glancing over, he saw Puck trying, and failing, to sneak into the room through a parting in the door. He wiggled back and forth for a moment, fitting his fat head through the crack, and seemed thoroughly pleased with himself until he realized that they were all looking at him.
He straightened himself out, smithing his hair back, before plastering a wide friendly smile onto his face. "Hi! I'm Puck!" He introduced himself, and Judeau's gaze was locked onto him as he flew over, 'I'm- gak!" He cried out when Judeau hand snatched out, plucking Puck from the air. "You-you-you're d-definitely Guts' kid! S-such grip strength!" Judeau seemed amazed by Puck, staring at him in wonder.
Casca seemed baffled by his appearance, and he supposed that she didn't spend much time around him one way or the other. "That's Puck. A wind spirit. He's…" Guts trailed off, not entirely sure how he would describe their relationship now. Before, he would have called Puck a parasite for the sake of being hurtful. But, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to call him that now. Puck had been there the entire time. It was Ciri that helped him at his lowest point, but Puck was the one that was there for it all. He stopped him from falling any further than he already had. Not to mention, he'd be dead a hundred times over without him.
"Best friend?" Puck croaked out to Guts flat look. "Friend? Friendly acquaintance?"
"One of those," he conceded and Puck looked at him with such wide eyes that they could have popped out of his head from shock. Or because Judeau was tightening his grip. Either or.
"I remember seeing you at times, but I wasn't sure if you were real or not," Casca said, setting Judeau down and accepting his offering when he passed a gasping Puck over to her.
"I'm a hundred percent real! And I'm glad that I finally get to talk to you! Guts has been really worried, you know? Not that he would ever say it! He's a big ol' grouch," Puck informed and he almost snapped at him to shut up, but he swallowed the words when Casca's fragile smile became more genuine. She cast a look in his direction and he wasn't sure what to do, so he offered a halfhearted shrug. She closed her eyes for a moment and… it was almost as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
"Thank you, Puck. For telling me. And making sure that he stayed in one piece. I can't imagine it was easy," she said in a gentle tone.
Puck scoffed, "For any other elf, it would've been impossible! Really, Guts can't do anything without me, but luckily for him, I like the cut of his jib." It was Guts' turn to roll his eyes at that, earning a look from Puck. "Oh! Before I forget! That whole war thing is happening downstairs, soo…" he trailed off and Guts swallowed a sigh.
That was the very last thing he wanted to hear. He would have preferred it if Puck had interrupted for the sake of interrupting. He almost refused, but Casca looked at him. "You should go, Guts. For the future." She told him and there was so much packed into those three words. For the future. When was the last time he gave a damn about the future?
He swallowed a sigh before standing, "What about you?" Would she be okay?
Casca gave him a soft smile, "I'll be fine. Little Judeau will keep me company and… I think I need time, Guts. To come to terms with the past." She admitted, and he was surprised by it. Mostly because he half expected her to do what he did -- deny it and bury it under rage.
He offered a nod and made to leave, Puck darting between Judeau's grasping hands, but Casca spoke up before he left the room. "I'm sorry," she told him.
"You don't have-" Guts began, reassurances dying on his tongue when he glanced at her.
"I'm sorry you had to go through it alone. I'm sorry that I wasn't here," Casca said, lowering her head as she hunched her shoulders, fighting off tears. That… hm. He knew her well. That wasn't a burden she was going to relinquish so easily. Telling her that it wasn't her fault wasn't going to reassure her. Worse, it wasn't like he could say that it wasn't hard carrying what happened alone -- something that no one else in the world could understand, even if he tried to explain.
So, he sighed and turned away from her. "You're here now, right? That's enough."
And it would be enough.
Words failed him. He was sat frozen by her bedside, and it was only their child struggling to break his grip that made him aware of the passage of time. His breath felt stuck in his lungs, his mind refusing to budge. The child manage to escape, crawling over to the bed and over to Casca and settling in her lap. Casca looked down at him with some surprise, her brow furrowing… "It wasn't a nightmare," she whispered softly.
"... It wasn't," Guts found his voice, her voice breaking the spell that had been cast over him. His hands curled into fists, his shadow stirring. He grit his teeth to swallow the rage down -- he understood what the armor was, and he almost wished Gaunter had just killed him. It would have been easier. The armor was his desire for revenge. Gaunter didn't take it from him. Instead, he did something far worse.
Guts knew that if he ever lost himself to the armor that lurked in his shadow the deal would be null and voided. The cost of his previous two wishes were suspended because of his third -- that he would be the only one to suffer any consequences. He still yearned for his revenge, he still ached for it, but the armor acted as a noose that would strangle him if he ever tried to pursue it.
He watched Casca's reaction carefully, uncertain what to expect. She gazed down at the child, not looking at him at all. Almost as if she couldn't. "I went insane," her jaw clenched. Despite the raw emotion in her voice, Guts couldn't help but be happy to hear it again.
"... So did I," Guts admitted. He hadn't been mindless, but he was driven every bit as mad as she had been.
"I… it felt like a dream," Casca confessed, still not looking at him. "I still remember everything leading up to the Eclipse, but everything after that… It feels like it happened to someone else. Like I watched it happen instead of experiencing it." Dissociation, Guts figured. He had seen enough trauma to know that it was a common enough way to deal with it. "He betrayed us. He sacrificed us. He- he-" Casca clenched her jaw, the words going unsaid. He raped her.
Guts wished he had something profound to say. Something that would take all the pain away. If those words existed, then he didn't know them. There was a lengthy pause as Casca took a moment to process, her hands going underneath the boy's arms, lifting him up to get a better look at him. He gazed back, his expression vaguely curious.
"He looks like you," Casca said, still not looking at him. She remembered what took place when she was insane? "He looks exactly like I imagined he would." That probably wasn't by coincidence. Their child has been a spirit. With the wording of the wish, Gaunter likely modeled his body after her imagination. "Never thought I'd be a mom."
It felt like they were avoiding the issue, but Guts wasn't any more eager to address it than she was. Geralt, thankfully, seemed to have stepped out the moment he noticed Casca was awake, giving them a moment of privacy. "I never thought I'd be a father. Poor kid."
The kid was indecisive, it would seem, because he held his arms out to Guts, a gesture that he wanted to be picked up by him. After a moment of hesitation, he took the child from Casca, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before she looked away. Guts felt something squeeze his heart, but swallowed it down. The child rested in his lap and took notice of the armor that stirred in the shadows. He might be indecisive, but he had courage because his first reaction was to punch Guts' shadow to little effect. And if there was any doubt that he was of his blood, then those doubts died when he just tried again -- dropping a hammer fist on the wisps of black smoke that threatened to rise.
A chuckle escaped Casca and it was pure music to his ears. It ended all too soon. "Your eye… I thought you lost an eye," Casca muttered, and he saw her gaze going to his prosthetic. Her expression tightened at the sight of it. She would have seen it, Guts knew -- when he cut just enough to weaken the muscle before tearing the rest off.
It was then that Guts realized that she probably had no idea what was going on. They hadn't explained anything to her -- why would they, when she was locked away in her head? "I did. This Sphere -- this world… it rejects the influence of the Godhand. My eye came back. My arm didn't." The conversation felt stilted. Awkward. They danced around the heart of the matter, neither of them having the courage to address it.
Casca made a noise of acknowledgement, "After… you went away. I remember missing you. I… left that cave because I wanted to find you," she muttered and regret gave his heart a savage squeeze.
What could he say to that? "I was… I was insane, Casca. I still might be. After the Eclipse, I wanted blood and I didn't care whose it was. I hunted the apostles for years, and more often than not, those fights ended with me more dead than alive. I… didn't care. I just wanted to make him pay." Guts confessed, and apology in his voice. One that he didn't have the heart to say. He should have stayed with her in that cave. He should have stayed. He chose vengeance over her and without realizing it, he put her in danger.
But, in the depths of his own mind, he knew that being with him then would have been a danger in itself.
"The little guy saved us both. He made a deal on our behalf to bring us here. It's… an odd world, but outside of storybook monsters, it's nothing we haven't seen. I met some people-"
"Ciri," Casca interjected, as if she were realizing the name as she spoke it. "I remember liking her. She was kind. Triss too."
That made things easier. "They helped me help you. We hunted a wish granting creature. The wishes were granted, even if it wasn't by the creature we expected." To that, Casca looked at him with an expression that he was intimately familiar with -- a dull look of 'are you serious?' He received it often enough, but usually when he was being to sparse with his reports. A frequent thing when he left the raiders. She liked to know every detail, and.. well, only the important details ever mattered to him -- numbers, positions, and the damage dealt.
Their eyes met and Casca quickly looked away. She couldn't bare to look at him, could she? Guts couldn't blame her for that. Even with Gaunter wiping away the damage done to him at the hands of the apostles, he felt like he had aged a decade in the past two… near three years.
"I remember your wishes," Casca told him, drawing her knees up to her chest. The statement sounded damning to him. "You gave up vengeance. For me. Us." Guts wished he could tell what she thought of that from her tone alone, but it was impossible to decipher. It was flat and even. Completely neutral.
Guts looked down at his prosthetic, seeing his kid taking another swing at the shadows that churned beneath him. There was a look of intense concentration as he tried to whack it down each time it rose, as if he could beat back the rage with physical force. A rage that had become his backbone. The only reason he was still alive. He lived because he refused to die before Griffith -- he should have died a thousand times over, and he would have, without his rage and hate. And now he foreswore them both. "I did," he confessed after a moment.
"He killed them all," Casca whispered and Guts heard it. The hate in her voice resonated with his own.
"... He did," Guts agreed. He had imagined this conversation in his head a thousand times and it still hadn't prepared him for it.
"He betrayed us. Sacrificed us. For power. We… we gave everything to him. We risked everything for his ambition! We- we fought for him. Bled for him. Died for him! And when he was captured, we fought like hell to get him out!" Casca's voice rose with each word she spoke, her hands curling into fists at the blanket that covered her. She had kept the Band of the Hawk together after Griffith. For a year, they survived being hunted as bandits, waiting for an opportunity to break Griffith out of the dungeons.
Guts reached up and patted the kids head when he seemed alarmed at the yelling. "He did."
Casca was silent for a long minute, the tension growing thick as she chewed on that. He had two years to adjust to the idea, and even with that time, the hate burned just as hot. He just got better at focusing it. Casca didn't have that. So, it was no surprise when she said what she said. "You shouldn't have made that deal. You should have killed him!"
The words stung, but Guts expected them. If their positions had been reversed -- if he was the one driven completely mad and Casca took up a quest of revenge… he would have said the same thing if he learned she gave up a chance to kill Griffith for his sake.
"I had a choice between vengeance and you. I chose you. I don't regret it," Guts replied, and now Casca looked at him. Her eyes were wide, reddened with unshed tears. He could see that she wanted to argue. So, he continued. "I met him once after the Eclipse. An apostle was half dead and he went begging them for help." Casca went tense like a spring about to snap into action.
He paused, chewing on what he heard for a moment. It was a bitter pill then, and it still was now. "I attacked him. He did something to my brand, made me feel hellish pain, but I still managed to take a swing at him. I didn't come close before I got blasted away and he continued on without missing a beat. I hunted dozens of apostles over two years -- those monsters we saw in hell… and I didn't accomplish a damn thing, Casca. Not a damn thing." Guts admitted to her softly, forcing himself to say the words because it hurt.
It hurt more than words could say. Some apostles were more valuable than others -- Zodd came to mind -- but the fact of the matter was most of them were trash. They were fodder. Peasant levies. He killed them and the Godhand would simply make a deal with another desperate human willing to sacrifice their humanity for power. It was painful to admit, but Guts wasn't even sure he had so much as inconvenienced the Godhand.
"That--" Casca started to argue, her expression twisting before she abandoned the expression when she saw his. The sorrow he wore openly for the first time. "You… I'm… I'm not worth that. I'm not worth letting him get away with it." Her voice broke and Guts understood. It was rough hearing that your friends and family would go unavenged because of you. Even if there was only a sliver of a chance of it happening.
"That's for me to decide, not you. I decided that you were," Guts told her bluntly, knowing she needed to hear it. Let her blame him.
Casca's expression twisted -- at first, he thought it was a snarl, but when she buried her face into her hands, Guts knew she was fighting off frustrated tears. She was audibly fighting them off, but her breathing hitched when their kid decided to leap off of him and land on the bed. Guilt gripped Guts heart when the kid tried to hug Casca -- shamed for how he treated him in the past. Guilt for knowing that there was nothing else that he could do. And guilt that such a kind hearted kid ended up with them as parents.
"Can you really live with that?" Casca demanded, a sob in her throat as she tried to comfort the kid even as he was trying to comfort her.
Probably not. "I can," Guts said, not entirely sure if the words were a lie or not. They should be, but they didn't quite feel like a lie when they left his lips. His gaze fell to his prosthetic again, closing it into a fist. It felt odd having an arm again, even if he couldn't actually feel it. "It won't be easy. It'll probably be the hardest thing I've ever done, but I can. We're in a different Sphere and the Godhand aren't welcomed here. We'll never have to deal with them- him again. We… can build a life here."
The best revenge was a life well lived. Guts had heard the addatage before and it always struck him as one of the stupidest things he had ever heard. It reeked of the weak willed justifying their lack of ability to take revenge so they made excuses to help them sleep at night. And, perhaps, that was still true. Guts didn't have the ability to take revenge now if he ever had the ability at all. He gave it up.
"That's it then? We just leave it be? We let him live?" Casca questioned harshly, turning to look at him with a gaze that was sharper than any knife. It cut right through him.
His lips thinned, "I think we've given enough of our lives to Griffith. Let's give him no more." It was a struggle to say the words, and it was a struggle for Casca to hear them. She seemed stricken, a lone tear dripping down her cheek. He hated it. He hated it more than words could ever hope to convey, but he had picked her over vengeance and he would live with that choice. He would live with it for the rest of his life, however short it might be. And, if he had the opportunity to choose again, Guts knew he made the right decision even if it was a hard one.
Casca looked away, chewing on that for a long minute. She pulled the boy to her chest and he seemed right at home, basking in the warmth that Guts had scorned him from. "So… what? We… become mercenaries again?" We. A small fear that had worked its way into his heart was ripped out with the word. We.
"I'm under contract to unite most of the world under Ciri. Never really discussed my pay. Could become nobility. A duke," Guts informed with a hint of a smirk and through the sobs that were lodged in her throat, Casca laughed. It was the single most beautiful sound that Guts ever heard. He had feared that she would never laugh again after everything. Guts wasn't sure that he could laugh. Though, that could be he hadn't found any reasons to in the past few years.
"Duke Guts. You'll have to pick out a family name," Casca laughed, and laughed again when his expression twisted. He hadn't thought of that. "And house words. Everyone thought we rose high when we became knights. Planning to steal a name from them?" Casca asked, and he saw how fragile her smile became, but she was forging on.
"... I don't remember any of the names of the nobles we dealt with, much less their family names," he admitted. She didn't seem surprised by that. "Dunno. Shisu?" Guts reached into his memories for a name that meant anything to him.
Her brow furrowed, "Shishu?" She asked, prompting him and Guts… it wasn't a story that he ever told.
"Suppose you could call her my adoptive mother. Mine died after I was born… or before, depending on how you look at it. I would have died if it wasn't for her. Gambino and his band would have walked right by me if she hadn't picked me up and fought to keep me," Guts said, knowing the story because Gambino constantly reminded him. He had vague memories of her. He couldn't remember what she looked like, but he recalled her being kind and gentle.
"... I didn't know that," Casca admitted. To that, Guts shrugged. The past didn't matter. It was a weight that everyone had to carry, but it wasn't a burden that could be shared. "Duke Guts Shishu. Doesn't really roll off the tongue, but I suppose that's other people's problem." She remarked before her gaze slid to the boy that looked up at her. Her fragile smile fractured ever so slightly when she saw that even the boy saw through her act, but she pressed on. "And I suppose we need to pick a name for you."
The boy perked up, clearly liking the idea. "Most men name their children after their father?" She offered and Guts shook his head with a pinched expression. No. For more reasons than he cared to count, he wouldn't name the child Gambino.
"What about yours?" He offered, only to see the same expression appear on Casca's face.
"My father tried to sell me into sexual slavery to a noble," Casca told him. Hm. That was almost reassuring in a way -- no matter how terrible they were, they couldn't be worse than their own parents. "A member of the Hawk, then." Guts almost wanted to argue -- the names would have far too many memories attached to them. He swallowed the arguments, though -- he couldn't free his friends' souls from the deaths of hell, and he couldn't even avenge them. Honoring their name was the very last thing he could hope to do.
"Judeau," Guts voiced after a moment. The child perked up, looking at him.
Casca lifted the child up, "Judeau. Judeau Shishu. That rolls off the tongue better," she decided. It was the name of a man that meant a great deal to both of them. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was the most cunning. He was reliable and kind. When they needed help, before they even knew they needed it, Judeau was already there with a helping hand extended. If they managed to raise his namesake to be half the man that he was, then Guts could say they raised a fine man.
The young and freshly named Judeau seemed proud of his name, puffing out his face with a pleased expression. Then his gaze snapped to the door a split second before Guts heard the faintest of squeaks. Glancing over, he saw Puck trying, and failing, to sneak into the room through a parting in the door. He wiggled back and forth for a moment, fitting his fat head through the crack, and seemed thoroughly pleased with himself until he realized that they were all looking at him.
He straightened himself out, smithing his hair back, before plastering a wide friendly smile onto his face. "Hi! I'm Puck!" He introduced himself, and Judeau's gaze was locked onto him as he flew over, 'I'm- gak!" He cried out when Judeau hand snatched out, plucking Puck from the air. "You-you-you're d-definitely Guts' kid! S-such grip strength!" Judeau seemed amazed by Puck, staring at him in wonder.
Casca seemed baffled by his appearance, and he supposed that she didn't spend much time around him one way or the other. "That's Puck. A wind spirit. He's…" Guts trailed off, not entirely sure how he would describe their relationship now. Before, he would have called Puck a parasite for the sake of being hurtful. But, try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to call him that now. Puck had been there the entire time. It was Ciri that helped him at his lowest point, but Puck was the one that was there for it all. He stopped him from falling any further than he already had. Not to mention, he'd be dead a hundred times over without him.
"Best friend?" Puck croaked out to Guts flat look. "Friend? Friendly acquaintance?"
"One of those," he conceded and Puck looked at him with such wide eyes that they could have popped out of his head from shock. Or because Judeau was tightening his grip. Either or.
"I remember seeing you at times, but I wasn't sure if you were real or not," Casca said, setting Judeau down and accepting his offering when he passed a gasping Puck over to her.
"I'm a hundred percent real! And I'm glad that I finally get to talk to you! Guts has been really worried, you know? Not that he would ever say it! He's a big ol' grouch," Puck informed and he almost snapped at him to shut up, but he swallowed the words when Casca's fragile smile became more genuine. She cast a look in his direction and he wasn't sure what to do, so he offered a halfhearted shrug. She closed her eyes for a moment and… it was almost as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders.
"Thank you, Puck. For telling me. And making sure that he stayed in one piece. I can't imagine it was easy," she said in a gentle tone.
Puck scoffed, "For any other elf, it would've been impossible! Really, Guts can't do anything without me, but luckily for him, I like the cut of his jib." It was Guts' turn to roll his eyes at that, earning a look from Puck. "Oh! Before I forget! That whole war thing is happening downstairs, soo…" he trailed off and Guts swallowed a sigh.
That was the very last thing he wanted to hear. He would have preferred it if Puck had interrupted for the sake of interrupting. He almost refused, but Casca looked at him. "You should go, Guts. For the future." She told him and there was so much packed into those three words. For the future. When was the last time he gave a damn about the future?
He swallowed a sigh before standing, "What about you?" Would she be okay?
Casca gave him a soft smile, "I'll be fine. Little Judeau will keep me company and… I think I need time, Guts. To come to terms with the past." She admitted, and he was surprised by it. Mostly because he half expected her to do what he did -- deny it and bury it under rage.
He offered a nod and made to leave, Puck darting between Judeau's grasping hands, but Casca spoke up before he left the room. "I'm sorry," she told him.
"You don't have-" Guts began, reassurances dying on his tongue when he glanced at her.
"I'm sorry you had to go through it alone. I'm sorry that I wasn't here," Casca said, lowering her head as she hunched her shoulders, fighting off tears. That… hm. He knew her well. That wasn't a burden she was going to relinquish so easily. Telling her that it wasn't her fault wasn't going to reassure her. Worse, it wasn't like he could say that it wasn't hard carrying what happened alone -- something that no one else in the world could understand, even if he tried to explain.
So, he sighed and turned away from her. "You're here now, right? That's enough."
And it would be enough.
Rivals
- Location
- USA
Her father was doing his best to look regal and composed, but he had spent the better part of two days locked in a basement and, try as he might, he couldn't hide it. His hair was greasy, the perfumes he wore made the stench of sweat harsher, and his clothing was wrinkled and stained with dirt. All the same, he still held himself with composure, idly looking down at a map of Nilfgaard. "You're placing a great deal of faith in me," He made an idle remark that made Ciri regret having him brought up. Part of her wanted to just lock him in the basement and forget about him forever.
However, for better or worse, he was part of this plan. "I'm trusting your self-interest," Ciri corrected, crossing her arms as she leaned against a wall, refusing to even be seated at the same table as her father. "Even if you expect this plan to go up in smoke, you'll still send me after your enemies. The few rivals you have. Which, I imagine, would be the staunchest resistance to the unification and my place as your heir."
"Quite true," her father admitted, a core of pride in his voice. Ciri hated it. "Your education in etiquette is lacking, but you are adept at this, daughter. That is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a skill you shall need to cultivate if your reign shall be a long one." Ciri fought off a scowl, not wanting to give away how she felt to him. Especially when she found that she agreed with him.
Her lessons as a princess came back. Some lessons she was taught without realizing it. Her education was furthered by Yennefer and her life experiences on the Path. And, now, she was able to step back and see the cards she had up her sleeve. Triss and her secret society of mages. The riches of Novigrad. The vacuum of power in the North. Her own abilities. And, hopefully, Guts and that big sword of his. Just like a game of Gwent, she just had to play her hand correctly and she would win the game.
"Hm. Have you looked over the terms of your surrender?" Ciri asked, ignoring the remark. To that, her father's lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
"I have. I would recommend that they be harsher, my daughter. Rebellions are how a Lord pulls out the weeds in his garden. Increase the tribute to fifty thousand gold marks. I shall levy a tax on the merchant guilds and the nobility. Either they will rebel, giving you just cause to rip them up root and stem, or you will deplete their resources while strengthening your own." The tribute was to rebuild the North -- to rebuild homes, roads, and farmland that had been ravaged in the war. Thirty thousand gold marks had seemed excessive but more than enough to cover costs when paid out over the course of ten years.
Ciri worked her jaw, "And naturally, you will know who rebels and who will not."
Her father smiled, "Naturally."
He was good at this, Ciri hated to admit it. He was good at wielding power and influence. He knew exactly where to push and how hard to get exactly the reaction that he wanted. It was as if all the nobility of Nilfgaard were merely a puppet and he was expertly pulling their strings. Ciri knew that. She knew that she should listen to him. Despite his many and significant faults, Ciri did believe that he was being honest in this. His advice was valuable -- as valuable as the advice from Geralt about monsters. Whereas Geralt was a master Witcher, her father was a master politician.
She should heed his advice. Ciri knew that. She just didn't want to.
Then again, she didn't want to be queen.
"Fine. Have it your way -- fifty thousand gold marks in annual tribute," Ciri said, feeling like she lost even as she gained a truly ludicrous amount of money. "Any other concessions that need to be addressed?"
"Several, but they are minor things that needn't be addressed in the treaty itself. They'll take place during the negotiation," her father dismissed. A damn simple con, Ciri thought -- she would ask for a hundred thousand marks, her father would haggle her down to thirty- now fifty, she supposed. All to make the bitter pill go down easier. "Marriage."
Fuck.
"Marriage will secure your support with a great house, which will give you access to their soft and hard power. Armies, connections, gold. To be blunt, I did a rather excellent job culling the Northern nobility. You will not gain much from marrying into a Northern family," her father continued, ignoring her discomfort. "However, given the changes that you seek to implement and the disabilization of both realms, it would not do to have a single Nilfgaardian family rise too high. They would get ideas."
Distaste pooled in her stomach -- she would do what she must, but Ciri had to admit, she didn't much care for marriage. If not because of her preferences of girls to boys, then because it would infringe upon her freedom. The entire practice of marrying into families to have babies… It reminded her far too much of how horses or dogs were bred. All for that golden lineage.
Thankfully, she was rescued by the sound of footsteps. Heavy ones. Her heart leapt to her throat to see Guts was coming down the stairs -- he looked worse for wear, Ciri thought. His skin was covered in scars from the lightning that honestly should have killed him. Instead, he walked down the steps seemingly at peace for the first time since Ciri met him. Relief flooded her, "You're awake."
The image of Guts puking up black bile that consumed his armor, engulfing him in it, flashed in Ciri's mind. The armor was cursed, they knew that much. It fought them when they went to take it off and they couldn't even put it outside of Guys' room or it would collapse into shadows and reappear on him. She thought that armor would extract some terrible cost from Guts. That it would sap his strength, twist him in some way, but the man that came down the steps looked like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. A burden that had been crushing him since she knew him.
"Barely," Guts admitted, his gaze going to her father, who eyed him warily. "I can still swing my sword, though. That's enough." Ciri felt a flash of gratitude for Guts -- for no other reason than he was himself. Only he was able to come off of his death bed and feel fit to take on an army. It almost felt like the nation that would be built was going to be built around that strength of his. "Wanted to talk to you about that."
Ciri nodded, shrugging when Guts gestured to her father. He was… on their side. For better or worse. And as much as Ciri truly wanted to believe it was for worse, she also knew that this was impossible without him. "About what?"
"Price," Guts admitted, sounding almost sheepish. "Things… are different for me now. I was planning to leave the Sphere after this was done. To pay you and Triss back for helping Casca. That's impossible now. We'll be staying here and I have… to think about their future." Guts said, and Ciri heard what wasn't said. She missed the first half and a shit ton of context, but she heard the deal that was made.
Guts was doing this because he didn't expect to be sticking around. He made the deal and did his best to make sure that his life was the only one that was collected. Her lips thinned -- this was a request for Casca and the child. A silent child that seemed to be able to see right through you. A Source, as Yennefer described him.
An equal to the Elder Blood.
That was a genuinely terrifying prospect. She was hunted across the multiverse because of the blood in her veins and all her life, she was told her human blood polluted it. Weakened it. The child could be the equal to Lara Dorren in pure magical might, and she had made the impossible possible.
"Ever the mercenary, huh?" Ciri remarked, smiling ever so slightly as she shoved what she learned to the side. The Elder Blood scared her. She hated it ever since she found out what it was. It was a curse that seemed to bring untold amount of trouble her way simply because others wanted it. However, as a ruler, she feared it for other reasons. Sources were powerful, needing intense emotions to use their magic, and in that headspace… self-restraint was secondary. Ciri had proven that more than enough times. "What do you want?"
For what they were asking, a mountain of gold would be a steal.
"A dukedom. Or whatever it's called," he answered and her father sucked in a sharp breath and she could hear him biting his tongue.
Ciri simply blinked. "You… want to be nobility?" She asked, trying to imagine Guts dressed up like a puffed-up peacock making small talk around a hearth. The mental image nearly got a laugh out of her.
"Want is a strong word," Guts replied drily, glancing upstairs with his eyes. Ciri understood. She really did. She turned her attention to the map and considered the request -- she would grant him it. And, if she was honest with herself, it was nothing less than a relief to learn that he would be staying in this Sphere. In this kingdom that she would build. The future she would shape.
The road ahead was going to be a long one that was filled with danger and frustration. Having Guts there would make a heavy task a little lighter. Not to mention, she had few friends. It would be good to have one nearby. However, the question was where?
In a way, she was almost spoiled for choice. Her father had gutted the Northern nobility. It was going to be an absolute mess puzzling out blood claims and rights -- a problem for another day. There were a number of minor holdings that could easily fit the bill. Bloodlines that if they weren't wiped out by her father, then by the war that followed. If Guts asked for a barony, she could throw a dozen at him. Perhaps create a new title? Would that be too much of a pain in the ass?
Damn nobles and their damn bloodlines. Half of the nobility could claim to be related to each other and the other half would say they were on the off chance that they could gain land and titles from it. Her eyes searched the map, flowing over the kingdoms-
Hm.
"Temeria," Ciri muttered underneath her breath, her fingers brushing over the kingdom. Recently conquered. The nobility mostly scattered and replaced with Nilfgaardian nobility, and with a quick glance at the relevant names, a fair few of them were on Ciri's shit list. The ones that weren't had betrayed the kingdom for their rites, which put them on Ciri's other shit list. The people would be northern enough to welcome whoever cast off the Nilfgaardians, which would make Guts popular. Given the state some of the lands were in… well, a strong hand would be appreciated.
More than all of that, though, was the fact it was a rather large swath of land. Larger than Cintra had been, her mother kingdom, and it wasn't even on the map anymore after a mere ten years. It would be tempting to give Guts that land, but she would be taking the crown of Cintra for herself. She had done a little studying in the other Spheres, mostly to learn what made them so different from her home. The greatest lesson she had learned was that she needed territory that she had direct control over. The crownlands.
"That," her father spoke up, trying to keep the hesitation out of his voice, "is a kingdom, my daughter."
That bastard. He was trying to manipulate her. He thought that if she thought he was against the idea that she would assume that he was actually for the idea, so she wouldn't do it. Too damn bad. "A grand duchy. Congratulations, Guts, you're a grand duke."
Guts seemed less than enthused. "What's the difference between a grand duke and a regular duke?" He asked, and Ciri wanted to laugh. If not at the question, then by the expression of her father when he was doing his absolute best to not look like he just bit into a lemon.
It was a bit of a gamble, all things considered. There was no promise that her descendants and Guts would always get along. The princess with political training in her told her that she was creating a problem in the future. It was a lot of land. A lot of people. A hotspot for rebellion in the future. However… that was the future. To accomplish half of what she wanted to, she needed strong allies that could bully the naysayers into submission.
"I'll tell you later," Ciri decided and her father was impassive as ever. "Any other final orders of business before we get this started?"
He worked his jaw for a moment, his gaze flickering to Guts, before settling back on her. "You have your mother's heart but do not let it rule you. Be ruthless, my daughter. Your heart cannot bleed for every sad story nor can you hesitate in doing what must be done."
That was probably the closest he had ever come to wishing her well.
Words, deep down, she knew he was right.
"I'll see you in a few days," Ciri said, looking to Guts, who simply nodded to show that he was ready. She turned to the door, not missing Guts lift his battered blade onto his back. It had taken Yennefer make the blade light enough for her and Geralt to carry it. Seeing him effortlessly lift it with a single hand was a reassurance. Swallowing her anxiety, Ciri stepped out of the tavern to see that the people were gathered.
Geralt nodded at her. He supported her in this, but only because she chose it. Yennefer and Triss were both there, with a gulf between them, and Ciri could only hope that it mended soon. Zoltan, Dandelion, Dudu. A little less welcoming was Philippa, who radiated approval at the grab for power. And, lastly, the criminals and conspirators.
Dijkstra was openly glaring at Philippa, who seemed aware based on her slight smile. A Temerian man named Vernon Roche and his right hand woman named Ves. Looking at them… Guts and Vernon would either end up hating each other or be the best of friends. Everyone's eyes landed on her and she could feel the opportunity slipping out of her fingers.
This was her last chance to call this off. To say that it was a mistake. Once they did this… they were committed.
She swallowed that down. For better or worse, this was her path. She just had to not horribly fuck it up. "None of you strike me as the type to be wowed by flowery speeches, and I'm not one for giving them. So, I'll just say this -- this is the day that the world changes. For better or for worse is for history to decide. I have my plans and my intentions, as do all of you. You all have your own reasons for being here -- personal ambitions, loyalty, or you're just sick of the fighting like so many others. I can't promise you that the fighting will stop. In all honesty, we have a long road ahead of us but I've decided to walk this road to its bitter end."
Not exactly what Ciri would call rousing, but she did see that it had the desired effect. These people -- Witchers, witches, gangsters, spies, rebels, loyalists, and friends. None of them had a grand reason to be here. They wouldn't buy into it. For them, maybe beating back Nilfgaard was the hard part. For her, that's where the real work began.
"Are the men ready?" Ciri asked, and it was Vernon that answered.
"They are. A thousand and five hundred of them. Even with the element of surprise, we have little hope of beating an army ten times our number," he replied, his gaze sliding to Guts. Who Ciri thumped on the shoulder.
"That's why we're paying him the big bucks," Ciri stated with confidence and she could see no one understood her saying. However, the message was understood. "Let's get this done. It's going to be a long day ahead of us." Ciri decided, purposely walking off and the rest followed her with but a moment. The rioting in Novigrad had petered out, mostly due to the army that had been gathering outside of the city. They didn't know who it belonged to, and while it was a comparatively small force, it gave them something to be concerned about.
Still, a fair bit of damage had been done to the town and it would be some time before it got undone. She passed by the ruined remains of buildings -- some of them having been burnt down, others half demolished in the rampage. From the buildings she felt the eyes of people so destitute that they could only afford to stay in those ruined buildings upon her, watching her every move. Elves and dwarves who had escaped the race riots. Puck had saved a lot of lives with that act. More than he likely knew.
She stood a bit straighter underneath their eyes as they headed for the gate. It was for them, she reminded herself. For the helpless and marginalized -- for them, she would make a better future with her own two hands. The weight on her shoulders was immense, and the only consolation that she had was if she failed… well… it wasn't like things could get any worse for them.
It was a cold comfort, but a comfort all the same.
The gate opened for them, revealing the army that had been assembled. If she had to summarize them in a word… the word thugs came to mind. She saw some soldiers among them -- some wearing Tamerian colors. Others were wearing the colors of Redania. But, the vast majority were thugs. Gangsters and scum. This was her army, Ciri reflected for a moment. They just needed to hold things in place. A thousand and five hundred of them, and it would be Guts that did the heavy lifting. Every piece on the board was in place -- Dandelion had already composed a song. A good one too, if the snippets she heard him muttering under his breath was any indication.
What did she say? What would motivate a bunch of scoundrels and patriots? "FUCK NILFGAARD!" Ciri shouted out, throwing a fist in the air.
The simple declaration was met with roaring approval. The men cheered at the top of their lungs, united by a common enemy. Perhaps this public speaking stuff wasn't so difficult after all. Ciri looked to Yennefer, who was giving her a dry look.
"Fuck Nilfgaard," she echoed in a deadpanned voice before magic gathered around her hands. A light show, in essence. The people before her wouldn't know magic if it slapped them in the face. They would see sparks of light and assume what came next was a spell cast by the mages. While Yennefer and Triss pretended like they were weaving a spell, Ciri called upon the power in her blood. Drawing more of it, more than she ever dared to before out of fear of being discovered.
Her power sang, eager to obey her commands now that she used it. Her entire life, the Elder Blood was something to be feared. It had ruined her life, completely dashing what could have been upon the rocks. Ciri was happy with the life that she lived, but that didn't mean she couldn't mourn what could have been.
Time and space rippled around her like a stone tossed into a still lake, this time, the ripples were waves large enough to encompass everyone that stood before her. And it was as she felt a pull in her gut that she sensed it. A pair of eyes looking right at her, and her gaze snapped to the voyeur. She saw who it was clearer this time -- a man with dark blue eyes, pale skin, and a handsome face hidden behind a hawk helmet.
The figure reached out -- not at her, as was her first thought. His hand went to Guts, as if he were about to caress his cheek… or strangle him. It was impossible to tell because before the figure could make contact, his fingers dissolved like sugar in water. They struck an unseen barrier that rejected him, even if the fingers reformed. He didn't even look at his hand, only looking at Guts with an expression that made her stomach twist. His lips moved-
Then he was gone and they stood outside of Oxenfurt directly behind the Nilfgaardian army, who seemed startled by their abrupt arrival. For a moment, Ciri hesitated, reeling from what she saw. She was only broken out of it when Guts rushed forward, sprinting at the army when a small group of riders started to charge at them to buy some time for the Nilfgaardian to react. With two swings of his sword, he killed six men and their horses.
"For the North!" Ciri heard someone scream before the army surged forward, attacking the much larger army that wasn't entirely aware that they were under attack yet. They would now, though, with the thunderous roar of a thousand men. Even better, Ciri saw -- the Nilfgaardians had been in the middle of another assault on the city. They would be distracted and spread thin. A perfect opportunity. Those that did manage a response were smashed an within minutes, her small army was carving their way into the beating heart of the army.
However, Ciri couldn't shake off the feeling. Her gut was telling her that something was wrong. It was a sensation that she only felt when on a hunt, stepping foot into a monster's lair and knowing that she was fighting on enemy territory. The two armies clashed, Guts leading the way and carving through everyone he saw with that massive sword of his. She saw it more than she saw him, each time seinding up chunks of bodies still clad in their armor. The sight inspired the army and, with Guts at the helm, they felt invincible.
Then she felt it. A chill in the air that shouldn't be there. A chill that was accompanied by the sudden sound of galloping horses. Her stomach did flips inside of her, her gaze going to the sudden arrivals. She knew who they were even before she saw their spectral forms as they streamed over a hill and through a thin forest.
The Wild Hunt. They were here.
She clenched the sword in her hand with white knuckles, seeing the skeletal armor that the Wild Hunt wore clad in whitish mist that reminded her of frost. Some of the riders she recognized, because they rode at the head of a cavalry charge of more than a hundred. Her breathing hitched when the Wild Hunt slammed into the Nilfgaardians, cutting through them like a knife through cake, old fears resurging with a vengeance. At the very tip of the charge, however, she didn't see Eredin Bréacc Glas with his bone crown and skull mask.
Instead, above the sounds of war and death, she saw one man -- though, it was an honest challenge to call him a man. He stood closer to eight feet tall than not, his skin dark as well weathered leather with blood-red eyes. He only wore a loincloth, revealing rippling muscle that threatened to rip free of this skin that covered them with each swing of his sword that cut through men and horses with the same ease as Guts' Dragonslayer.
The Wild Hunt tore their way through the Nilfgaardians, heading straight to her army. So direct that there was little doubt in her mind who they were here for.
"GUTS!" The man yelled out, shouting the challenge across the battle and she knew Guts heard it. What she didn't expect was for him to shout back.
"ZODD!" Guts roared back, pivoting from the men that he had been killing to march straight to Zodd. Both men met in the middle, their blade raised high… and in a thunderous crash they began their most terrible battle.
There was only one word to summarize her thoughts.
"Fuck."
However, for better or worse, he was part of this plan. "I'm trusting your self-interest," Ciri corrected, crossing her arms as she leaned against a wall, refusing to even be seated at the same table as her father. "Even if you expect this plan to go up in smoke, you'll still send me after your enemies. The few rivals you have. Which, I imagine, would be the staunchest resistance to the unification and my place as your heir."
"Quite true," her father admitted, a core of pride in his voice. Ciri hated it. "Your education in etiquette is lacking, but you are adept at this, daughter. That is nothing to be ashamed of. It is a skill you shall need to cultivate if your reign shall be a long one." Ciri fought off a scowl, not wanting to give away how she felt to him. Especially when she found that she agreed with him.
Her lessons as a princess came back. Some lessons she was taught without realizing it. Her education was furthered by Yennefer and her life experiences on the Path. And, now, she was able to step back and see the cards she had up her sleeve. Triss and her secret society of mages. The riches of Novigrad. The vacuum of power in the North. Her own abilities. And, hopefully, Guts and that big sword of his. Just like a game of Gwent, she just had to play her hand correctly and she would win the game.
"Hm. Have you looked over the terms of your surrender?" Ciri asked, ignoring the remark. To that, her father's lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
"I have. I would recommend that they be harsher, my daughter. Rebellions are how a Lord pulls out the weeds in his garden. Increase the tribute to fifty thousand gold marks. I shall levy a tax on the merchant guilds and the nobility. Either they will rebel, giving you just cause to rip them up root and stem, or you will deplete their resources while strengthening your own." The tribute was to rebuild the North -- to rebuild homes, roads, and farmland that had been ravaged in the war. Thirty thousand gold marks had seemed excessive but more than enough to cover costs when paid out over the course of ten years.
Ciri worked her jaw, "And naturally, you will know who rebels and who will not."
Her father smiled, "Naturally."
He was good at this, Ciri hated to admit it. He was good at wielding power and influence. He knew exactly where to push and how hard to get exactly the reaction that he wanted. It was as if all the nobility of Nilfgaard were merely a puppet and he was expertly pulling their strings. Ciri knew that. She knew that she should listen to him. Despite his many and significant faults, Ciri did believe that he was being honest in this. His advice was valuable -- as valuable as the advice from Geralt about monsters. Whereas Geralt was a master Witcher, her father was a master politician.
She should heed his advice. Ciri knew that. She just didn't want to.
Then again, she didn't want to be queen.
"Fine. Have it your way -- fifty thousand gold marks in annual tribute," Ciri said, feeling like she lost even as she gained a truly ludicrous amount of money. "Any other concessions that need to be addressed?"
"Several, but they are minor things that needn't be addressed in the treaty itself. They'll take place during the negotiation," her father dismissed. A damn simple con, Ciri thought -- she would ask for a hundred thousand marks, her father would haggle her down to thirty- now fifty, she supposed. All to make the bitter pill go down easier. "Marriage."
Fuck.
"Marriage will secure your support with a great house, which will give you access to their soft and hard power. Armies, connections, gold. To be blunt, I did a rather excellent job culling the Northern nobility. You will not gain much from marrying into a Northern family," her father continued, ignoring her discomfort. "However, given the changes that you seek to implement and the disabilization of both realms, it would not do to have a single Nilfgaardian family rise too high. They would get ideas."
Distaste pooled in her stomach -- she would do what she must, but Ciri had to admit, she didn't much care for marriage. If not because of her preferences of girls to boys, then because it would infringe upon her freedom. The entire practice of marrying into families to have babies… It reminded her far too much of how horses or dogs were bred. All for that golden lineage.
Thankfully, she was rescued by the sound of footsteps. Heavy ones. Her heart leapt to her throat to see Guts was coming down the stairs -- he looked worse for wear, Ciri thought. His skin was covered in scars from the lightning that honestly should have killed him. Instead, he walked down the steps seemingly at peace for the first time since Ciri met him. Relief flooded her, "You're awake."
The image of Guts puking up black bile that consumed his armor, engulfing him in it, flashed in Ciri's mind. The armor was cursed, they knew that much. It fought them when they went to take it off and they couldn't even put it outside of Guys' room or it would collapse into shadows and reappear on him. She thought that armor would extract some terrible cost from Guts. That it would sap his strength, twist him in some way, but the man that came down the steps looked like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. A burden that had been crushing him since she knew him.
"Barely," Guts admitted, his gaze going to her father, who eyed him warily. "I can still swing my sword, though. That's enough." Ciri felt a flash of gratitude for Guts -- for no other reason than he was himself. Only he was able to come off of his death bed and feel fit to take on an army. It almost felt like the nation that would be built was going to be built around that strength of his. "Wanted to talk to you about that."
Ciri nodded, shrugging when Guts gestured to her father. He was… on their side. For better or worse. And as much as Ciri truly wanted to believe it was for worse, she also knew that this was impossible without him. "About what?"
"Price," Guts admitted, sounding almost sheepish. "Things… are different for me now. I was planning to leave the Sphere after this was done. To pay you and Triss back for helping Casca. That's impossible now. We'll be staying here and I have… to think about their future." Guts said, and Ciri heard what wasn't said. She missed the first half and a shit ton of context, but she heard the deal that was made.
Guts was doing this because he didn't expect to be sticking around. He made the deal and did his best to make sure that his life was the only one that was collected. Her lips thinned -- this was a request for Casca and the child. A silent child that seemed to be able to see right through you. A Source, as Yennefer described him.
An equal to the Elder Blood.
That was a genuinely terrifying prospect. She was hunted across the multiverse because of the blood in her veins and all her life, she was told her human blood polluted it. Weakened it. The child could be the equal to Lara Dorren in pure magical might, and she had made the impossible possible.
"Ever the mercenary, huh?" Ciri remarked, smiling ever so slightly as she shoved what she learned to the side. The Elder Blood scared her. She hated it ever since she found out what it was. It was a curse that seemed to bring untold amount of trouble her way simply because others wanted it. However, as a ruler, she feared it for other reasons. Sources were powerful, needing intense emotions to use their magic, and in that headspace… self-restraint was secondary. Ciri had proven that more than enough times. "What do you want?"
For what they were asking, a mountain of gold would be a steal.
"A dukedom. Or whatever it's called," he answered and her father sucked in a sharp breath and she could hear him biting his tongue.
Ciri simply blinked. "You… want to be nobility?" She asked, trying to imagine Guts dressed up like a puffed-up peacock making small talk around a hearth. The mental image nearly got a laugh out of her.
"Want is a strong word," Guts replied drily, glancing upstairs with his eyes. Ciri understood. She really did. She turned her attention to the map and considered the request -- she would grant him it. And, if she was honest with herself, it was nothing less than a relief to learn that he would be staying in this Sphere. In this kingdom that she would build. The future she would shape.
The road ahead was going to be a long one that was filled with danger and frustration. Having Guts there would make a heavy task a little lighter. Not to mention, she had few friends. It would be good to have one nearby. However, the question was where?
In a way, she was almost spoiled for choice. Her father had gutted the Northern nobility. It was going to be an absolute mess puzzling out blood claims and rights -- a problem for another day. There were a number of minor holdings that could easily fit the bill. Bloodlines that if they weren't wiped out by her father, then by the war that followed. If Guts asked for a barony, she could throw a dozen at him. Perhaps create a new title? Would that be too much of a pain in the ass?
Damn nobles and their damn bloodlines. Half of the nobility could claim to be related to each other and the other half would say they were on the off chance that they could gain land and titles from it. Her eyes searched the map, flowing over the kingdoms-
Hm.
"Temeria," Ciri muttered underneath her breath, her fingers brushing over the kingdom. Recently conquered. The nobility mostly scattered and replaced with Nilfgaardian nobility, and with a quick glance at the relevant names, a fair few of them were on Ciri's shit list. The ones that weren't had betrayed the kingdom for their rites, which put them on Ciri's other shit list. The people would be northern enough to welcome whoever cast off the Nilfgaardians, which would make Guts popular. Given the state some of the lands were in… well, a strong hand would be appreciated.
More than all of that, though, was the fact it was a rather large swath of land. Larger than Cintra had been, her mother kingdom, and it wasn't even on the map anymore after a mere ten years. It would be tempting to give Guts that land, but she would be taking the crown of Cintra for herself. She had done a little studying in the other Spheres, mostly to learn what made them so different from her home. The greatest lesson she had learned was that she needed territory that she had direct control over. The crownlands.
"That," her father spoke up, trying to keep the hesitation out of his voice, "is a kingdom, my daughter."
That bastard. He was trying to manipulate her. He thought that if she thought he was against the idea that she would assume that he was actually for the idea, so she wouldn't do it. Too damn bad. "A grand duchy. Congratulations, Guts, you're a grand duke."
Guts seemed less than enthused. "What's the difference between a grand duke and a regular duke?" He asked, and Ciri wanted to laugh. If not at the question, then by the expression of her father when he was doing his absolute best to not look like he just bit into a lemon.
It was a bit of a gamble, all things considered. There was no promise that her descendants and Guts would always get along. The princess with political training in her told her that she was creating a problem in the future. It was a lot of land. A lot of people. A hotspot for rebellion in the future. However… that was the future. To accomplish half of what she wanted to, she needed strong allies that could bully the naysayers into submission.
"I'll tell you later," Ciri decided and her father was impassive as ever. "Any other final orders of business before we get this started?"
He worked his jaw for a moment, his gaze flickering to Guts, before settling back on her. "You have your mother's heart but do not let it rule you. Be ruthless, my daughter. Your heart cannot bleed for every sad story nor can you hesitate in doing what must be done."
That was probably the closest he had ever come to wishing her well.
Words, deep down, she knew he was right.
"I'll see you in a few days," Ciri said, looking to Guts, who simply nodded to show that he was ready. She turned to the door, not missing Guts lift his battered blade onto his back. It had taken Yennefer make the blade light enough for her and Geralt to carry it. Seeing him effortlessly lift it with a single hand was a reassurance. Swallowing her anxiety, Ciri stepped out of the tavern to see that the people were gathered.
Geralt nodded at her. He supported her in this, but only because she chose it. Yennefer and Triss were both there, with a gulf between them, and Ciri could only hope that it mended soon. Zoltan, Dandelion, Dudu. A little less welcoming was Philippa, who radiated approval at the grab for power. And, lastly, the criminals and conspirators.
Dijkstra was openly glaring at Philippa, who seemed aware based on her slight smile. A Temerian man named Vernon Roche and his right hand woman named Ves. Looking at them… Guts and Vernon would either end up hating each other or be the best of friends. Everyone's eyes landed on her and she could feel the opportunity slipping out of her fingers.
This was her last chance to call this off. To say that it was a mistake. Once they did this… they were committed.
She swallowed that down. For better or worse, this was her path. She just had to not horribly fuck it up. "None of you strike me as the type to be wowed by flowery speeches, and I'm not one for giving them. So, I'll just say this -- this is the day that the world changes. For better or for worse is for history to decide. I have my plans and my intentions, as do all of you. You all have your own reasons for being here -- personal ambitions, loyalty, or you're just sick of the fighting like so many others. I can't promise you that the fighting will stop. In all honesty, we have a long road ahead of us but I've decided to walk this road to its bitter end."
Not exactly what Ciri would call rousing, but she did see that it had the desired effect. These people -- Witchers, witches, gangsters, spies, rebels, loyalists, and friends. None of them had a grand reason to be here. They wouldn't buy into it. For them, maybe beating back Nilfgaard was the hard part. For her, that's where the real work began.
"Are the men ready?" Ciri asked, and it was Vernon that answered.
"They are. A thousand and five hundred of them. Even with the element of surprise, we have little hope of beating an army ten times our number," he replied, his gaze sliding to Guts. Who Ciri thumped on the shoulder.
"That's why we're paying him the big bucks," Ciri stated with confidence and she could see no one understood her saying. However, the message was understood. "Let's get this done. It's going to be a long day ahead of us." Ciri decided, purposely walking off and the rest followed her with but a moment. The rioting in Novigrad had petered out, mostly due to the army that had been gathering outside of the city. They didn't know who it belonged to, and while it was a comparatively small force, it gave them something to be concerned about.
Still, a fair bit of damage had been done to the town and it would be some time before it got undone. She passed by the ruined remains of buildings -- some of them having been burnt down, others half demolished in the rampage. From the buildings she felt the eyes of people so destitute that they could only afford to stay in those ruined buildings upon her, watching her every move. Elves and dwarves who had escaped the race riots. Puck had saved a lot of lives with that act. More than he likely knew.
She stood a bit straighter underneath their eyes as they headed for the gate. It was for them, she reminded herself. For the helpless and marginalized -- for them, she would make a better future with her own two hands. The weight on her shoulders was immense, and the only consolation that she had was if she failed… well… it wasn't like things could get any worse for them.
It was a cold comfort, but a comfort all the same.
The gate opened for them, revealing the army that had been assembled. If she had to summarize them in a word… the word thugs came to mind. She saw some soldiers among them -- some wearing Tamerian colors. Others were wearing the colors of Redania. But, the vast majority were thugs. Gangsters and scum. This was her army, Ciri reflected for a moment. They just needed to hold things in place. A thousand and five hundred of them, and it would be Guts that did the heavy lifting. Every piece on the board was in place -- Dandelion had already composed a song. A good one too, if the snippets she heard him muttering under his breath was any indication.
What did she say? What would motivate a bunch of scoundrels and patriots? "FUCK NILFGAARD!" Ciri shouted out, throwing a fist in the air.
The simple declaration was met with roaring approval. The men cheered at the top of their lungs, united by a common enemy. Perhaps this public speaking stuff wasn't so difficult after all. Ciri looked to Yennefer, who was giving her a dry look.
"Fuck Nilfgaard," she echoed in a deadpanned voice before magic gathered around her hands. A light show, in essence. The people before her wouldn't know magic if it slapped them in the face. They would see sparks of light and assume what came next was a spell cast by the mages. While Yennefer and Triss pretended like they were weaving a spell, Ciri called upon the power in her blood. Drawing more of it, more than she ever dared to before out of fear of being discovered.
Her power sang, eager to obey her commands now that she used it. Her entire life, the Elder Blood was something to be feared. It had ruined her life, completely dashing what could have been upon the rocks. Ciri was happy with the life that she lived, but that didn't mean she couldn't mourn what could have been.
Time and space rippled around her like a stone tossed into a still lake, this time, the ripples were waves large enough to encompass everyone that stood before her. And it was as she felt a pull in her gut that she sensed it. A pair of eyes looking right at her, and her gaze snapped to the voyeur. She saw who it was clearer this time -- a man with dark blue eyes, pale skin, and a handsome face hidden behind a hawk helmet.
The figure reached out -- not at her, as was her first thought. His hand went to Guts, as if he were about to caress his cheek… or strangle him. It was impossible to tell because before the figure could make contact, his fingers dissolved like sugar in water. They struck an unseen barrier that rejected him, even if the fingers reformed. He didn't even look at his hand, only looking at Guts with an expression that made her stomach twist. His lips moved-
Then he was gone and they stood outside of Oxenfurt directly behind the Nilfgaardian army, who seemed startled by their abrupt arrival. For a moment, Ciri hesitated, reeling from what she saw. She was only broken out of it when Guts rushed forward, sprinting at the army when a small group of riders started to charge at them to buy some time for the Nilfgaardian to react. With two swings of his sword, he killed six men and their horses.
"For the North!" Ciri heard someone scream before the army surged forward, attacking the much larger army that wasn't entirely aware that they were under attack yet. They would now, though, with the thunderous roar of a thousand men. Even better, Ciri saw -- the Nilfgaardians had been in the middle of another assault on the city. They would be distracted and spread thin. A perfect opportunity. Those that did manage a response were smashed an within minutes, her small army was carving their way into the beating heart of the army.
However, Ciri couldn't shake off the feeling. Her gut was telling her that something was wrong. It was a sensation that she only felt when on a hunt, stepping foot into a monster's lair and knowing that she was fighting on enemy territory. The two armies clashed, Guts leading the way and carving through everyone he saw with that massive sword of his. She saw it more than she saw him, each time seinding up chunks of bodies still clad in their armor. The sight inspired the army and, with Guts at the helm, they felt invincible.
Then she felt it. A chill in the air that shouldn't be there. A chill that was accompanied by the sudden sound of galloping horses. Her stomach did flips inside of her, her gaze going to the sudden arrivals. She knew who they were even before she saw their spectral forms as they streamed over a hill and through a thin forest.
The Wild Hunt. They were here.
She clenched the sword in her hand with white knuckles, seeing the skeletal armor that the Wild Hunt wore clad in whitish mist that reminded her of frost. Some of the riders she recognized, because they rode at the head of a cavalry charge of more than a hundred. Her breathing hitched when the Wild Hunt slammed into the Nilfgaardians, cutting through them like a knife through cake, old fears resurging with a vengeance. At the very tip of the charge, however, she didn't see Eredin Bréacc Glas with his bone crown and skull mask.
Instead, above the sounds of war and death, she saw one man -- though, it was an honest challenge to call him a man. He stood closer to eight feet tall than not, his skin dark as well weathered leather with blood-red eyes. He only wore a loincloth, revealing rippling muscle that threatened to rip free of this skin that covered them with each swing of his sword that cut through men and horses with the same ease as Guts' Dragonslayer.
The Wild Hunt tore their way through the Nilfgaardians, heading straight to her army. So direct that there was little doubt in her mind who they were here for.
"GUTS!" The man yelled out, shouting the challenge across the battle and she knew Guts heard it. What she didn't expect was for him to shout back.
"ZODD!" Guts roared back, pivoting from the men that he had been killing to march straight to Zodd. Both men met in the middle, their blade raised high… and in a thunderous crash they began their most terrible battle.
There was only one word to summarize her thoughts.
"Fuck."
Zodd the imortal has joint the server
Enemies
- Location
- USA
It almost felt like coming home, Guts thought as he carved through enemy lines, the camp caught completely off guard by their sudden arrival. He had killed plenty in the past couple of years, but there was something different about killing on a battlefield. The Nilfgaardian troops were an organized lot. Disciplined. The chaos of a battle, especially a surprise attack, couldn't be understated. Guts had been on both ends more times than he could count.
On the receiving end, you knew nothing. You didn't know where the enemy was hitting you, how many there were, where they were coming from. You didn't know how well your side was holding up, where to look for instructions, or if you were winning or losing. That lack of knowledge on the battlefield was the reason armies cut and run or folded in the face of an ambush. It made sense. It was perfectly reasonable. The Nilfgaardians, however, were already starting to recover.
They had good commanders. Ones that were willing to throw meat in the grinder to buy time to organize a defense and counterattack. It was brutal bloody fighting, but it was the correct decision under normal circumstances.
These were not normal circumstances.
Guts had almost forgotten how easy it was killing men. Vengeful spirits and Apostles kept on coming at you until they were dead. Pure aggression, inhuman strength and speed. Men… Men were cowardly, when it came right down to it. Most were willing to pick up a sword and wave it around, but when it came to danger, they would hesitate. They didn't work together as they should have. And, because of it, Guts was in the belly of the army and they couldn't do anything to stop him. Whatever response they attempted to muster was shattered as he carved a line through it.
Fire burned as tents were set ablaze, filling the air with smoke. The Nilfgaardians assaulting the walls were trying to wheel themselves around. The success of the surprise attack had rippling effects because when you were in the middle of a camp, you felt safe. That safety was broken in a bad way when you suddenly found dozens of men slaughtering your countrymen with more on the way. It allowed smaller forces to defeat larger ones, but as Guts spotted the fine armor of a man trying to rally a defense…
It was too effective, Guts thought, cutting the man in half along with the head of his horse. The fine gilded armor didn't do anything to stop Dragonslayer. They were fighting an army of ten thousand. That ten thousand was spread out, but it was still ten to one. Even with the success of the attack, it should be getting stalled out by now by sheer force of numbers. Even if only two in ten stood to fight, that should be more than enough.
As the commander's corpse hit the ground, Guts heard it.
"GUTS!" The challenge rang out and his heart clenched. There was no mistaking that voice. It was impossible. It was seared into his memory. All the same, Guts first instinct was to deny it as he looked to the source just in time to see a sword flashing up with an arc of crimson and the top halves of three Nilfgaardians and one of Ciri's soldiers. There had been only one other warrior that had that raw strength.
His chest felt tight as he found himself marching towards the challenge. How could he be here? Why would he be here? He was done with Griffith. He sold his vengeance. So why was he here? Did Gaunter have something to do with this? Was this a damn test?!
With another swing, the path was clear. Guts saw him. One of the last faces that he ever wanted to see. He clenched his jaw until it felt like his teeth were going to shatter, a familiar rage rising up in his chest. "ZODD!" Guts roared, taking a step forward and swinging with all of his strength. Zodd was every bit as monstrous as he remembered as their blades clashed against one another, the sound echoing out with such force that the fighting around them quelled.
He stood a good two feet taller than him, wielding his blade that was little more than a massive cleaver the size of Dragonslayer with a single hand. His face was twisted into an inhuman snarl, his blood red eyes meeting his gaze. Guts felt the impact rattling his bones, but as soon as the blades met, Guts was attacking again. Again their blades clashed in a shower of sparks, and a furious roar ripped itself from Guts' throat.
Why was he here? How was he here? Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw those Skull Knight knock offs slaughtering everyone in sight -- did they do this? Did they bring him here? They were too afraid to attack him themselves, so they sent Zodd after him? That didn't make sense. It couldn't. Griffith was worlds away -- Why the fuck would he agree to send Zodd with them?
Fear pooled in Guts stomach as it shot down his spine, taking a step forward and driving Zodd back. His arms burned with effort already, but he barely felt it. Would it just be Zodd? What about the other Apostles? Were they here? Would they be here? Or would they be somewhere else?
Would they go to Novigrad?
Would they target Casca and Judeau?
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way!" Guts roared, punctuating each word with a swing. Dragonslayer was little more than a blur as he drove Zodd back, forcing him on the defensive, and based on his expression, that wasn't something he was used to. A member of the Wild Hunt flashed forward, attacking him from the side, only for Zodd to take a full step back and cut the rider in half.
"I will not allow interference!" Zodd boomed, making the Wild Hunt around them scatter. He looked at Guts, "Struggler. Fate is not yet through with you, even if you have escaped its noose."
Hate. It was a familiar comfort. It welled in his chest, flowing through his veins. It tasted bitter on his tongue and every thought darkened to blackness. Griffith. Griffith. Griffith!
"That armor-" Zodd began and Guts wasn't listening. A roar of hate ripped itself from his throat as he shot forward with speed he had never known before. The armor. He could feel it around him, rising from his shadow. His vision was unaffected as the helmet rose up to envelop his head, the dog shaped helm twisting into a snarl. Strength infused his body but Guts knew it was a poisoned chalice.
At that moment, he didn't care. He drank from it all the same and he was rewarded by sending Zodd back a dozen feet when his blade connected. Zodd managed to block the blow, his feet carving two trenches from the strength behind it. Zodd chose to dodge the next attack instead of trying to take it head on. That's how Guts knew he could fight Zodd blow for blow. Something he never thought possible when he first encountered Zodd.
Even amongst Apostles, there was something fundamentally inhuman about him. And now Gut's had reached those same heights. Humanity. He clung to it. He embraced it. But he'd throw it away in a heartbeat now. So long as it meant he could take Zodd's head. Griffiths. The Godhand.
"Why?!" Guts roared, their blades crashing together. Zodd gripped his sword with both hands, and the air trembled from the force behind the blows. Guts poured every ounce of strength he could behind them, determined to overwhelm Zodd. Zodd met him blow for blow, unwilling to back down even if his expression was one of excitement and elation. He was enjoying this. Guts hated him that much more and the more he hated, the more strength the armor gave him.
"The child is necessary for my Lord's plans. The woman shall be his Queen," Zodd answered. "You will find no peace, Struggler. Such is your nature. Not even in this world that rejects us." There was no sympathy in his voice, but he uttered the words with a grim apology. The words echoed around in his skull, as ominous as the prophecy that Zodd had once given him. They spoke of a dark future -- Griffith would never leave them be. He would never stop coming for them. There would be no peace. Even after he had sold his vengeance, there would be no peace.
Guts felt himself going insane. He could feel his grip on his sanity slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The hope that he once held was dashed upon the cold truth of reality. The price Gaunter extracted wouldn't just be the end of him. It would be the end of Casca and Judeau, because who could protect them once he was gone? As his sanity seemed to fracture, his armor filled the cracks. The black and poisonous hate that he wore seemed to fill him. Almost as if he was the armor and his body was merely the container.
"No. No," Guts snarled the word, driven into a blind rage. He fought like a wild animal. He could see it in his movements, but he didn't care. Dragonslayer screamed in agony with every single blow that Zodd met, his blade becoming chipped and dented. His surroundings faded away, almost as if the armor was putting blinders on him, forcing him to focus on nothing but the enemy before him. As he lashed out, swinging his blade with such speed, he heard the wind whistling as it was cut upon Dragonslayer's edge, he was rewarded with first blood.
Zodd blocked a blow but his arms buckled at the force, letting Dragonslayer carve a line across his chest as Zodd backed up a half step to avoid being bisected. Guts pressed the attack, flipping forward and using the momentum to deliver an overhead swing that Zodd was forced to block. Dragonslayer nearly destroyed the cleaver, if only Zodd hadn't tilted the blade so Dragonslayer skirted off the flat of the blade and into the ground. Zodd pivoted with shocking speed, changing his grip to deliver a sideways slash that Guts knew would cut him in half.
Letting go of Dragonslayer, Guts twisted in the air before his prosthetic hand dropped. Zodd's eyes widened a fraction before the cannonball erupted from the prosthetic, catching Zodd in the chest.
He tried, Guts wanted to scream the words at the top of his lungs, but the only thing that escaped him was a maddened howl that couldn't have come from a human. He tried. He tried! He tried to give it up! He tried to live in peace! He was willing to set his sword down and let Griffith get away with it. His betrayal. The Eclipse.
Why?! Why?! Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?! Why were they here? Why couldn't they be left alone?!
Zodd erupted from the dust and smoke, his dark skin scorched, but he wasn't the strongest Apostle for nothing. His blade flashed out and Guts managed to get Dragonslayer up in time to block the blow. Even still, he felt his body shatter from it as he was flung to the side with the same speed as the cannonball he had just shot. Bones shattered into pieces, but as soon as they did, his armor put him back together. Black spikes pierced his body, pushing the shattered pieces of bone together and reinforcing them.
With a spray of blood erupting from his armor, Guts twisted and drove Dragonslayer into the ground and braced his feet against it. The blade acted as a plow, carving through the dirt in a long trench, but it slowed him down. Blood dripped from every gap in his armor, glowing freely, but Guts didn't care. He couldn't care. He simply grabbed the hilt of Dragonslayer, staining the rags around the hilt crimson, and brought the blade up to take another attack from Zodd.
The armor was extracting its price from him. Guts could feel it. He felt himself becoming… less. The armor dug its hooks into him, consuming him, blackening every thought with mad hatred. A scream left his lips as he clashed with Zodd, who met his defiant roar with one of his own. Everything else faded away. The sounds of combat from the two clashing armies, the scent of blood and smoke in the air, even the sensation of his bones rattling inside of him -- all of it faded away. It all faded away until there was just him, Zodd, and his hatred.
Gritting his teeth, Guts pressed forward, meeting Zodd blow for blow. As the armor granted him strength for drinking from its poisoned chalice, Guts found himself driving Zodd back. The counters, blocks, and dodges got narrower and narrower until Dragonslayer found purchase. A scrape that would barely get a drop of blood even if you squeezed it. The second scrape was deeper. The third was a gash across his bicep. And the fourth nearly took his head off.
Zodd snarled. A monsterous sound echoed out, his injuries steaming as hot blood seeped from them. His body grew a half foot, then another. It was a far slower transformation than Guts last saw. It was as if he were fighting to draw out his true form to match Guts. And, in response, Guts drank deeper from the chalice. Dragonslayer lashed out, batting away the cleaver before going for a feint. Zodd lunged and Guts pivoted, another cannonball clambering onto his prosthetic. With an explosion that rang in his ears, it shot out, giving Guts a burst of momentum to catch Zodd in the forearm before he could withdraw the attack.
Dragonslayer ripped through flesh and bone rather than cut through it. All the same, in a splash of blood, Zodd was short an arm, even if Guts did fail to take his head with the backswing. Zodd jumped back, letting his blood fall freely onto the trampled grass of the Nilfgaardian camp. "To think it would be you," Zodd remarked, sounding like he was talking to himself rather than to Guts. His body began to swell in size, jumping from eight feet tall to nine, then eleven. His leathery skin became covered in black fur, his face contorting as a single lone horn jutted out of his forehead and his face became a snout. It looked like his other horn had been cut off.
The form once inspired terror in Guts. Now it simply made him see red. A wordless howl left him as he charged while Zodd crouched low. "I had hoped our duel would be one of equal footing rather than you attacking like a rabid dog," Zodd remarked before throwing himself forward and Guts swung Dragonslayer with all of his might, determined to kill Zodd. Then he would kill whoever came with him. Then he'd go back to his Sphere and slaughter every living being on the planet if he had to.
But, as Dragonslayer struck Zodd's horn…
It shattered.
The sound of his most trusted blade shattering to pieces echoed in Guts' ears like a bell as time seemed to slow to a crawl. The words of the Oxenfurt blacksmith whispered in the back of his mind -- the blade had a fatal crack in it. The lightning from the Djinn would have made it that much worse. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the blade shattered. In hindsight. All the same, Guts stared at the stump of a hilt that he was left with in disbelief. It didn't seem possible despite the blatant evidence before him.
The shock snapped him out of the blind fury he was lost in, and he became keenly aware of the pain that radiated through his body. More importantly, he became aware of the tip of Zodd's horn that was racing towards his chest. Guts responded on instinct, diving to the side as he lashed out with the crumbling blade, forcing Zodd to divert his attack or lose an eye. The moment that Zodd passed him by, Guts collapsed to a knee, surrounded by shards of Dragonslayer.
Godot was going to be furious with him. Of all the thoughts that could have entered his head, that was the one that did. It pierced the veil of the hate that tainted every thought.
Zodd didn't press the attack, choosing to look at him with curiosity. "Come to your senses, have you?" He questioned, his voice low and heavy.
He had, for better or worse. "What did the Wild Hunt offer for you to help them?" Guts found himself asking, looking down at the shattered remains of his sword laying in the grass. Every single muscle in his body radiated with pure agony. It went beyond mere torn muscles. The armor…
As the hound helmet retreated, Guts reached up to find that parts of his flesh had been consumed. The more he drank from the chalice, the more the armor had devoured him.
"I will not betray my Lord's confidence," Zodd replied, and Guts let out a scoff.
"I used to fear and admire you," Guts admitted, centering himself. Pain was just pain. So long as he was alive, he could fight. "You were the only thing that ever put the fear of God into me. And now… you know what he is. What he did in the name of his ambition. And you still choose to serve him." Guts pushed himself up on two feet. He gripped what was left of Dragonslayer with white knuckles, just now becoming aware of their surroundings.
Corpses. A lot of Nilfgaardian corpses. No Wild Hunt to be seen, or Ciri's army. The only people nearby were the ones that hadn't managed to flee in terror yet.
Where was Ciri? Geralt? The others?
"Strength requires the will to take it. Sacrifices have always been made in the name of ambition," Zodd replied and Guts spat out a mouth full of blood.
"That doesn't answer shit. Why do you serve him?" Guts asked, his gaze going to the cut off horn. How did that happen?
"He defeated me," Zodd admitted. "I was summoned before the Godhand, and he defeated me without the aid of his power within his realm." He didn't seem ashamed by it. "I gave him my loyalty. His will shall be done, whatever it might be."
Guts couldn't help it.
He laughed.
He threw his head back and for the first time since he could remember, he laughed uproariously. It was a laugh that came deep from the gut, and before he knew it, he was about to collapse again from the forces of the laughter. It was too familiar of a tale. It was exactly how Griffith recruited him and now Zodd was spouting the same bullshit that Guts used to say.
He laughed because it was so damn sad.
Zodd was exactly who Guts was when he met Griffith.
"What a bad joke," Guts chuckled, shaking his head, making Zodd narrow his blood red eyes. "You're more pathetic than I thought. I can barely stand the sight of you now. You're just following him because of a promise, warming yourself around his ambition without any dreams or desires of your own," He accused, leveling the shattered Dragonslayer at Zodd. Couldn't say it was looking at a mirror, but Guts understood Zodd now.
Probably better than he understood himself.
"... What of you then, Struggler?" Zodd growled, and Guts could hear that his words struck a mark. "What is your ambition now that you have castoff your vengeance?
He… "I want to be there," Guts confessed. A hope and a dream that he never let himself have any faith in. "I want to be there to show Judeau what it means to be a man. I want to see him grow up and have kids of his own. I want Casca to be there every step of the way. I want us to fight and bicker like we used to. I want her to have my back and I have hers."
He didn't want to die. It was a rather startling revelation to have after years of not caring if he did or not. He didn't want to live for the sake of vengeance. He wanted to live for the sake of living -- so he could see what the future might hold.
The shards of Dragonslayer around his feet began to stir. His shadow grew, connecting the pieces before they began to raise into the air while they fitted themselves together. Dragonslayer slowly began to reform before his very eyes, even if its surface wasn't unmarred. Where the blade shattered were clearly evident, yet they too were smoothed over when a gold-like substance began to fill them. The hilt was the very last piece of the sword that was needed when he let it go, and instead of falling to the ground, it floated to the reformed blade.
When the hilt was rejoined, the gold flashed, and with no other warning the blade fell back into his grip. Its weight was a reassurance and he never knew how frightening not having the blade could be until he found himself facing the prospect of going without it. He wasn't sure what happened, but he did know who was responsible. Gaunter. This must be his doing.
A small breath of relief escaped him as he turned his attention back to Zodd, who watched him with a deep frown and furrowed brow. "Such a life is not your fate, Struggler," Zodd said, his claws digging into the soft earth as Guts leveled Dragonslayer at the Apostle.
"Maybe not," Guts admitted. The odds were still stacked against him. Even now, he knew he was on his last legs. The armor still tried to claim him, to bring the poisoned chalice to his lips so he would fall prey to that same insane state once again. And he knew, until his dying day, that would be true. But struggling was what he did best, it seemed. He would fight against the armor even as he demanded its strength. He would struggle for the future and the life that he wanted.
It wasn't hope. It was a dream.
"I'm going to kill you, Zodd. It's not for anything that you've done or who you serve. I'm going to kill you because you're going to get in the way," Guts told him and Zodd's gaze searched him for a long moment, only the distant sounds of fighting and fear filling the silence.
"Even if you strike me down, there will be another," Zodd warned, not sounding opposed to such a fate.
"Then I'll kill them too," Guts replied, finding his peace with it. He was done with vengeance. It lost its hold over him. He had greater reasons to live his life now and he would only fight for the sake of that dream -- of a life with Casca by his side and raising their child. A dream where he helped Ciri build that world she talked about because he wanted to spare Judeau the horrors of this one. He would wield Dragonslayer for the dream of being able to finally set the blade down once and for all.
Zodd's nostrils flared, sensing the change in Guts. A change that had been brewing until it was finally realized when he was a single step from being too far gone. "If you do not fall to me this day, then I wish you luck in the battles to come, Struggler," Zodd offered, tensing and Guts knew that the final clash was coming. He was on his last legs. He couldn't afford a drawn out battle.
A single swing.
The battle would be decided with a single swing.
There was no signal, yet both of them found that they moved at the same time, leaping at each other with matching roars. The air stirred as they clashed in the middle, Dragonslayer meeting Zodd's horn once again…
And this time, it was Zodd's horn that broke. It gave way to Dragonslayer, and Guts pressed forward, his voice raw from the shout. Zodd was carried forward by his own momentum, their eyes meeting as his horn have way.
Zodd wore an expression of acceptance even as Dragonslayer bit into his neck and carved his head from his shoulders.
On the receiving end, you knew nothing. You didn't know where the enemy was hitting you, how many there were, where they were coming from. You didn't know how well your side was holding up, where to look for instructions, or if you were winning or losing. That lack of knowledge on the battlefield was the reason armies cut and run or folded in the face of an ambush. It made sense. It was perfectly reasonable. The Nilfgaardians, however, were already starting to recover.
They had good commanders. Ones that were willing to throw meat in the grinder to buy time to organize a defense and counterattack. It was brutal bloody fighting, but it was the correct decision under normal circumstances.
These were not normal circumstances.
Guts had almost forgotten how easy it was killing men. Vengeful spirits and Apostles kept on coming at you until they were dead. Pure aggression, inhuman strength and speed. Men… Men were cowardly, when it came right down to it. Most were willing to pick up a sword and wave it around, but when it came to danger, they would hesitate. They didn't work together as they should have. And, because of it, Guts was in the belly of the army and they couldn't do anything to stop him. Whatever response they attempted to muster was shattered as he carved a line through it.
Fire burned as tents were set ablaze, filling the air with smoke. The Nilfgaardians assaulting the walls were trying to wheel themselves around. The success of the surprise attack had rippling effects because when you were in the middle of a camp, you felt safe. That safety was broken in a bad way when you suddenly found dozens of men slaughtering your countrymen with more on the way. It allowed smaller forces to defeat larger ones, but as Guts spotted the fine armor of a man trying to rally a defense…
It was too effective, Guts thought, cutting the man in half along with the head of his horse. The fine gilded armor didn't do anything to stop Dragonslayer. They were fighting an army of ten thousand. That ten thousand was spread out, but it was still ten to one. Even with the success of the attack, it should be getting stalled out by now by sheer force of numbers. Even if only two in ten stood to fight, that should be more than enough.
As the commander's corpse hit the ground, Guts heard it.
"GUTS!" The challenge rang out and his heart clenched. There was no mistaking that voice. It was impossible. It was seared into his memory. All the same, Guts first instinct was to deny it as he looked to the source just in time to see a sword flashing up with an arc of crimson and the top halves of three Nilfgaardians and one of Ciri's soldiers. There had been only one other warrior that had that raw strength.
His chest felt tight as he found himself marching towards the challenge. How could he be here? Why would he be here? He was done with Griffith. He sold his vengeance. So why was he here? Did Gaunter have something to do with this? Was this a damn test?!
With another swing, the path was clear. Guts saw him. One of the last faces that he ever wanted to see. He clenched his jaw until it felt like his teeth were going to shatter, a familiar rage rising up in his chest. "ZODD!" Guts roared, taking a step forward and swinging with all of his strength. Zodd was every bit as monstrous as he remembered as their blades clashed against one another, the sound echoing out with such force that the fighting around them quelled.
He stood a good two feet taller than him, wielding his blade that was little more than a massive cleaver the size of Dragonslayer with a single hand. His face was twisted into an inhuman snarl, his blood red eyes meeting his gaze. Guts felt the impact rattling his bones, but as soon as the blades met, Guts was attacking again. Again their blades clashed in a shower of sparks, and a furious roar ripped itself from Guts' throat.
Why was he here? How was he here? Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw those Skull Knight knock offs slaughtering everyone in sight -- did they do this? Did they bring him here? They were too afraid to attack him themselves, so they sent Zodd after him? That didn't make sense. It couldn't. Griffith was worlds away -- Why the fuck would he agree to send Zodd with them?
Fear pooled in Guts stomach as it shot down his spine, taking a step forward and driving Zodd back. His arms burned with effort already, but he barely felt it. Would it just be Zodd? What about the other Apostles? Were they here? Would they be here? Or would they be somewhere else?
Would they go to Novigrad?
Would they target Casca and Judeau?
"Get. Out. Of. My. Way!" Guts roared, punctuating each word with a swing. Dragonslayer was little more than a blur as he drove Zodd back, forcing him on the defensive, and based on his expression, that wasn't something he was used to. A member of the Wild Hunt flashed forward, attacking him from the side, only for Zodd to take a full step back and cut the rider in half.
"I will not allow interference!" Zodd boomed, making the Wild Hunt around them scatter. He looked at Guts, "Struggler. Fate is not yet through with you, even if you have escaped its noose."
Hate. It was a familiar comfort. It welled in his chest, flowing through his veins. It tasted bitter on his tongue and every thought darkened to blackness. Griffith. Griffith. Griffith!
"That armor-" Zodd began and Guts wasn't listening. A roar of hate ripped itself from his throat as he shot forward with speed he had never known before. The armor. He could feel it around him, rising from his shadow. His vision was unaffected as the helmet rose up to envelop his head, the dog shaped helm twisting into a snarl. Strength infused his body but Guts knew it was a poisoned chalice.
At that moment, he didn't care. He drank from it all the same and he was rewarded by sending Zodd back a dozen feet when his blade connected. Zodd managed to block the blow, his feet carving two trenches from the strength behind it. Zodd chose to dodge the next attack instead of trying to take it head on. That's how Guts knew he could fight Zodd blow for blow. Something he never thought possible when he first encountered Zodd.
Even amongst Apostles, there was something fundamentally inhuman about him. And now Gut's had reached those same heights. Humanity. He clung to it. He embraced it. But he'd throw it away in a heartbeat now. So long as it meant he could take Zodd's head. Griffiths. The Godhand.
"Why?!" Guts roared, their blades crashing together. Zodd gripped his sword with both hands, and the air trembled from the force behind the blows. Guts poured every ounce of strength he could behind them, determined to overwhelm Zodd. Zodd met him blow for blow, unwilling to back down even if his expression was one of excitement and elation. He was enjoying this. Guts hated him that much more and the more he hated, the more strength the armor gave him.
"The child is necessary for my Lord's plans. The woman shall be his Queen," Zodd answered. "You will find no peace, Struggler. Such is your nature. Not even in this world that rejects us." There was no sympathy in his voice, but he uttered the words with a grim apology. The words echoed around in his skull, as ominous as the prophecy that Zodd had once given him. They spoke of a dark future -- Griffith would never leave them be. He would never stop coming for them. There would be no peace. Even after he had sold his vengeance, there would be no peace.
Guts felt himself going insane. He could feel his grip on his sanity slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. The hope that he once held was dashed upon the cold truth of reality. The price Gaunter extracted wouldn't just be the end of him. It would be the end of Casca and Judeau, because who could protect them once he was gone? As his sanity seemed to fracture, his armor filled the cracks. The black and poisonous hate that he wore seemed to fill him. Almost as if he was the armor and his body was merely the container.
"No. No," Guts snarled the word, driven into a blind rage. He fought like a wild animal. He could see it in his movements, but he didn't care. Dragonslayer screamed in agony with every single blow that Zodd met, his blade becoming chipped and dented. His surroundings faded away, almost as if the armor was putting blinders on him, forcing him to focus on nothing but the enemy before him. As he lashed out, swinging his blade with such speed, he heard the wind whistling as it was cut upon Dragonslayer's edge, he was rewarded with first blood.
Zodd blocked a blow but his arms buckled at the force, letting Dragonslayer carve a line across his chest as Zodd backed up a half step to avoid being bisected. Guts pressed the attack, flipping forward and using the momentum to deliver an overhead swing that Zodd was forced to block. Dragonslayer nearly destroyed the cleaver, if only Zodd hadn't tilted the blade so Dragonslayer skirted off the flat of the blade and into the ground. Zodd pivoted with shocking speed, changing his grip to deliver a sideways slash that Guts knew would cut him in half.
Letting go of Dragonslayer, Guts twisted in the air before his prosthetic hand dropped. Zodd's eyes widened a fraction before the cannonball erupted from the prosthetic, catching Zodd in the chest.
He tried, Guts wanted to scream the words at the top of his lungs, but the only thing that escaped him was a maddened howl that couldn't have come from a human. He tried. He tried! He tried to give it up! He tried to live in peace! He was willing to set his sword down and let Griffith get away with it. His betrayal. The Eclipse.
Why?! Why?! Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?! Why were they here? Why couldn't they be left alone?!
Zodd erupted from the dust and smoke, his dark skin scorched, but he wasn't the strongest Apostle for nothing. His blade flashed out and Guts managed to get Dragonslayer up in time to block the blow. Even still, he felt his body shatter from it as he was flung to the side with the same speed as the cannonball he had just shot. Bones shattered into pieces, but as soon as they did, his armor put him back together. Black spikes pierced his body, pushing the shattered pieces of bone together and reinforcing them.
With a spray of blood erupting from his armor, Guts twisted and drove Dragonslayer into the ground and braced his feet against it. The blade acted as a plow, carving through the dirt in a long trench, but it slowed him down. Blood dripped from every gap in his armor, glowing freely, but Guts didn't care. He couldn't care. He simply grabbed the hilt of Dragonslayer, staining the rags around the hilt crimson, and brought the blade up to take another attack from Zodd.
The armor was extracting its price from him. Guts could feel it. He felt himself becoming… less. The armor dug its hooks into him, consuming him, blackening every thought with mad hatred. A scream left his lips as he clashed with Zodd, who met his defiant roar with one of his own. Everything else faded away. The sounds of combat from the two clashing armies, the scent of blood and smoke in the air, even the sensation of his bones rattling inside of him -- all of it faded away. It all faded away until there was just him, Zodd, and his hatred.
Gritting his teeth, Guts pressed forward, meeting Zodd blow for blow. As the armor granted him strength for drinking from its poisoned chalice, Guts found himself driving Zodd back. The counters, blocks, and dodges got narrower and narrower until Dragonslayer found purchase. A scrape that would barely get a drop of blood even if you squeezed it. The second scrape was deeper. The third was a gash across his bicep. And the fourth nearly took his head off.
Zodd snarled. A monsterous sound echoed out, his injuries steaming as hot blood seeped from them. His body grew a half foot, then another. It was a far slower transformation than Guts last saw. It was as if he were fighting to draw out his true form to match Guts. And, in response, Guts drank deeper from the chalice. Dragonslayer lashed out, batting away the cleaver before going for a feint. Zodd lunged and Guts pivoted, another cannonball clambering onto his prosthetic. With an explosion that rang in his ears, it shot out, giving Guts a burst of momentum to catch Zodd in the forearm before he could withdraw the attack.
Dragonslayer ripped through flesh and bone rather than cut through it. All the same, in a splash of blood, Zodd was short an arm, even if Guts did fail to take his head with the backswing. Zodd jumped back, letting his blood fall freely onto the trampled grass of the Nilfgaardian camp. "To think it would be you," Zodd remarked, sounding like he was talking to himself rather than to Guts. His body began to swell in size, jumping from eight feet tall to nine, then eleven. His leathery skin became covered in black fur, his face contorting as a single lone horn jutted out of his forehead and his face became a snout. It looked like his other horn had been cut off.
The form once inspired terror in Guts. Now it simply made him see red. A wordless howl left him as he charged while Zodd crouched low. "I had hoped our duel would be one of equal footing rather than you attacking like a rabid dog," Zodd remarked before throwing himself forward and Guts swung Dragonslayer with all of his might, determined to kill Zodd. Then he would kill whoever came with him. Then he'd go back to his Sphere and slaughter every living being on the planet if he had to.
But, as Dragonslayer struck Zodd's horn…
It shattered.
The sound of his most trusted blade shattering to pieces echoed in Guts' ears like a bell as time seemed to slow to a crawl. The words of the Oxenfurt blacksmith whispered in the back of his mind -- the blade had a fatal crack in it. The lightning from the Djinn would have made it that much worse. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the blade shattered. In hindsight. All the same, Guts stared at the stump of a hilt that he was left with in disbelief. It didn't seem possible despite the blatant evidence before him.
The shock snapped him out of the blind fury he was lost in, and he became keenly aware of the pain that radiated through his body. More importantly, he became aware of the tip of Zodd's horn that was racing towards his chest. Guts responded on instinct, diving to the side as he lashed out with the crumbling blade, forcing Zodd to divert his attack or lose an eye. The moment that Zodd passed him by, Guts collapsed to a knee, surrounded by shards of Dragonslayer.
Godot was going to be furious with him. Of all the thoughts that could have entered his head, that was the one that did. It pierced the veil of the hate that tainted every thought.
Zodd didn't press the attack, choosing to look at him with curiosity. "Come to your senses, have you?" He questioned, his voice low and heavy.
He had, for better or worse. "What did the Wild Hunt offer for you to help them?" Guts found himself asking, looking down at the shattered remains of his sword laying in the grass. Every single muscle in his body radiated with pure agony. It went beyond mere torn muscles. The armor…
As the hound helmet retreated, Guts reached up to find that parts of his flesh had been consumed. The more he drank from the chalice, the more the armor had devoured him.
"I will not betray my Lord's confidence," Zodd replied, and Guts let out a scoff.
"I used to fear and admire you," Guts admitted, centering himself. Pain was just pain. So long as he was alive, he could fight. "You were the only thing that ever put the fear of God into me. And now… you know what he is. What he did in the name of his ambition. And you still choose to serve him." Guts pushed himself up on two feet. He gripped what was left of Dragonslayer with white knuckles, just now becoming aware of their surroundings.
Corpses. A lot of Nilfgaardian corpses. No Wild Hunt to be seen, or Ciri's army. The only people nearby were the ones that hadn't managed to flee in terror yet.
Where was Ciri? Geralt? The others?
"Strength requires the will to take it. Sacrifices have always been made in the name of ambition," Zodd replied and Guts spat out a mouth full of blood.
"That doesn't answer shit. Why do you serve him?" Guts asked, his gaze going to the cut off horn. How did that happen?
"He defeated me," Zodd admitted. "I was summoned before the Godhand, and he defeated me without the aid of his power within his realm." He didn't seem ashamed by it. "I gave him my loyalty. His will shall be done, whatever it might be."
Guts couldn't help it.
He laughed.
He threw his head back and for the first time since he could remember, he laughed uproariously. It was a laugh that came deep from the gut, and before he knew it, he was about to collapse again from the forces of the laughter. It was too familiar of a tale. It was exactly how Griffith recruited him and now Zodd was spouting the same bullshit that Guts used to say.
He laughed because it was so damn sad.
Zodd was exactly who Guts was when he met Griffith.
"What a bad joke," Guts chuckled, shaking his head, making Zodd narrow his blood red eyes. "You're more pathetic than I thought. I can barely stand the sight of you now. You're just following him because of a promise, warming yourself around his ambition without any dreams or desires of your own," He accused, leveling the shattered Dragonslayer at Zodd. Couldn't say it was looking at a mirror, but Guts understood Zodd now.
Probably better than he understood himself.
"... What of you then, Struggler?" Zodd growled, and Guts could hear that his words struck a mark. "What is your ambition now that you have castoff your vengeance?
He… "I want to be there," Guts confessed. A hope and a dream that he never let himself have any faith in. "I want to be there to show Judeau what it means to be a man. I want to see him grow up and have kids of his own. I want Casca to be there every step of the way. I want us to fight and bicker like we used to. I want her to have my back and I have hers."
He didn't want to die. It was a rather startling revelation to have after years of not caring if he did or not. He didn't want to live for the sake of vengeance. He wanted to live for the sake of living -- so he could see what the future might hold.
The shards of Dragonslayer around his feet began to stir. His shadow grew, connecting the pieces before they began to raise into the air while they fitted themselves together. Dragonslayer slowly began to reform before his very eyes, even if its surface wasn't unmarred. Where the blade shattered were clearly evident, yet they too were smoothed over when a gold-like substance began to fill them. The hilt was the very last piece of the sword that was needed when he let it go, and instead of falling to the ground, it floated to the reformed blade.
When the hilt was rejoined, the gold flashed, and with no other warning the blade fell back into his grip. Its weight was a reassurance and he never knew how frightening not having the blade could be until he found himself facing the prospect of going without it. He wasn't sure what happened, but he did know who was responsible. Gaunter. This must be his doing.
A small breath of relief escaped him as he turned his attention back to Zodd, who watched him with a deep frown and furrowed brow. "Such a life is not your fate, Struggler," Zodd said, his claws digging into the soft earth as Guts leveled Dragonslayer at the Apostle.
"Maybe not," Guts admitted. The odds were still stacked against him. Even now, he knew he was on his last legs. The armor still tried to claim him, to bring the poisoned chalice to his lips so he would fall prey to that same insane state once again. And he knew, until his dying day, that would be true. But struggling was what he did best, it seemed. He would fight against the armor even as he demanded its strength. He would struggle for the future and the life that he wanted.
It wasn't hope. It was a dream.
"I'm going to kill you, Zodd. It's not for anything that you've done or who you serve. I'm going to kill you because you're going to get in the way," Guts told him and Zodd's gaze searched him for a long moment, only the distant sounds of fighting and fear filling the silence.
"Even if you strike me down, there will be another," Zodd warned, not sounding opposed to such a fate.
"Then I'll kill them too," Guts replied, finding his peace with it. He was done with vengeance. It lost its hold over him. He had greater reasons to live his life now and he would only fight for the sake of that dream -- of a life with Casca by his side and raising their child. A dream where he helped Ciri build that world she talked about because he wanted to spare Judeau the horrors of this one. He would wield Dragonslayer for the dream of being able to finally set the blade down once and for all.
Zodd's nostrils flared, sensing the change in Guts. A change that had been brewing until it was finally realized when he was a single step from being too far gone. "If you do not fall to me this day, then I wish you luck in the battles to come, Struggler," Zodd offered, tensing and Guts knew that the final clash was coming. He was on his last legs. He couldn't afford a drawn out battle.
A single swing.
The battle would be decided with a single swing.
There was no signal, yet both of them found that they moved at the same time, leaping at each other with matching roars. The air stirred as they clashed in the middle, Dragonslayer meeting Zodd's horn once again…
And this time, it was Zodd's horn that broke. It gave way to Dragonslayer, and Guts pressed forward, his voice raw from the shout. Zodd was carried forward by his own momentum, their eyes meeting as his horn have way.
Zodd wore an expression of acceptance even as Dragonslayer bit into his neck and carved his head from his shoulders.
If I recall, Apostles who were slain got dragged off by countless of souls of humans they killed as this was the price for throwing away their humanity to the Godhand.
Of course Zodd probably won't mind since it is inevitable after Guts had beaten him in battle.
Acheroraptor
Probably mortal
Man can you imagine being a soldier watching all this unfold, you would be missing mountains of context but dam if it isn't cool.
Poor soldier getting PTSD and needing a freaking drink.
The Apocalypse
- Location
- USA
Guts looked like death warmed over, the cursed armor he wore receding to reveal raw skin and a shock of white hair. He leaned heavily on his blade, whose cracks were filled with gold, nearly oblivious to the chaos that transpired around him. He stood like the eye of the storm, because not even the Wild Hunt had wanted to get involved in the battle. However, with his victory, Ciri could see the Wild Hunt pouncing while they saw him weakened.
Her mind was reeling as she darted between soldiers, both her own and Nilfgaardian. Geralt was a half step behind her, killing those that she left for him and covering her back. Her blade darted out, delivering killing blows with every stroke as she pushed towards Guts. The Wild Hunt shouldn't be here. Either this was some truly spectacularly shitty luck on her part, or this was a deliberate action. Did the Wild Hunt know about her plan? Had they been waiting for an opportunity to ambush her?
Most puzzling of all was their numbers. The Wild Hunt had their own methods of traversing Spheres -- if they didn't, then they wouldn't be here in the first place. However, those methods were limited. It took a powerful sorcerer with the right aptitude to even make it possible, and Ciri knew they had at least one such mage. Only they were limited to a dozen people at most.
The entire reason why they hunted her for the Elder Blood in her veins was because of the power within it. It would allow them to move hundreds, thousands, or even hundreds of thousands across Spheres en masse. So, how could they suddenly send over half a thousand members of the Wild Hunt? What changed? Something had to have, because if they had the capacity to do this earlier then they would have.
Ciri caught a glimpse of the body -- Zodd. His corpse had reverted to the titan of a man that had even dwarfed Guts. He and Guts knew each other. Could this be something from his Sphere? This Griffith fellow? She only had the framework of a story of what transpired during the Eclipse, but it seemed to be the only possible answer. As she broke through the line of fleeing Nilfgaardians, she saw the Wild Hunt deliver a charge, leveling their lances or great swords as a good dozen of them tried to take out Guts.
Space rippled around her and she lurched forward, reappearing to drive her blade into the throat of a member of the Wild Hunt. He gargled on a spray of crimson, and she yanked the reigns of his mount to the side, making him bump into another rider. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement, and when she turned to him fully, she saw Guts was charging the horsemen. His dog shaped helm covering his face, shadows rippling around him.
Ciri blinked back just in time to see the charge break upon Guts like a wave against a cliffside. Dragonslayer carved through horses and their riders along with their armor. The blade itself, despite it's incredible weight, was as quick as a whip and in three strokes of the blade that took place in the span of a blink of an eye, the dozen riders were dead. And in pieces. It was a sight to see. Guts just kept… going. She had thought he was on his last legs, only to find that he seemed even stronger and faster than she had ever seen him.
Yet, no sooner than their corpses hit the dirt, Guts once again leaned heavily on his blade. Dimly, he looked in her direction as she rushed to his side while Geralt caught up. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, but she swallowed them all when she saw the steel in his gaze. Instead, she addressed the problem at hand. "There's been a change of plan," Ciri decided. "We need to deal with the Wild Hunt."
"Griffith," Guts spat the name like a curse as he righted himself. He had come to the same conclusion that she did. It was just a question of what could be done with it. The Wild Hunt were… manageable, for lack of a better word, in the sense that Ciri knew how to deal with them. Their numbers were few when they chased her, but this… this was an invasion force, and the effects it had on the Nilfgaardian army couldn't be understated.
With more than a thousand, they had disrupted and hurt the besieging army. Yet, with just several hundred riders of the Wild Hunt, the Nilfgaardian army shattered like porcelain. The fighting was sporadic and only taking place where both armies clashed beforehand, but more members of the Nilfgaardian army were breaking off in a full undisciplined retreat.
Ciri knew herself. She couldn't handle hundreds of Riders. And deep down, she knew that this was merely the tip of the spear. A reality that she dreaded was rapidly taking form -- a possibility that hinged on her being the lynch pin no longer required her, or, rather, the blood in her veins.
The Aen Elle elves were coming for her home. To claim it. To conquer it.
And her brief stay in that Sphere taught her how disastrous such a thing would be for everyone not of the Aen Elle.
"We need to get back to Novigrad," Guts decided, standing tall despite his horrific injuries. He needed rest. He needed a healer. Yet he seemed as strong as he ever did. "Judeau. They're after you because you're a Source? They'll be after Judeau for the same reason," Guts growled, hefting his blade and readying himself. Her stomach did flips inside of her while her guts tied themselves into knots. She hadn't even considered the possibility.
Was it because of him? Did they already have him?
Ciri made a terrible general, she realized, because she didn't hesitate for a moment to reach out to Guts and pull upon the power in her blood. And it was only pure dumb luck that Geralt had caught up to her enough to lay a hand on her shoulder to be brought along. She abandoned the battlefield, content with the damage being done, even if it wasn't quite what she imagined. It was hardly a glorious victory that would ring out across the North, unifying the shattered kingdoms behind her, but it was enough. It would have to be because a far greater problem had arose.
As she pulled at the power in her blood, Ciri's vision went white as space and time rippled around her. She was looking for him this time -- the man that was being a colossal pain in her ass. Ciri didn't see him standing before them this time, but what she did see was a thread. A fine line that stretched across the vast universe. One end was attached to the Brand that rested on Guts' neck, while the other stretched off into the distance.
Space was her domain. It was hers. It was a fundamental right that belonged to her. It rippled like a still lake with a stone tossed in it, the incalculable vast distance between their Spheres, Ciri followed the thread to the Sphere. Guts' Sphere.
She saw him. Or, rather, them.
Griffith wearing that stupid looking bird helmet as he stood on top of the middle finger of a mountain sized hand that stretched upwards to the skies above where an Eclipse hovered in the sky. It wasn't the Sphere. Not exactly. It was a space around it… or within it? Ciri couldn't really be sure as her gaze locked with Griffith's, paying no mind to the others standing on the fingers of the hand. The Godhand. A little on the nose there.
"Fuck you," Ciri cursed, flipping them the bird. She couldn't interact with them beyond that. She was looking at their dimension through a window, and she would have to shatter it in order to reach in. However, the window was clear enough for her to look through and for them to see her.
With the message delivered, Ciri found herself back in Novigrad just in time to hear the shattering of wood. A tree felling had a very unique sound as the wood was splintered, pushed beyond its limits. An odd snapping and crackling sound. It filled her ears as the front of the Rosemary and Thyme collapsed inward as something colossal tore through the building as if it were made of paper mache.
Ciri tensed, ready to fight as a cloud of dust was kicked up, but she paused when she saw what had ripped through the front of the building that seemed to be on the verge of collapse based on the grinning wood. It was a dragon, as far as Ciri could tell. Only instead of flesh and blood, it was made of an odd crystalline material that had suffered a fatal crack as it laid in the building.
It was only when the dust cloud dispersed that she saw what happened to the monster -- the Apostle, as Guts had called them.
Judeau stood with his hand outstretched, as if he had pushed the dragon despite barely reaching its ankle. His blank expression was replaced with a small frown, and behind him was Casca who looked every bit as bewildered as Ciri felt. She wore a simple blouse and a pair of trousers, a saber in hand, torn between gaping at the fallen dragon and her child.
Judeau lowered his hand, "I don't like you." It was the first time Ciri had heard the child speak, but the air itself seemed to stir with an undercurrent of power a shiver raved down her spine, the power in the words not at all matching the youthful voice they were uttered with. Simply because they didn't feel like they came from a child.
The support beam lurched, the wood cracking as the dragon began to rise with the sound of minerals grinding together. Guts leapt into action, and Ciri was only a half step behind him. She blurred towards the dragon, darting between its legs, looking for a vulnerability to exploit. Ciri had no idea what Judeau did to the dragon, but there were spiderweb cracks that extended well beyond the point of impact, which proved to be its chest. Something Guts didn't fail to notice either as he went high, driving Dragonslayer into the cracks with downright monstrous strength because he nearly brought the remainder of the tavern down upon them when the dragon was knocked to the side.
Ciri felt a flash of genuine regret, knowing that she had to find a way to make this up to Dandelion somehow as the house collapsed on the fallen dragon.
"Guts!" Ciri heard Casca call out as he landed between them, Geralt at his side with his fingers twitching in preparation to form a sign. Now that they were outside of the building, Ciri got a larger view of the area to see that the road was an absolute wreck. People were still fleeing, telling Ciri that the battle hadn't started all that long ago, likely right when the Wild Hunt had attacked them. The only silver lining was that she didn't see any members of the Wild Hunt. Just ruined building, broken cobblestone, and tracks that marked the arrival of the dragon. "His body is tough. Strong as steel."
The rubble that landed on the dragon shifted, "Guts?" Ciri heard a rumbling from underneath as the dragon proved to be unharmed as the rubble slid off of it like water. "The forsworn enemy of Zodd? You yet live? Are you a coward that quit the field?" The dragon rumbled in a heavy tone, right itself to look down at Guts, who was unyielding in the face of the creature. "No. I smell Zodd's profane blood on your blade. He found his defeat at your hands."
The dragon sounded almost disappointed by that revelation.
Guts let out a snarl that barely sounded human but Ciri was distracted by a little hand touching her leg, and she looked down to see the frowning face of Judeau. This child really didn't understand the meaning of fear, huh? Because he looked at the dragon as if he wanted to put his foot so far up its ass he could use his teeth for clippers. He had also seemed to inherit Guts' indignant expression.
Then his eyes began to shine, as if the sun itself was pouring through them. Ciri didn't hear him speak, but she heard his voice -- not with her ears, but with her blood. The power within the child resonated with the Elder Blood in her veins, letting her know what Judeau desired.
For the dragon to go away. A simple childish desire backed with the power of a Source and her blood sang in response. His power echoed her own, making it swell like the tide. Distantly, Ciri was aware what Judeau was doing -- he was granting her power for her to shape and control. That was a distant revelation at best as she was completely swept up in the sensation. She tasted power on her tongue, her blood sang in delight while space and time rippled around her like a curtain she could peel back.
She saw it in a way that she never had before. Time… time was linear until you took a step away from it. As if it were a path that you could only go forward on, but the moment she escaped its boundaries, Ciri could see the intricate web of past, present, and even the future overlapping upon one another. She saw the Rosemary and Thyme while again, a large man wearing draconian armor approaching the front door.
She saw Judeau's power swelling -- pure, raw, power that surpassed her own in every way, except it was nothing but raw power. She was the Lady of Space and Time. They were hers. Every bit as much as her clothes and sword were hers. Judeau had no such claim, but his power was completely unrestrained in what it could be or what it was used for. She saw him wield it like a cudgel against… Grunbeld, hammering pure raw magical energy against his chest with such force that his thick crystal hide shattered upon impact.
Ciri saw her own arrival.
And she saw what transpired next.
It was an odd sensation, Ciri realized, as she raised a hand, mirroring her own actions in the future. It was enough to make her head spin, but she knew it would work. She could see every step of the path that she would take from the outside perspective she currently had on time. Even if she wasn't sure why it would work, Ciri knew that it would. As much as she knew that the sun would rise tomorrow morning because if she looked down the path a little, she could see the sunrise as sure enough as if it were rising here and now.
Time rippled around Grunbeld, her power singing as it was being used. Judeau wanted him to go away. He wanted him dead.
Guts would kill him. Ciri could see it, but as he was, it would be a hard fought battle. He would suffer for his victory, needlessly. Space was the part of her power that she used most frequently, but it was the lesser half of her power, Ciri realized as she brought forth an event from the future and put it in the past.
Grunbeld stood before her, tall, proud, if injured.
Then he laid on his side dead, his chest ripped open as Dragonslayer shattered his armor.
It was his fate in the future. The moment he set foot on the path that brought him into conflict with Guts, this was his fate. An inescapable conclusion. The only thing that Ciri did was move it up. She skipped the fight itself and went straight to the conclusion -- Grunbeld's death.
The very moment that his death was realized, Judeau removed his hand and Ciri doubled over. It wasn't that she felt weak or spent. Ciri felt like herself, as much she ever did, but she had just crashed down from the highest of highs to… normal. It felt like someone had scooped out her guts and sapped her strength, leaving her sweating bullets and standing on legs as feeble as a newborn fawn. Ciri gulped down air as everyone recovered from the shock of seeing Grunbeld stand tall only to immediately be dead in the span of a blink of an eye with no apparent cause.
When she collapsed to her knees, Judeau patted her on the back, like he was telling her 'good job.'
"Ciri, what did you just do?" Geralt asked her, crouching by her side. Ciri didn't have the breath to answer. Or the words, really. She simply gulped down air like a man dying of thirst in the desert, feeling strangely hollow as the power that sang in her veins slowly began to dwindle into silence.
Instead of answering, her gaze went to Judeau, who adopted his usual blank expression. His eyes were too bright. Too knowing. It was a little unnerving, Ciri thought, now she saw the depths of child's strangeness, though she was hardly in a position to throw stones. Her breathing caught in her throat when the child offered her a small hand to take. An offer? Or…
Ciri hesitated for but a moment before she took the offered hand. Power flowed through her veins once again, and she knew what she had to do. Not because of what she saw, but because she needed to know.
What came next?
The sun would set and the sun would rise, but as far as she could tell, that was the only thing that she knew for certain. Looking ahead was… different. Looking back, there was a single path -- every single decision that had ever been made that led to their current circumstances. From the Conjunction of Spheres all the way to this very second. Ciri was sure if she had the patience, she could watch the world's history unfold before her eyes. But, looking forward?
The paths diverged. A fork in the road, at first, then that fork branched out into a thousand different paths, and those branches became a million. Her brain throbbed between her temples as she tried to look at it, but it was just too… much. It was like trying to stuff an entire library into her brain all at once. The further she looked, the more the paths diverged.
And she wished that she could say they were radically different. They weren't. Actually, all but a handful of them were extremely similar.
An invasion that swept across the world heralded by Apostles and the Wild Hunt. The absolute domination of every sapient being, or their eradication. The kingdoms were thoroughly sapped of their strength, and they couldn't hope to muster a proper defense. Dwarves and elves would be enslaved. Humans and monsters would be eradicated. It filled her blood with ice to see that in the vast majority of the paths forward, the Sphere was lost.
Then her stomach started to fall as she looked even beyond that.
Ciri knew what the Aen Elle fled. The White Frost. An interdimensional calamity that caused a never ending winter that would freeze any world that it touched. The Sphere of Aen Elle was a destined victim of the calamity, which is why they sought her so desperately. However, they didn't understand what they were doing. Or, maybe they did, and they just didn't care.
Just like a path being formed in grass, the more you walked on it, the more defined the path became. A single traveler like herself? Unnoticed, in the grand scheme of things. But moving an entire society? Thousands upon thousands of people? That would create a defined path between two Spheres. A path that could be followed.
They were leading the White Frost right to this Sphere. For the elves, it mattered little. They would simply abandon this Sphere and travel to another, endlessly outrunning the calamity until there were no more Spheres to run to. For everyone else, it was the end. In a mere century, Ciri saw what laid ahead. A world of endless snow and frost with only ruins and corpses to mark the fact that civilization once was here.
The end of the world. It was coming. One way or the other.
Judeau let go of her hand before she was ready, and part of her wanted to snap at him. She nearly did until she tasted copper on her tongue and she realized that she had a substantial nosebleed. Ciri pinched it off, her head pounding. Her awareness expanded and some time must have passed because everyone else was gathered around her wearing expressions of concern.
Ciri knew she should reassure them. However, what came out of her mouth were words forged in steel.
"I know what we have to do."
Her mind was reeling as she darted between soldiers, both her own and Nilfgaardian. Geralt was a half step behind her, killing those that she left for him and covering her back. Her blade darted out, delivering killing blows with every stroke as she pushed towards Guts. The Wild Hunt shouldn't be here. Either this was some truly spectacularly shitty luck on her part, or this was a deliberate action. Did the Wild Hunt know about her plan? Had they been waiting for an opportunity to ambush her?
Most puzzling of all was their numbers. The Wild Hunt had their own methods of traversing Spheres -- if they didn't, then they wouldn't be here in the first place. However, those methods were limited. It took a powerful sorcerer with the right aptitude to even make it possible, and Ciri knew they had at least one such mage. Only they were limited to a dozen people at most.
The entire reason why they hunted her for the Elder Blood in her veins was because of the power within it. It would allow them to move hundreds, thousands, or even hundreds of thousands across Spheres en masse. So, how could they suddenly send over half a thousand members of the Wild Hunt? What changed? Something had to have, because if they had the capacity to do this earlier then they would have.
Ciri caught a glimpse of the body -- Zodd. His corpse had reverted to the titan of a man that had even dwarfed Guts. He and Guts knew each other. Could this be something from his Sphere? This Griffith fellow? She only had the framework of a story of what transpired during the Eclipse, but it seemed to be the only possible answer. As she broke through the line of fleeing Nilfgaardians, she saw the Wild Hunt deliver a charge, leveling their lances or great swords as a good dozen of them tried to take out Guts.
Space rippled around her and she lurched forward, reappearing to drive her blade into the throat of a member of the Wild Hunt. He gargled on a spray of crimson, and she yanked the reigns of his mount to the side, making him bump into another rider. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of movement, and when she turned to him fully, she saw Guts was charging the horsemen. His dog shaped helm covering his face, shadows rippling around him.
Ciri blinked back just in time to see the charge break upon Guts like a wave against a cliffside. Dragonslayer carved through horses and their riders along with their armor. The blade itself, despite it's incredible weight, was as quick as a whip and in three strokes of the blade that took place in the span of a blink of an eye, the dozen riders were dead. And in pieces. It was a sight to see. Guts just kept… going. She had thought he was on his last legs, only to find that he seemed even stronger and faster than she had ever seen him.
Yet, no sooner than their corpses hit the dirt, Guts once again leaned heavily on his blade. Dimly, he looked in her direction as she rushed to his side while Geralt caught up. There were a lot of things she wanted to say, but she swallowed them all when she saw the steel in his gaze. Instead, she addressed the problem at hand. "There's been a change of plan," Ciri decided. "We need to deal with the Wild Hunt."
"Griffith," Guts spat the name like a curse as he righted himself. He had come to the same conclusion that she did. It was just a question of what could be done with it. The Wild Hunt were… manageable, for lack of a better word, in the sense that Ciri knew how to deal with them. Their numbers were few when they chased her, but this… this was an invasion force, and the effects it had on the Nilfgaardian army couldn't be understated.
With more than a thousand, they had disrupted and hurt the besieging army. Yet, with just several hundred riders of the Wild Hunt, the Nilfgaardian army shattered like porcelain. The fighting was sporadic and only taking place where both armies clashed beforehand, but more members of the Nilfgaardian army were breaking off in a full undisciplined retreat.
Ciri knew herself. She couldn't handle hundreds of Riders. And deep down, she knew that this was merely the tip of the spear. A reality that she dreaded was rapidly taking form -- a possibility that hinged on her being the lynch pin no longer required her, or, rather, the blood in her veins.
The Aen Elle elves were coming for her home. To claim it. To conquer it.
And her brief stay in that Sphere taught her how disastrous such a thing would be for everyone not of the Aen Elle.
"We need to get back to Novigrad," Guts decided, standing tall despite his horrific injuries. He needed rest. He needed a healer. Yet he seemed as strong as he ever did. "Judeau. They're after you because you're a Source? They'll be after Judeau for the same reason," Guts growled, hefting his blade and readying himself. Her stomach did flips inside of her while her guts tied themselves into knots. She hadn't even considered the possibility.
Was it because of him? Did they already have him?
Ciri made a terrible general, she realized, because she didn't hesitate for a moment to reach out to Guts and pull upon the power in her blood. And it was only pure dumb luck that Geralt had caught up to her enough to lay a hand on her shoulder to be brought along. She abandoned the battlefield, content with the damage being done, even if it wasn't quite what she imagined. It was hardly a glorious victory that would ring out across the North, unifying the shattered kingdoms behind her, but it was enough. It would have to be because a far greater problem had arose.
As she pulled at the power in her blood, Ciri's vision went white as space and time rippled around her. She was looking for him this time -- the man that was being a colossal pain in her ass. Ciri didn't see him standing before them this time, but what she did see was a thread. A fine line that stretched across the vast universe. One end was attached to the Brand that rested on Guts' neck, while the other stretched off into the distance.
Space was her domain. It was hers. It was a fundamental right that belonged to her. It rippled like a still lake with a stone tossed in it, the incalculable vast distance between their Spheres, Ciri followed the thread to the Sphere. Guts' Sphere.
She saw him. Or, rather, them.
Griffith wearing that stupid looking bird helmet as he stood on top of the middle finger of a mountain sized hand that stretched upwards to the skies above where an Eclipse hovered in the sky. It wasn't the Sphere. Not exactly. It was a space around it… or within it? Ciri couldn't really be sure as her gaze locked with Griffith's, paying no mind to the others standing on the fingers of the hand. The Godhand. A little on the nose there.
"Fuck you," Ciri cursed, flipping them the bird. She couldn't interact with them beyond that. She was looking at their dimension through a window, and she would have to shatter it in order to reach in. However, the window was clear enough for her to look through and for them to see her.
With the message delivered, Ciri found herself back in Novigrad just in time to hear the shattering of wood. A tree felling had a very unique sound as the wood was splintered, pushed beyond its limits. An odd snapping and crackling sound. It filled her ears as the front of the Rosemary and Thyme collapsed inward as something colossal tore through the building as if it were made of paper mache.
Ciri tensed, ready to fight as a cloud of dust was kicked up, but she paused when she saw what had ripped through the front of the building that seemed to be on the verge of collapse based on the grinning wood. It was a dragon, as far as Ciri could tell. Only instead of flesh and blood, it was made of an odd crystalline material that had suffered a fatal crack as it laid in the building.
It was only when the dust cloud dispersed that she saw what happened to the monster -- the Apostle, as Guts had called them.
Judeau stood with his hand outstretched, as if he had pushed the dragon despite barely reaching its ankle. His blank expression was replaced with a small frown, and behind him was Casca who looked every bit as bewildered as Ciri felt. She wore a simple blouse and a pair of trousers, a saber in hand, torn between gaping at the fallen dragon and her child.
Judeau lowered his hand, "I don't like you." It was the first time Ciri had heard the child speak, but the air itself seemed to stir with an undercurrent of power a shiver raved down her spine, the power in the words not at all matching the youthful voice they were uttered with. Simply because they didn't feel like they came from a child.
The support beam lurched, the wood cracking as the dragon began to rise with the sound of minerals grinding together. Guts leapt into action, and Ciri was only a half step behind him. She blurred towards the dragon, darting between its legs, looking for a vulnerability to exploit. Ciri had no idea what Judeau did to the dragon, but there were spiderweb cracks that extended well beyond the point of impact, which proved to be its chest. Something Guts didn't fail to notice either as he went high, driving Dragonslayer into the cracks with downright monstrous strength because he nearly brought the remainder of the tavern down upon them when the dragon was knocked to the side.
Ciri felt a flash of genuine regret, knowing that she had to find a way to make this up to Dandelion somehow as the house collapsed on the fallen dragon.
"Guts!" Ciri heard Casca call out as he landed between them, Geralt at his side with his fingers twitching in preparation to form a sign. Now that they were outside of the building, Ciri got a larger view of the area to see that the road was an absolute wreck. People were still fleeing, telling Ciri that the battle hadn't started all that long ago, likely right when the Wild Hunt had attacked them. The only silver lining was that she didn't see any members of the Wild Hunt. Just ruined building, broken cobblestone, and tracks that marked the arrival of the dragon. "His body is tough. Strong as steel."
The rubble that landed on the dragon shifted, "Guts?" Ciri heard a rumbling from underneath as the dragon proved to be unharmed as the rubble slid off of it like water. "The forsworn enemy of Zodd? You yet live? Are you a coward that quit the field?" The dragon rumbled in a heavy tone, right itself to look down at Guts, who was unyielding in the face of the creature. "No. I smell Zodd's profane blood on your blade. He found his defeat at your hands."
The dragon sounded almost disappointed by that revelation.
Guts let out a snarl that barely sounded human but Ciri was distracted by a little hand touching her leg, and she looked down to see the frowning face of Judeau. This child really didn't understand the meaning of fear, huh? Because he looked at the dragon as if he wanted to put his foot so far up its ass he could use his teeth for clippers. He had also seemed to inherit Guts' indignant expression.
Then his eyes began to shine, as if the sun itself was pouring through them. Ciri didn't hear him speak, but she heard his voice -- not with her ears, but with her blood. The power within the child resonated with the Elder Blood in her veins, letting her know what Judeau desired.
For the dragon to go away. A simple childish desire backed with the power of a Source and her blood sang in response. His power echoed her own, making it swell like the tide. Distantly, Ciri was aware what Judeau was doing -- he was granting her power for her to shape and control. That was a distant revelation at best as she was completely swept up in the sensation. She tasted power on her tongue, her blood sang in delight while space and time rippled around her like a curtain she could peel back.
She saw it in a way that she never had before. Time… time was linear until you took a step away from it. As if it were a path that you could only go forward on, but the moment she escaped its boundaries, Ciri could see the intricate web of past, present, and even the future overlapping upon one another. She saw the Rosemary and Thyme while again, a large man wearing draconian armor approaching the front door.
She saw Judeau's power swelling -- pure, raw, power that surpassed her own in every way, except it was nothing but raw power. She was the Lady of Space and Time. They were hers. Every bit as much as her clothes and sword were hers. Judeau had no such claim, but his power was completely unrestrained in what it could be or what it was used for. She saw him wield it like a cudgel against… Grunbeld, hammering pure raw magical energy against his chest with such force that his thick crystal hide shattered upon impact.
Ciri saw her own arrival.
And she saw what transpired next.
It was an odd sensation, Ciri realized, as she raised a hand, mirroring her own actions in the future. It was enough to make her head spin, but she knew it would work. She could see every step of the path that she would take from the outside perspective she currently had on time. Even if she wasn't sure why it would work, Ciri knew that it would. As much as she knew that the sun would rise tomorrow morning because if she looked down the path a little, she could see the sunrise as sure enough as if it were rising here and now.
Time rippled around Grunbeld, her power singing as it was being used. Judeau wanted him to go away. He wanted him dead.
Guts would kill him. Ciri could see it, but as he was, it would be a hard fought battle. He would suffer for his victory, needlessly. Space was the part of her power that she used most frequently, but it was the lesser half of her power, Ciri realized as she brought forth an event from the future and put it in the past.
Grunbeld stood before her, tall, proud, if injured.
Then he laid on his side dead, his chest ripped open as Dragonslayer shattered his armor.
It was his fate in the future. The moment he set foot on the path that brought him into conflict with Guts, this was his fate. An inescapable conclusion. The only thing that Ciri did was move it up. She skipped the fight itself and went straight to the conclusion -- Grunbeld's death.
The very moment that his death was realized, Judeau removed his hand and Ciri doubled over. It wasn't that she felt weak or spent. Ciri felt like herself, as much she ever did, but she had just crashed down from the highest of highs to… normal. It felt like someone had scooped out her guts and sapped her strength, leaving her sweating bullets and standing on legs as feeble as a newborn fawn. Ciri gulped down air as everyone recovered from the shock of seeing Grunbeld stand tall only to immediately be dead in the span of a blink of an eye with no apparent cause.
When she collapsed to her knees, Judeau patted her on the back, like he was telling her 'good job.'
"Ciri, what did you just do?" Geralt asked her, crouching by her side. Ciri didn't have the breath to answer. Or the words, really. She simply gulped down air like a man dying of thirst in the desert, feeling strangely hollow as the power that sang in her veins slowly began to dwindle into silence.
Instead of answering, her gaze went to Judeau, who adopted his usual blank expression. His eyes were too bright. Too knowing. It was a little unnerving, Ciri thought, now she saw the depths of child's strangeness, though she was hardly in a position to throw stones. Her breathing caught in her throat when the child offered her a small hand to take. An offer? Or…
Ciri hesitated for but a moment before she took the offered hand. Power flowed through her veins once again, and she knew what she had to do. Not because of what she saw, but because she needed to know.
What came next?
The sun would set and the sun would rise, but as far as she could tell, that was the only thing that she knew for certain. Looking ahead was… different. Looking back, there was a single path -- every single decision that had ever been made that led to their current circumstances. From the Conjunction of Spheres all the way to this very second. Ciri was sure if she had the patience, she could watch the world's history unfold before her eyes. But, looking forward?
The paths diverged. A fork in the road, at first, then that fork branched out into a thousand different paths, and those branches became a million. Her brain throbbed between her temples as she tried to look at it, but it was just too… much. It was like trying to stuff an entire library into her brain all at once. The further she looked, the more the paths diverged.
And she wished that she could say they were radically different. They weren't. Actually, all but a handful of them were extremely similar.
An invasion that swept across the world heralded by Apostles and the Wild Hunt. The absolute domination of every sapient being, or their eradication. The kingdoms were thoroughly sapped of their strength, and they couldn't hope to muster a proper defense. Dwarves and elves would be enslaved. Humans and monsters would be eradicated. It filled her blood with ice to see that in the vast majority of the paths forward, the Sphere was lost.
Then her stomach started to fall as she looked even beyond that.
Ciri knew what the Aen Elle fled. The White Frost. An interdimensional calamity that caused a never ending winter that would freeze any world that it touched. The Sphere of Aen Elle was a destined victim of the calamity, which is why they sought her so desperately. However, they didn't understand what they were doing. Or, maybe they did, and they just didn't care.
Just like a path being formed in grass, the more you walked on it, the more defined the path became. A single traveler like herself? Unnoticed, in the grand scheme of things. But moving an entire society? Thousands upon thousands of people? That would create a defined path between two Spheres. A path that could be followed.
They were leading the White Frost right to this Sphere. For the elves, it mattered little. They would simply abandon this Sphere and travel to another, endlessly outrunning the calamity until there were no more Spheres to run to. For everyone else, it was the end. In a mere century, Ciri saw what laid ahead. A world of endless snow and frost with only ruins and corpses to mark the fact that civilization once was here.
The end of the world. It was coming. One way or the other.
Judeau let go of her hand before she was ready, and part of her wanted to snap at him. She nearly did until she tasted copper on her tongue and she realized that she had a substantial nosebleed. Ciri pinched it off, her head pounding. Her awareness expanded and some time must have passed because everyone else was gathered around her wearing expressions of concern.
Ciri knew she should reassure them. However, what came out of her mouth were words forged in steel.
"I know what we have to do."
Grunbeld The Great Flame Dragon.
He is also an honorable member of the Neo Band of the Hawk albeit he had a depressing backstory which eventually led him to activate the Behelit and become an Apostle.
And he has a cool greatshield cannon and a hammer.
Moments of Peace
- Location
- USA
There were times that Geralt would forget that he was a century old. It wasn't that old in the grand scheme of things -- he personally knew plenty of people twice, thrice, even four times his age. Still, some days he would wake up and feel like he was a fresh face on the Path, at the very start of his journey. That all of the notable events of his life happened in the span of a couple of years at most.
Then there were days like this, when he felt ancient. "Ciri, calm down and take a breath. What did you do?" He asked his adoptive daughter, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Blood dripped freely from her nose as she heaved for breath, fat drops of sweat forming on her brow before flowing down her cheeks. He hadn't seen her this spent since she was a little girl determined to run the gauntlet to the point of collapse.
He glanced over his shoulder at the dead creature. The crystal dragon was no more, revealing an abnormally large man with his chest and armor caved in. As if he had been hit by a swing from that monstrous sword Guts wielded. One moment, Geralt was preparing for a fight and the next the creature laid dead. He almost thought he blinked and missed the killing blow, but he didn't blink during a fight. The only clue to what happened was Ciri herself.
"We need-" Ciri tried to rise, but her legs gave out from underneath her. Geralt caught her, holding her up but Ciri was looking out to something in the distance. "We don't have much time. The Wild Hunt is invading."
Well… "Fuck," Geralt cursed, summarizing his thoughts rather efficiently.
"They found an alternative to me. I… I think it's already started," Ciri said, wiping blood on her forearm and only managing to smear what was on her face. "They wanted me to transport everyone at once, but with the way they have now… they can ferry over hundreds at a time." Ciri explained, looking at Guts. He seemed to understand some unspoken message because his jaw clenched and his expression became one of violence. His shadow began to swirl, itching to take the form of the cursed armor he now bore.
Moments like these, Geralt felt every injury and scar. He might not be old, but he sure wasn't young.
"We have to do something. I… I'll take us there, and we-" Ciri began but Geralt cut her off.
"You can barely stand. You aren't doing anything," Geralt told her in no uncertain terms. She also wasn't the little girl that hung off of every word he said anymore. Still, he trained her well enough for her to recognize her own limits.
Ciri's expression was one of fury, "People are dying." She snapped at him, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. There was too much good in Ciri.
"People are always dying. You can't save everyone and you know that. You won't he able to save anyone if you kill yourself with your power," he replied, his tone blunt. That got her to look away, telling him that she already knew. She just hadn't wanted to face it. He understood that better than most. Every decision he ever made had a thousand and one different consequences -- some good, some bad, and some he'd give his sword arm to take back. Inaction was the same beast, and the hardest part of the job had always been knowing that if he had been a little faster, or if he went one path instead of the other…
It was easy to have regrets as a Witcher. Which made one lesson above all the most important to learn.
"It's not your fault. You've done what you can, so take a breath so you can do more." He told her, looking out at Dandelion's tavern. It was a ruin now. Though, thankfully, Dandelion didn't seem to mind any, as he was just glad that his tavern was the only casualty.
"I hate it when you're right," Ciri muttered and Geralt turned his attention to Guts, who looked like he was struggling with that same lesson. Geralt wasn't entirely sure what his history was with this Griffith, but he had his suspicions. Those weren't important at the moment, however.
"Only when I tell unpleasant truths," he told her as Yennefer approached, looking thoroughly exhausted with the day. She was mad at him, Geralt knew, but even anger looked good on Yennefer. She smoldered. Angry as she might be, she was distracted by the situation.
"We clearly can't remain here. This city was a mess and that was before a dragon showed up," Yennefer decided, and with a wave of her hand a portal manifested. Geralt must have grimaced because Yennefer shot him a look. "Suck it up, Geralt. Nothing will happen to you." Ciri sounded too amused for her own good, but all the same, the two of them hobbled forward. After taking a bracing breath, they stepped through it.
The portal took them to a place that Geralt didn't recognize, but if he had to summarize it in a few words -- decrepit villa came to mind. It was clearly a villa fit for nobility, but it had been neglected. Cobwebs gathered in the corners, there was a fine layer of dust on everything, while every piece of furniture was covered in a white sheet. It was warm, though. Faint humidity. They were south of Novigrad, and a view of the mountains covered in a dense forest told him that they were more south east than straight south.
"Let's find you a bed," Geralf decided, each footstep leaving a trail in the dust.
"Geralt…" Ciri muttered, and now that the adrenaline had worn off, Geralt saw that she was completely spent. "We need to release Emhyr. Send him back to Nilfgaard to rally another army. We're… going to need it." She signed as Geralt was more dragging her than carrying her when her legs lost their strength. "The more time… they have, the more they can send over…"
"I'll take care of it," he reassured her, finding a room that had a couch the would serve as a bed. Pulling off the sheet and sending up about two decades worth of dust, he rolled her onto it to find that Ciri was fast asleep the moment her back touched the bed. Her breathing was deep and even with a faint whistle from the drying blood in her nose. Geralt swallowed a sigh as he looked down at her, taking a seat in a chair nearby after setting his swords aside.
Ever since his memories returned, it felt like he spent every waking moment on the move. First searching for Yennefer, then searching for Ciri while being just one step behind. Even when he found her, the hits just kept coming. The Djinn, planning to make her queen of the world, and now the Wild Hunt.
This was one of those moments that Geralt felt the aches in his bones, feeling strangely ancient. He lived a far more exciting life than most, and even this had been too much for him. He heard a squeak of the doors opening, and he smelled Yennfer's perfume even before she entered. Gooseberries. Yennefer strode into the room, overlooking Ciri as she slumbered with a concerned expression that she was trying to hide.
"It's not the first time she's pushed herself too far," Geralt reassured her. "She's always been fine with a little rest."
"That was before she altered time itself. Believe me, Geralt -- space is far easier to meddle with than time." Yennefer replied, waving her hand as magic swirled around it. Despite her sharp words, the concern did ease out of her face when she saw that Ciri was simply sleeping. Then, with another, the drying blood was cleaned from her face, eliminating the whistling from one nostril.
Hm. "Have you tried?" Geralt questioned, earning a sharp look from Yennefer's violet eyes.
"Of course," Yennefer seemed to dismiss the question entirely. "A dead end as far as magic goes. You'd need to dedicate hundreds of years to it to even see if it would be possible. Even with the Elder Blood, I didn't…" Yennefer trailed off with a sigh. Geralt thought of the child -- Judeau. Wasn't a coincidence that Ciri managed to do that for the first time when she clasped hands with him.
But there was little point in dwelling on the issue when they had so many others to dwell on. "The others?" Geralt prompted, making Yennefer's lips thin.
"Guts, Casca, and the… child are here. I sent Emhyr back to Nilfgaard… while Triss is organizing her mages," Yennefer answered, her tone clipped. "Ciri is right. The Wild Hunt are here in force for the first time. Small disruptive forces to pave the way for a full invasion, it would seem."
Not what he wanted to hear, but he wasn't surprised. "Is this place safe?"
"As it can be. The wards require some maintenance, but I had it prepared some years ago in case we-... if Ciri needed to hide," Yennefer caught herself with a rare slip of the tongue. To that, Geralt could only swallow a sigh.
Yennefer had heard the truth and found that she didn't care for it. And he knew her well enough to know that repeating the same point would only make her already thin patience with him wear out faster. Normally, when things got like this, they'd go their separate ways. Then, in a decade or two, they'd find their way together again.
Yennefer must have had the same thought because she spoke up. "The Djinn. I had a wish in mind when we were searching for it." She remarked, bringing his attention to her. Her jaw clenched, as if she regretted even bringing it up. "Time and time again we've been pulled apart and together. How much of that is because of what we feel towards one another? How much of that is the result of your wish?"
Geralt still recalled the wording of his wish. All too well. "Does it matter?" He asked her, and that caught her attention.
"Considering the past few decades, I would imagine you would at least be a little curious," she observed, sending him a measuring look. "Why wouldn't you be?"
"Because it wouldn't change anything. Not for me," Geralt told her as bluntly honest as he could manage. He was all too aware of what she meant. There had been moments, usually when they found themselves at each other's throats, that he wondered if he would care for her at all if it weren't for that damn wish.
In the end, losing his memories gave him his answer. His time with Triss was very different than his time with Yennefer. Very different. It was all… passion. A honeymoon. But, his time with Yennefer was the flame itself and sometimes, when dealing with fire, you ended up burned. It just wasn't reason enough to swear off dealing with fire ever again.
As usual, blunt honesty was Yennefer's weakness. A conflicted expression passed over her face, hesitation in her eyes before they narrowed into a glare. Not because of the past, but because she knew he had intentionally cranked up the charm. Something he rarely did with her. "Is that so?" And despite her evident annoyance, she wasn't dissatisfied with it.
"That's so. The others… they had their reasons for not telling me about you. I'll let them tell you what they were. Triss," Geralt said, and her gaze turned frosty. "She thought you were dead. She thought she was helping me."
"Helping herself more likely," Yennefer muttered, her tone bitter.
"Yen…" Geralt trailed off, leveling a look at the witch. Yennefer ignored it completely to bite her bottom lip as she waved him off.
"Save it, Geralt. I'll be informed of her reasons myself. As for you… you didn't remember me."
"I didn't remember anything," he corrected.
"Then you did," Yennefer prompted. He understood what she wanted to hear.
"When I did, I tried to find you," Geralt confirmed. That seemed to mollify Yennefer ever so slightly. He was throwing a few others under the wagon but… well… better them than him.
Silence filled the room, a far more comfortable silence than the frigid one Geralt had come to expect as of late. They weren't quite there yet, but things were getting better. They would get there yet.
…
Something had changed within her, Ciri realized, distantly aware of time passing even as she laid on a bed, completely oblivious to the world in a deep and heavy slumber. She could feel the seconds slipping through her fingers like so many grains of sand. The seconds turning into minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. All the while she was held underwater, unable to surface and return to consciousness.
More than time, she could feel space rippling through the Sphere. Even the smallest of ripples disturbed her, as if someone was casting stones into a still lake. She felt it -- Yennefer and Triss working together, their bonds not yet mended, but pushing that to the side. They opened and closed portals by the dozens, working more freely than they had dared to in a long time. Triss' mages helped them every step of the way -- some in exchange for favors, and others because they realized what was awaiting them.
They weren't the only ones. Almost rhythmically, Ciri felt the Wild Hunt slip into the Sphere, bringing dozens of riders at a time. Those riders were unleashed into the countryside -- it couldn't even be called raiding, because they took nothing. They simply destroyed the fringe settlements, burning homes, and forcing the few survivors to limp towards larger settlements. Already, the way for the invasion was being paved.
It didn't help things that Triss and Yennefer and even her father weren't prioritizing defensive measures. They were gathering an army, transporting soldiers to Novigrad. They were waiting for her, Ciri knew, but she still struggled to breach the surface and rejoin the waking world. Three whole days passed as she slumbered uselessly. The price to be paid for her meddling with Time. Even if it was hers, it didn't mean it wasn't dangerous. Just as her sword could lop off her own head as easily as it could another's if she used it recklessly.
All the same, she fought. She clawed at the surface, scratching at it as she tried to breach it. To wake up.
Then, without any warning, she suddenly did, with enough force that she all but launched herself out of bed and fell to the floor with a thump and a grunt. Ciri sighed, her body still aching from the strain and the bed rest, but her mind at least felt crystal clear. It took her a moment to find her legs, as three days of rest left them feeling like a newborn fawns'. With a little effort, Ciri managed to stand and wobble forward towards the door. Idly, she realized that she had been moved at some point because now she was in a bedroom that was fit for… well, a queen, she supposed.
By the time she reached the door, she felt a little more normal. And by the time she reached the end of the hall, Ciri felt as good as she ever did. Except for all the burning questions and the urgency that gripped her heart. Where was everyone, to start with?
Stepping into the loft, her gaze swept over it to find a rather luxurious manor. But, more importantly, she found someone familiar standing on a balcony as she spied on something that laid beyond it. Given the chaos of the past couple of days, Ciri thought that it was more than fair that it took her a moment to realize who she was. "Casca?" Ciri tried, making the women flinch ever so slightly, turning around as a hand went to the sword at her hip.
It was strange seeing Casca so… aware, Ciri realized. A welcomed strangeness, of course as the woman spoke to her for the first time. "You're awake?" Casca realized, letting go of the hilt of her sword. "You've been out of it for three days. Everyone was starting to get worried."
So it had been three days. "No need to worry. Just needed to catch up on some beauty sleep," Ciri managed to jest before realizing that she hadn't bothered to look in a mirror. Casca saw the bluster for what it was and gave Ciri a simple smile. "This… is our first time actually talking, so… I'm Ciri. Well, Cirillia, but the only ones who call me that are Yennefer and Geralt when they're mad." She was rambling a bit, but she couldn't help herself.
This was Casca. The woman who managed to claim Guts' heart, no matter what he might say about it.
"I remember you," Casca informed, sounding somewhat hesitant. "A little. The time I was… it's rather fuzzy. I get more snippets and impressions rather than memories." Well, that was good. And it was nice to hear that she had made an impression.
Approaching, Ciri saw what Casca had been spying on. Guts and Judeau stood in a clearing with Judeau wielding what seemed to be the largest stick he had managed to find. It was double his height, easily, and he wielded it with little grace as he took wild swings at Guts, who mercilessly parried and blocked them without taking so much as a step. He even went as far as to deliver small, harmlessly, attacks when Judeau dropped his guard too low.
Guts' expression, however, is what stole her attention. There was a tenderness in his gaze she hadn't seen in him before.
"Adorable. He's going to be a real danger when he gets older," Ciri remarked, a smile in her voice. In more ways than one. As a Source, he was power incarnate when it came to magic. And if he was half the swordsman Guts was… not to mention, both Guts and Casca were both beautiful people, so it stood to reason that Judeau would be too. A terror on the battlefield and a heartbreaker. Nobility, too.
"He's going to be a problem child if he's half as stubborn as me or Guts," Casca corrected but there was pride in her voice. And that very well might be the case because Judeau got right back up when Guts swept his little legs from underneath him and resumed his attacks with renewed vigor. "Thank you. For helping him," Casca suddenly said as she gazed out at the two, her expression… fragile, if Ciri had to call it something.
"I don't think I did that much," Ciri began, only for Casca to shake her head.
"I've known Guts a long time. After Griffith… did what he did, I know how devastated he must have been. The Band of the Hawk was his family. He would have been worse than he was before he met us," Casca remarked, catching Ciri's attention. Casca caught the look and elaborated. "I used to call Guts a mad hound. For longer than he deserved, admittedly. But, in the early days, Guts was a rabid dog that I thought was going to bite Griffith. He hated us, and he was every bit as dangerous to us as he was to our enemies… it took a long time for him to open up. And longer for me to see that he was a lot kinder than he liked to pretend."
Ciri was silent, thinking on her and Guts' first encounter. Guts had been gruff, certainly, but he never struck her as a danger. Then again, he had fought through the night to protect some kids, so as much as he would like to act like a prickly bastard, she saw right through it.
"What Griffith did drove me insane. And I know it must have destroyed Guts," Casca continued in a soft voice, watching as the other children joined the fray -- all of the orphans that Guys helped save -- armed with sticks as they sprinted to Judeau's aid. It was a memory to cherish, she decided, seeing Guts besieged by a half dozen kids who all wailed on him with sticks, his expression thoroughly indifferent as he seemed to be considering swinging back. "I wasn't there. I couldn't be. So, thank you for pulling him back from that."
Ciri scratched at her neck, hearing the earnest gratitude in Casca's voice. "Ah, well… it's not like he didn't help me. Not sure any of this would be possible without him."
To that, Casca simply smiled but said nothing. And, as much as Ciri hated to ruin the tender moment, she did have pressing questions that needed to be answered.
"Where is everyone?" Ciri questioned after a small pause, and Casca took a moment to answer as Guts seemingly had his fill of being used as a training dummy and started sweeping the legs out from underneath the children as if he were a broom. That was more inline with what she expected of him -- Guy's didn't really strike her as the type to let someone win.
"Novigrad, as far as I'm aware. Guts and I remained here to protect you until you woke up since we're also targets." Casca answered, and again, Ciri was proven right. Novigrad was the gathering ground. "Dandelion is also here, if you wish to talk to him."
She did, honestly. Mostly to apologize for what happened to his tavern. But Ciri knew that enough time had been wasted waiting on her. If she was right twice, then it stood to reason that most, if not all of what she felt was true. Meaning that there was an odd two thousand members of the Wild Hunt terrorizing the world, and while that number might seem small, it was nothing compared to the tens of thousands that were coming. She would just have to make it up to him when everything was said and done.
Casca seemed to understand, because she offered a small nod. Finally taking a step forward, she called out to Guts, "Ciri is awake. It's time."
Ciri felt genuine guilt seeing the hardened mask that she was used to seeing slide into place as Guts readied himself for the battles to come. Reaching out with a hand, Ciri grabbed hold of Casca before teleporting them both down onto the ground.
"You're finally up," Guts remarked, though he did sound faintly relieved.
All things considered, with all the abuse he went through… Guts was the one that should be held up in a bed, but he seemed just fine. "Sorry about that. Are you ready?" She asked him, knowing that she would need his strength. This wasn't a battle for a crown or a throne. This was a battle for the fate of the world.
Guts didn't even need to think about it. "I am," he answered. Then he looked down at Judeau, who looked up at him with wide eyes and a faint frown. Hesitantly, the most that Ciri had ever seen in Guts, he reached down to rub Judeau's head. "Work on your guard."
Ciri had to swallow a laugh but Casca didn't bother in favor of kneeling down and bringing Judeau in for a hug. "We'll be gone for just a little bit. Then we'll come home and we'll stay together. Forever and ever." She swore, and to an untrained ear, they might assume it was an innocent promise to their child to soothe their fears. But Ciri heard the steel in that promise. That no matter what, they would return, even if they had to rip a hole in space and time to get back to him.
Judeau simply nodded with stoicism that Ciri assumed came from Guts, returning the hug before giving his father a small nod. Then his gaze settled on her and Ciri felt the weight of expectation in that gaze.
He was no normal child. Not in heritage, not in ability, and not mentally.
"You can count on me," Ciri replied, answering that expectation. Judeau nodded, and took a step back. There were no tears or sniffles.
Reaching out to both Casca and Guts, she took a deep breath as she pulled at the power in her blood.
This was it.
The beginning of the end.
...
A little calm before the storm. Next chapter will be a big one that covers the battle with the Wild Hunt, and then we have an epilogue. I already have most of the battle written out, so Castoff will likely end sometime this month or early next month.
Then there were days like this, when he felt ancient. "Ciri, calm down and take a breath. What did you do?" He asked his adoptive daughter, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Blood dripped freely from her nose as she heaved for breath, fat drops of sweat forming on her brow before flowing down her cheeks. He hadn't seen her this spent since she was a little girl determined to run the gauntlet to the point of collapse.
He glanced over his shoulder at the dead creature. The crystal dragon was no more, revealing an abnormally large man with his chest and armor caved in. As if he had been hit by a swing from that monstrous sword Guts wielded. One moment, Geralt was preparing for a fight and the next the creature laid dead. He almost thought he blinked and missed the killing blow, but he didn't blink during a fight. The only clue to what happened was Ciri herself.
"We need-" Ciri tried to rise, but her legs gave out from underneath her. Geralt caught her, holding her up but Ciri was looking out to something in the distance. "We don't have much time. The Wild Hunt is invading."
Well… "Fuck," Geralt cursed, summarizing his thoughts rather efficiently.
"They found an alternative to me. I… I think it's already started," Ciri said, wiping blood on her forearm and only managing to smear what was on her face. "They wanted me to transport everyone at once, but with the way they have now… they can ferry over hundreds at a time." Ciri explained, looking at Guts. He seemed to understand some unspoken message because his jaw clenched and his expression became one of violence. His shadow began to swirl, itching to take the form of the cursed armor he now bore.
Moments like these, Geralt felt every injury and scar. He might not be old, but he sure wasn't young.
"We have to do something. I… I'll take us there, and we-" Ciri began but Geralt cut her off.
"You can barely stand. You aren't doing anything," Geralt told her in no uncertain terms. She also wasn't the little girl that hung off of every word he said anymore. Still, he trained her well enough for her to recognize her own limits.
Ciri's expression was one of fury, "People are dying." She snapped at him, and he met her gaze unflinchingly. There was too much good in Ciri.
"People are always dying. You can't save everyone and you know that. You won't he able to save anyone if you kill yourself with your power," he replied, his tone blunt. That got her to look away, telling him that she already knew. She just hadn't wanted to face it. He understood that better than most. Every decision he ever made had a thousand and one different consequences -- some good, some bad, and some he'd give his sword arm to take back. Inaction was the same beast, and the hardest part of the job had always been knowing that if he had been a little faster, or if he went one path instead of the other…
It was easy to have regrets as a Witcher. Which made one lesson above all the most important to learn.
"It's not your fault. You've done what you can, so take a breath so you can do more." He told her, looking out at Dandelion's tavern. It was a ruin now. Though, thankfully, Dandelion didn't seem to mind any, as he was just glad that his tavern was the only casualty.
"I hate it when you're right," Ciri muttered and Geralt turned his attention to Guts, who looked like he was struggling with that same lesson. Geralt wasn't entirely sure what his history was with this Griffith, but he had his suspicions. Those weren't important at the moment, however.
"Only when I tell unpleasant truths," he told her as Yennefer approached, looking thoroughly exhausted with the day. She was mad at him, Geralt knew, but even anger looked good on Yennefer. She smoldered. Angry as she might be, she was distracted by the situation.
"We clearly can't remain here. This city was a mess and that was before a dragon showed up," Yennefer decided, and with a wave of her hand a portal manifested. Geralt must have grimaced because Yennefer shot him a look. "Suck it up, Geralt. Nothing will happen to you." Ciri sounded too amused for her own good, but all the same, the two of them hobbled forward. After taking a bracing breath, they stepped through it.
The portal took them to a place that Geralt didn't recognize, but if he had to summarize it in a few words -- decrepit villa came to mind. It was clearly a villa fit for nobility, but it had been neglected. Cobwebs gathered in the corners, there was a fine layer of dust on everything, while every piece of furniture was covered in a white sheet. It was warm, though. Faint humidity. They were south of Novigrad, and a view of the mountains covered in a dense forest told him that they were more south east than straight south.
"Let's find you a bed," Geralf decided, each footstep leaving a trail in the dust.
"Geralt…" Ciri muttered, and now that the adrenaline had worn off, Geralt saw that she was completely spent. "We need to release Emhyr. Send him back to Nilfgaard to rally another army. We're… going to need it." She signed as Geralt was more dragging her than carrying her when her legs lost their strength. "The more time… they have, the more they can send over…"
"I'll take care of it," he reassured her, finding a room that had a couch the would serve as a bed. Pulling off the sheet and sending up about two decades worth of dust, he rolled her onto it to find that Ciri was fast asleep the moment her back touched the bed. Her breathing was deep and even with a faint whistle from the drying blood in her nose. Geralt swallowed a sigh as he looked down at her, taking a seat in a chair nearby after setting his swords aside.
Ever since his memories returned, it felt like he spent every waking moment on the move. First searching for Yennefer, then searching for Ciri while being just one step behind. Even when he found her, the hits just kept coming. The Djinn, planning to make her queen of the world, and now the Wild Hunt.
This was one of those moments that Geralt felt the aches in his bones, feeling strangely ancient. He lived a far more exciting life than most, and even this had been too much for him. He heard a squeak of the doors opening, and he smelled Yennfer's perfume even before she entered. Gooseberries. Yennefer strode into the room, overlooking Ciri as she slumbered with a concerned expression that she was trying to hide.
"It's not the first time she's pushed herself too far," Geralt reassured her. "She's always been fine with a little rest."
"That was before she altered time itself. Believe me, Geralt -- space is far easier to meddle with than time." Yennefer replied, waving her hand as magic swirled around it. Despite her sharp words, the concern did ease out of her face when she saw that Ciri was simply sleeping. Then, with another, the drying blood was cleaned from her face, eliminating the whistling from one nostril.
Hm. "Have you tried?" Geralt questioned, earning a sharp look from Yennefer's violet eyes.
"Of course," Yennefer seemed to dismiss the question entirely. "A dead end as far as magic goes. You'd need to dedicate hundreds of years to it to even see if it would be possible. Even with the Elder Blood, I didn't…" Yennefer trailed off with a sigh. Geralt thought of the child -- Judeau. Wasn't a coincidence that Ciri managed to do that for the first time when she clasped hands with him.
But there was little point in dwelling on the issue when they had so many others to dwell on. "The others?" Geralt prompted, making Yennefer's lips thin.
"Guts, Casca, and the… child are here. I sent Emhyr back to Nilfgaard… while Triss is organizing her mages," Yennefer answered, her tone clipped. "Ciri is right. The Wild Hunt are here in force for the first time. Small disruptive forces to pave the way for a full invasion, it would seem."
Not what he wanted to hear, but he wasn't surprised. "Is this place safe?"
"As it can be. The wards require some maintenance, but I had it prepared some years ago in case we-... if Ciri needed to hide," Yennefer caught herself with a rare slip of the tongue. To that, Geralt could only swallow a sigh.
Yennefer had heard the truth and found that she didn't care for it. And he knew her well enough to know that repeating the same point would only make her already thin patience with him wear out faster. Normally, when things got like this, they'd go their separate ways. Then, in a decade or two, they'd find their way together again.
Yennefer must have had the same thought because she spoke up. "The Djinn. I had a wish in mind when we were searching for it." She remarked, bringing his attention to her. Her jaw clenched, as if she regretted even bringing it up. "Time and time again we've been pulled apart and together. How much of that is because of what we feel towards one another? How much of that is the result of your wish?"
Geralt still recalled the wording of his wish. All too well. "Does it matter?" He asked her, and that caught her attention.
"Considering the past few decades, I would imagine you would at least be a little curious," she observed, sending him a measuring look. "Why wouldn't you be?"
"Because it wouldn't change anything. Not for me," Geralt told her as bluntly honest as he could manage. He was all too aware of what she meant. There had been moments, usually when they found themselves at each other's throats, that he wondered if he would care for her at all if it weren't for that damn wish.
In the end, losing his memories gave him his answer. His time with Triss was very different than his time with Yennefer. Very different. It was all… passion. A honeymoon. But, his time with Yennefer was the flame itself and sometimes, when dealing with fire, you ended up burned. It just wasn't reason enough to swear off dealing with fire ever again.
As usual, blunt honesty was Yennefer's weakness. A conflicted expression passed over her face, hesitation in her eyes before they narrowed into a glare. Not because of the past, but because she knew he had intentionally cranked up the charm. Something he rarely did with her. "Is that so?" And despite her evident annoyance, she wasn't dissatisfied with it.
"That's so. The others… they had their reasons for not telling me about you. I'll let them tell you what they were. Triss," Geralt said, and her gaze turned frosty. "She thought you were dead. She thought she was helping me."
"Helping herself more likely," Yennefer muttered, her tone bitter.
"Yen…" Geralt trailed off, leveling a look at the witch. Yennefer ignored it completely to bite her bottom lip as she waved him off.
"Save it, Geralt. I'll be informed of her reasons myself. As for you… you didn't remember me."
"I didn't remember anything," he corrected.
"Then you did," Yennefer prompted. He understood what she wanted to hear.
"When I did, I tried to find you," Geralt confirmed. That seemed to mollify Yennefer ever so slightly. He was throwing a few others under the wagon but… well… better them than him.
Silence filled the room, a far more comfortable silence than the frigid one Geralt had come to expect as of late. They weren't quite there yet, but things were getting better. They would get there yet.
…
Something had changed within her, Ciri realized, distantly aware of time passing even as she laid on a bed, completely oblivious to the world in a deep and heavy slumber. She could feel the seconds slipping through her fingers like so many grains of sand. The seconds turning into minutes, minutes to hours, and hours to days. All the while she was held underwater, unable to surface and return to consciousness.
More than time, she could feel space rippling through the Sphere. Even the smallest of ripples disturbed her, as if someone was casting stones into a still lake. She felt it -- Yennefer and Triss working together, their bonds not yet mended, but pushing that to the side. They opened and closed portals by the dozens, working more freely than they had dared to in a long time. Triss' mages helped them every step of the way -- some in exchange for favors, and others because they realized what was awaiting them.
They weren't the only ones. Almost rhythmically, Ciri felt the Wild Hunt slip into the Sphere, bringing dozens of riders at a time. Those riders were unleashed into the countryside -- it couldn't even be called raiding, because they took nothing. They simply destroyed the fringe settlements, burning homes, and forcing the few survivors to limp towards larger settlements. Already, the way for the invasion was being paved.
It didn't help things that Triss and Yennefer and even her father weren't prioritizing defensive measures. They were gathering an army, transporting soldiers to Novigrad. They were waiting for her, Ciri knew, but she still struggled to breach the surface and rejoin the waking world. Three whole days passed as she slumbered uselessly. The price to be paid for her meddling with Time. Even if it was hers, it didn't mean it wasn't dangerous. Just as her sword could lop off her own head as easily as it could another's if she used it recklessly.
All the same, she fought. She clawed at the surface, scratching at it as she tried to breach it. To wake up.
Then, without any warning, she suddenly did, with enough force that she all but launched herself out of bed and fell to the floor with a thump and a grunt. Ciri sighed, her body still aching from the strain and the bed rest, but her mind at least felt crystal clear. It took her a moment to find her legs, as three days of rest left them feeling like a newborn fawns'. With a little effort, Ciri managed to stand and wobble forward towards the door. Idly, she realized that she had been moved at some point because now she was in a bedroom that was fit for… well, a queen, she supposed.
By the time she reached the door, she felt a little more normal. And by the time she reached the end of the hall, Ciri felt as good as she ever did. Except for all the burning questions and the urgency that gripped her heart. Where was everyone, to start with?
Stepping into the loft, her gaze swept over it to find a rather luxurious manor. But, more importantly, she found someone familiar standing on a balcony as she spied on something that laid beyond it. Given the chaos of the past couple of days, Ciri thought that it was more than fair that it took her a moment to realize who she was. "Casca?" Ciri tried, making the women flinch ever so slightly, turning around as a hand went to the sword at her hip.
It was strange seeing Casca so… aware, Ciri realized. A welcomed strangeness, of course as the woman spoke to her for the first time. "You're awake?" Casca realized, letting go of the hilt of her sword. "You've been out of it for three days. Everyone was starting to get worried."
So it had been three days. "No need to worry. Just needed to catch up on some beauty sleep," Ciri managed to jest before realizing that she hadn't bothered to look in a mirror. Casca saw the bluster for what it was and gave Ciri a simple smile. "This… is our first time actually talking, so… I'm Ciri. Well, Cirillia, but the only ones who call me that are Yennefer and Geralt when they're mad." She was rambling a bit, but she couldn't help herself.
This was Casca. The woman who managed to claim Guts' heart, no matter what he might say about it.
"I remember you," Casca informed, sounding somewhat hesitant. "A little. The time I was… it's rather fuzzy. I get more snippets and impressions rather than memories." Well, that was good. And it was nice to hear that she had made an impression.
Approaching, Ciri saw what Casca had been spying on. Guts and Judeau stood in a clearing with Judeau wielding what seemed to be the largest stick he had managed to find. It was double his height, easily, and he wielded it with little grace as he took wild swings at Guts, who mercilessly parried and blocked them without taking so much as a step. He even went as far as to deliver small, harmlessly, attacks when Judeau dropped his guard too low.
Guts' expression, however, is what stole her attention. There was a tenderness in his gaze she hadn't seen in him before.
"Adorable. He's going to be a real danger when he gets older," Ciri remarked, a smile in her voice. In more ways than one. As a Source, he was power incarnate when it came to magic. And if he was half the swordsman Guts was… not to mention, both Guts and Casca were both beautiful people, so it stood to reason that Judeau would be too. A terror on the battlefield and a heartbreaker. Nobility, too.
"He's going to be a problem child if he's half as stubborn as me or Guts," Casca corrected but there was pride in her voice. And that very well might be the case because Judeau got right back up when Guts swept his little legs from underneath him and resumed his attacks with renewed vigor. "Thank you. For helping him," Casca suddenly said as she gazed out at the two, her expression… fragile, if Ciri had to call it something.
"I don't think I did that much," Ciri began, only for Casca to shake her head.
"I've known Guts a long time. After Griffith… did what he did, I know how devastated he must have been. The Band of the Hawk was his family. He would have been worse than he was before he met us," Casca remarked, catching Ciri's attention. Casca caught the look and elaborated. "I used to call Guts a mad hound. For longer than he deserved, admittedly. But, in the early days, Guts was a rabid dog that I thought was going to bite Griffith. He hated us, and he was every bit as dangerous to us as he was to our enemies… it took a long time for him to open up. And longer for me to see that he was a lot kinder than he liked to pretend."
Ciri was silent, thinking on her and Guts' first encounter. Guts had been gruff, certainly, but he never struck her as a danger. Then again, he had fought through the night to protect some kids, so as much as he would like to act like a prickly bastard, she saw right through it.
"What Griffith did drove me insane. And I know it must have destroyed Guts," Casca continued in a soft voice, watching as the other children joined the fray -- all of the orphans that Guys helped save -- armed with sticks as they sprinted to Judeau's aid. It was a memory to cherish, she decided, seeing Guts besieged by a half dozen kids who all wailed on him with sticks, his expression thoroughly indifferent as he seemed to be considering swinging back. "I wasn't there. I couldn't be. So, thank you for pulling him back from that."
Ciri scratched at her neck, hearing the earnest gratitude in Casca's voice. "Ah, well… it's not like he didn't help me. Not sure any of this would be possible without him."
To that, Casca simply smiled but said nothing. And, as much as Ciri hated to ruin the tender moment, she did have pressing questions that needed to be answered.
"Where is everyone?" Ciri questioned after a small pause, and Casca took a moment to answer as Guts seemingly had his fill of being used as a training dummy and started sweeping the legs out from underneath the children as if he were a broom. That was more inline with what she expected of him -- Guy's didn't really strike her as the type to let someone win.
"Novigrad, as far as I'm aware. Guts and I remained here to protect you until you woke up since we're also targets." Casca answered, and again, Ciri was proven right. Novigrad was the gathering ground. "Dandelion is also here, if you wish to talk to him."
She did, honestly. Mostly to apologize for what happened to his tavern. But Ciri knew that enough time had been wasted waiting on her. If she was right twice, then it stood to reason that most, if not all of what she felt was true. Meaning that there was an odd two thousand members of the Wild Hunt terrorizing the world, and while that number might seem small, it was nothing compared to the tens of thousands that were coming. She would just have to make it up to him when everything was said and done.
Casca seemed to understand, because she offered a small nod. Finally taking a step forward, she called out to Guts, "Ciri is awake. It's time."
Ciri felt genuine guilt seeing the hardened mask that she was used to seeing slide into place as Guts readied himself for the battles to come. Reaching out with a hand, Ciri grabbed hold of Casca before teleporting them both down onto the ground.
"You're finally up," Guts remarked, though he did sound faintly relieved.
All things considered, with all the abuse he went through… Guts was the one that should be held up in a bed, but he seemed just fine. "Sorry about that. Are you ready?" She asked him, knowing that she would need his strength. This wasn't a battle for a crown or a throne. This was a battle for the fate of the world.
Guts didn't even need to think about it. "I am," he answered. Then he looked down at Judeau, who looked up at him with wide eyes and a faint frown. Hesitantly, the most that Ciri had ever seen in Guts, he reached down to rub Judeau's head. "Work on your guard."
Ciri had to swallow a laugh but Casca didn't bother in favor of kneeling down and bringing Judeau in for a hug. "We'll be gone for just a little bit. Then we'll come home and we'll stay together. Forever and ever." She swore, and to an untrained ear, they might assume it was an innocent promise to their child to soothe their fears. But Ciri heard the steel in that promise. That no matter what, they would return, even if they had to rip a hole in space and time to get back to him.
Judeau simply nodded with stoicism that Ciri assumed came from Guts, returning the hug before giving his father a small nod. Then his gaze settled on her and Ciri felt the weight of expectation in that gaze.
He was no normal child. Not in heritage, not in ability, and not mentally.
"You can count on me," Ciri replied, answering that expectation. Judeau nodded, and took a step back. There were no tears or sniffles.
Reaching out to both Casca and Guts, she took a deep breath as she pulled at the power in her blood.
This was it.
The beginning of the end.
...
A little calm before the storm. Next chapter will be a big one that covers the battle with the Wild Hunt, and then we have an epilogue. I already have most of the battle written out, so Castoff will likely end sometime this month or early next month.
Valor and Glory
- Location
- USA
Despite what many might claim, the great battles weren't much different than the regular battles for the people that fought in the mud, blood, and shit. Some might be proud to have fought in one famous battle or another, but at the end of the day, during the fight, you had no idea if the battle would go down in history, or not even be remembered by the locals. For all of the mutterings and preparation, Guts fully expected that to be the case for the battle they now faced.
A battle for the world. To stave off the apocalypse. It was just his luck the world would try to end just as he got a leg up in life.
That wasn't the case, Guts realized, looking out at a field of soldiers as he sat on top of his horse with his cursed armor covering him from head to toe. There were fifteen thousand in total. Not a sizable amount, all things considered -- it was a joint army between Nilfgaard and the North. A core of five thousand knights while the remaining ten thousand were the dregs that were passed over for every draft. Probably never held a pike in their lives before today. However, they were foolish enough to answer the call that rang out.
A call to arms to save the world.
"Do you think it'd be bad form to just repeat most of my first speech? Swap out 'Nilfgaardian bastards' for 'the Wild Hunt'?" Ciri asked him, and in the few short hours it had been since their arrival, she had been shoved into a royal set of armor. It was practical in form, at least, but the jewels and glittering gold made her stand out. Which was likely the point.
"You could try elven bastards. That'll get them riled up," Guts remarked and Ciri pointedly rolled her eyes at him.
"Psssh, just promise them a free meal! I'll fight to the ends of the earth for food!" Puck helpfully informed, waving a fist into the air. Guts himself felt… odd. A sense of deja vu falling over him. He stole a glance at Ciri to see her looking out at the army with an indifferent expression. Words couldn't describe how good it felt seeing her back to her old self, but there was no small part of him that wished she stayed behind.
"Might try to slip that anecdote in. Thank you, Puck," Ciri said before she took in a long, slow breath. She held it in for a few seconds before letting it out as a heaving sigh. She spared a glance at Yennefer, who simply nodded, and with that, she urged her horse forward.
And Ciri began to speak. "Today is a strange day. Today is the day that you will fight beside those that you once called enemies -- for the Northern Kingdoms, you will fight, bleed, and even die beside Nilfgaardian warriors. For the Nilfgaardians -- you shall battle, kill, and die beside those you once considered barbarians." There was a stir at the mention of rather recent history, but Ciri continued, her voice magically amplified to reach everyone. "The difference between yesterday and today is a common enemy. The Wild Hunt. I'm sure you've all heard tales of them. Rumors. Some of you might have even seen them as they marauded through your homes"
Ciri paused and Guts saw emotion on a number of faces. At the end of the day, people didn't care about grand causes or the greater good. Or even about the world itself. They cared about their own interests and feelings. If Guts had to put a number to it, half of the army was here out of personal gain and the other half due to wanting revenge. Both motives Guts understood deeply.
Then Ciri continued. "I won't claim that this will be easy. Or that the problems will stop. In the end, should we win… what we gain is the right to continue onward. But how we continue onward is up to us -- all of us. It is my hope, in this moment as we all stand together in the face of an enemy that demands our annihilation… that we see that for all that we are different, we are more alike than not. That when the cards are down, and we stare the end of the world in the eye, that all of us here are united by one thing if nothing else -- that we spat in death's eye and told it, not today."
It was hardly the most rousing speech. It wasn't the type to garner cheers and applause as morale surged to the point that everyone forgot that they could die. Instead, the speech received a much grimmer response. Guts saw in the sea of faces how thousands upon thousands of men and women prepared themselves for death. To fight, kill, and die. Simply because they understood that this wasn't a fight for glory nor riches. This was a battle to live. For their families' lives.
And with a handful of words, Ciri transformed a pathetic army into one of the greatest the world had ever seen simply because they were willing to die. They wouldn't cut and run. They wouldn't break or cower.
"She reminds me of Griffith," Casca muttered to him, and he was almost relieved that she could see the similarities. It wasn't just the ashen hair or the ambition. Ciri… she carried the same aura as Griffith when she wanted to. That aura that sucked you in and made you want to listen. To believe in whatever she said or strove toward.
"She does," Guts agreed. "Except… she's what we thought Griffith was." Griffith was a lot of things to a lot of people, but to Guts… as much as he inspired, as much as he led, Griffith had always been one thing above all else -- a friend.
To that, Casca was silent, seemingly taking his word for it. Ciri glanced their way, seemingly looking for reassurance that she hadn't botched the speech. He gave her a small nod in response before stealing a glance at those that would be staying behind. Her father, for one, stood behind Ciri as the representative of Nilfgaard. Ciri didn't seem to pay him much mind and Guts saw a shadow of emotion flicker across his face.
Yennefer and the other mages began waving their hands while they pulled the same con as before. The warriors were so focused on the mages, they missed Ciri starting to glow white. It rose off of her like smoke as she used her power, and Guts took a bracing breath.
He felt himself move, but that was the only indication that something had happened. It transpired in the span of a single second and in that second, Guts felt himself being watched… it was the sensation of looking into the darkness and knowing something was looking back at you. It was a sense well honed in him by now, since it was usually true in his experience. However, that moment passed, bringing them to what must be another Sphere.
Didn't look that much different than the last one, only it was nearing dusk and there was an immediate drop in temperature. Above them, in the darkening skies, were colorful lights that Guts glanced up at -- shades of green and blue. As if someone had taken a brush to the sky itself. It might have been a hauntingly beautiful sight if it wasn't for what laid before them.
An army. Their arrival had been anticipated, it would seem. The army before them was a motley bunch -- his Brand ached just looking at the sheer number of Apostles that stood inside of the ranks of elves. They didn't bother with their human form, revealing their true nature for all to see. Dozens upon dozens of them. And if that wasn't daunting enough, Guts saw that they were outnumbered. Rather severely.
"That's at least thirty thousand," Casca remarked, sounding tense but unafraid. Though, she gripped the reins to her horse tightly. Double their number. They were arranged before a… Guts supposed he could call it a building, but it was a funny looking one. A vast, expansive palace that was built with the goal to not have any walls in mind, leaving an interconnected web of walkways and rooms that defied gravity. "This won't be an easy fight."
"We aren't the only ones fighting to survive," Guts agreed. The elves wouldn't break. They couldn't. If they lost this battle, then they lost the ability to conquer Ciri's world. They would be stuck here until that White Frost thing killed them all and turned their Sphere into a massive snowball. This wasn't a battle for riches or glory…
This was a war for the oldest reason to fight in the book. To kill or be killed.
"I have to get to the center of the palace," Ciri informed them -- everyone that was nearby. Geralt, the witches, him and Casca. She pointed to her destination and Guts saw that the army wasn't arranged to defend the palace that lacked any walls. It was arranged to defend some old looking stones. They seemed vaguely familiar to him, Guts realized.
They looked a lot like the stones he had passed out near in his Sphere. A Place of Power? The only difference was that they were glowing with weird magic energy, casting them with a blue hue. Even with a quick glance and not really understanding what it was, he knew that it couldn't mean anything good. The fact that the army of Apostles was defending it meant that it had to be destroyed.
"Just worry about what you're going to do when you get there. Leave the getting there to us," Puck spoke up, snapping off a salute as he stood on Guts' shoulder. Ciri glanced his way, and Guts could see the nervousness in her eyes. The fear and uncertainty. All the same, she managed to flash a small thankful smile at him.
That proved to be a mistake.
Guts heard the whistling of air, and his body moved on instinct. He wouldn't have made it without the armor, he realized as he blurred forward, the reforged Dragonslayer in his hands as he put himself between Ciri and an arrow that was as long as a spear. The tip of it slammed into his blade with thunderous force, skidding him back a half step while splinters exploded outward. Horses neighed and bucked, and across the long field, into one of the many archways, Guts seemed to lock eyes with an Apostle. The one that used his demonic goat-like body to act as a crossbow, using his horns as leverage.
Just like that, the battle began in earnest.
…
It would be a lie to say that magic had always come naturally to Yennefer. At the very beginning, when she had just been another ugly girl with a hunched back, sold by her father for less than he would get for a pig…back before she knew what she could really do. It had been many years since that time, and since then, Yennefer had learned exactly what she was capable of. Sodden Hill had just been a taste, and now she gorged herself as she pulled upon the forces of chaos, imposing order upon it with her iron will, molding it like an artist would clay.
Only instead of art, Yennefer conjured death and destruction.
She stood upon a platform made for the mages beforehand, allowing them to cast without worry of friendly fire. She breathed in deeply, feeling the hum of magic in her veins. Fire sparked at her fingertips. And despite all the teasing that she might give about the nature of Signs that the Witchers relied on, at their core, they weren't that different from true magic. A simple Ignis Sign might conjure a shower of sparks and flame… but in the hands of a true magician, the scale could hardly be comparable.
Fire leapt from her hands, surging forward like a tidal wave towards the elven army that stood in her way. Emotions fed the flames, making them hotter, brighter, and deadlier. They surged forward like a moving wall, spreading up and out as Guts led the charge. He ran after the flames, leading the army even as those that followed him galloped on horses. A truly monstrous man. And she would be forever in his debt.
However, for all of her talent, it did not mean that she was without equal. After all, the Aen Elle had mages of their own. Some far older and more experienced than she. And the fact that it took a dozen of them to counter her wall of flames was a very cold comfort. A barrier stopped her flames dead in their tracks, washing over the shimmering surface. Yennefer grit her teeth, fueling the flames with raw emotion.
Hate. Rage.
Forged from thoughts of the life that could have been. Without the Wild Hunt hounding Ciri every step of her journey, they could have settled in that little villa. She and Geralt could have watched her grow up. A truly peaceful life wouldn't have likely been in the cards, but it would have been more peaceful than… this. At the very least, they would have had more time together. Yennefer channeled her mourning of what could have been into the flames, demanding that everything before her burn away until not even ash remained.
The flames grew in intensity, crawling up the barrier. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead and next to her, Yennefer caught a flash of movement. Triss.
The red haired mage said nothing as she stood by her side, magic coiling around her hands like a snake before she flicked it forward. Compressed air slammed into the barrier that trembled under the force. She wasn't alone in her efforts to break through. Dozens of other mages, though few trained for war, still knew the basics of war magic. They hammered the shield until it shattered like a pane of glass, letting her flames surge forward once more.
Unlike Geralt, Yennefer did recall her time with the Wild Hunt. They weren't pleasant memories. She was treated worse than an animal, kept in a cage and only barely kept alive because she was meant to be bait for Ciri. Those memories too fueled the flames as well as they shot across the grass and field, reaching the Aen Elle army.
Only for the flames to be divided. Yennefer looked up at a shining light. One Aen Elle mage in particular.
Caranthir Ar-Feiniel. Perhaps the single most talented Aen Elle mage in existence. Yennefer recalled him quite well. Silent, calm, pragmatic -- all words that could be used to describe him. But, above all else, Yennefer would use the word incredible. His incredible talent for magic had been honed to a razor's edge, backed with centuries of experience. Simply put, if a normal mage was a candle, then Yennefer was a fireplace. And if Yennefer was a fireplace, then Caranthir was a burning building.
While the flames were pushed away by a cold wind, Caranthir was unable to stop Guts slamming into the waiting elves. Guts cut through them like a hot knife through soft cheese, sending pieces of corpses flying with every swing of his blade along with buckets of blood. He was carnage made manifest, and the morale of their soldiers soared at the sight because they understood that they had a monster of their own. Men poured into the wake that Guts created, and likewise, the Apostles carved lines through their army.
An expert of war, she might not be, but Yennefer could already see the writing on the wall. They would lose eventually. The Wild Hunt simply had more monsters at their disposal.
Which is why Yennefer had to win this battle to aid the war.
"I'm going to need your help with this one," Yennefer told Triss, her voice even. The betrayal had stung. It still did. But, Yennefer knew it would fade in time. For now, however, there were far more pressing matters than mere hurt feelings.
"I can support whatever you throw at them," Triss replied.
"As shall I," Philippa added, stepping to Yennefer's left. Their magic fed into the spell that Yennefer crafted as a deadly back and forth began. The mages on their side were stuck in a give and take of protecting the soldiers from the devastating spells that the Aen Elle mages unleashed while trying to do the same to their army. Only their situation was a lot more desperate than the Aen Elle elves.
Taking a slow breath, she turned her focus to Caranthir. He stood there, clad in Wild Hunt armor, and the only reason he stood out was due to his staff that glowed white with power.
It made him an easy target, at least. Now, to actually hit him…
With that thought in mind, fire blossomed between Yennefer's hands.
…
Geralt was starting to think he wasn't exactly good at being apolitical. Neutral. It wasn't the first time he had the thought, but there had always been a readily available excuse of something or someone forcing his hand. This time, though… well, it was more difficult when you found yourself working with Nilfgaardian and Temerian spies and assassins on a hunt to pick off a few specific foes behind the line.
"I suppose we could do worse for a Duke," Vernon Roache remarked as they stalked through the hallways and stairs of the palace. It was easy to tell what had prompted the remark when Geralt saw Guts slay an Apostle -- a large mammoth fiend-like creature, and before its body even hit the ground, Guts was slaughtering elves like a mad hound in a chicken coup. It wasn't the first time Geralt saw him in action, but it was a sight to behold when Guts truly cut loose.
"He makes a good distraction, at least," remarked a member of the Nilfgaardian equivalent to the Temerian special forces. Two of them, joining himself, Vernon and Vex. As far as a team of killers went, they were a small squad of the best both armies had to offer. Part of him wanted to be down in the field itself, even as monsters rampaged through crowds of men, fire and lightning exploding on both sides. But Geralt knew that he could have the greatest effect like this. Down there, he'd just be another sword.
The School of the Cat might have taken a step or two off the Path, but… they had one thing right. Sometimes a dagger had a lot more reach than a sword.
Which is why they stalked through the halls, putting the sounds of chaos out of their minds. Ciri had brought them here -- they started off in a guest room, the one that she had been kept in, Geralt imagined. Back when they had managed to capture her, before she managed to escape. The spells woven into their medallions and clothing would help prevent magical detection, but actually sneaking up on their targets was up to them.
A powerful blast of lightning struck a walkway, sending up chunks of rock before the entire thing gave out in the wake of a loud clap of thunder. Geralt heard sounds of panic below as Aen Elle elves were crushed underneath the weight of rubble, but his focus was on the fact that the direct walkway wasn't available to them any longer. Leaving the indirect walkway, that was currently being manned by a number of archers and mages.
"Underneath," Vernon spoke, taking out a spool of rope. Geralt saw what he was talking about. The Aen Elle elves were lovers of abstract beauty. The walkways that wove around each other weren't simple mundane arches, like you would find coming in and out of Novigrad or over a river. They were richly decorated with carvings -- Geralt wasn't entirely sure what of. The important thing was, they offered a number of handholds to let them climb under the bridge.
Geralt looked at the mage, Caranthir, that stood on the bridge, magical energies swirling around him like air currents. "Hm. He was one of the shortlist targets anyway. I'll go first and secure the rope," Geralt said, wrapping one end of the rope around his waist. With little hesitation, he hopped over the edge of the railing that led to Caranthir and, one by one, the others followed him.
Looking up was something that one had to be trained to do. In the end, it simply wasn't a natural inclination for most species -- the only ones who did were the ones whose natural predator was able to fly. And that was to say nothing of the great many distractions that were before them as the battle raged, filling the air with the sounds of clashing metal and war cries. Even from where he was, Geralt could smell the scent of blood that wafted up from the battlefield.
It was a slaughter on both sides. A field of absolute ruin. Battles, in his experience, meant a few dozen, maybe a hundred, dying on the field with most of the deaths coming from injuries after the battle was done. However, even in the few short minutes since the battle began… at least a thousand were dead. Maybe more. It was bloody carnage, with neither side willing to retreat even a single step. And Guts was the tip of their spear. The Aen Elle knew it too, so they threw everything they could at him in an attempt to slow him down. Geralt wasn't even sure if Guts noticed.
Thanks to the generous amount of handholds, Geralt had an easy time reaching the walkway. Climbing underneath it, however, he saw that there were fewer in the arch itself. For a normal human, that might have proven a problem, but with his Witcher enhanced strength, he was easily able to make the few handholds available work as he claimed upside down towards the other end of the arch.
However, not before planting something of note. A gift from Guts.
Black powder.
This wasn't quite what Geralt had intended to use it for, but plans changed. He secured the brick of packed powder in a nook underneath Caranthir. Then he made sure it stayed there by slathering it in alghoul marrow -- sticky, and highly flammable. With the bomb secured, Geralt continued climbing underneath the walkway until he reached the other side.
When he did, he secured the rope around a statue that jutted out while the others did the same on the other side. One by one, they crawled along the taut rope over an army of elves. If Geralt let it, he knew that his heart would be beating like a drum, but they couldn't afford nervousness. Instead, they had to focus solely on the mission at hand.
"This is where we part ways, Witcher," Vernon said to him, offering a small nod. Their explosive charges would be used elsewhere, while he had a different task to accomplish. Geralt offered the dour man a small nod, and it conveyed everything that he wished to say.
'Good luck, and don't die.'
The five of them split up, each going their separate way as Geralt continued onward to his target. It didn't take him long to catch sight of him. He was in the very heart of the palace, overlooking the battlefield from a balcony. He cut an impressive figure, at least. As tall as Guts, wearing bulky heavy armor with a skull for a mask. Jutting out from his helmet was a crown, marking the elf as Eredin Bréacc Glas, the King of the Aen Elle. Killing him wouldn't ensure victory. The army wouldn't magically fall apart. What it would do was cause fractures.
Just like a blade, if the fractures were plentiful enough… all it would take is one big hit to shatter it.
He was unguarded, his Wild Hunt on the battlefield, likely deployed against Guts in hopes of slowing him down. It was their best chance. However, this wasn't anything different from a normal hunt -- patience was required. A slow, cautious, approach would ensure that the job got done, even if the sounds of the battlefield echoed in his ears. He advanced inch by inch, foot by foot, drawing ever closer to the unguarded King. Second became minutes, and it felt like it was hours later that he was in position to get the drop on him.
Geralt entered the throne room from above, climbing through the windows, and allowing him to approach from behind. Slowly, soundlessly, Geralt drew his steel sword from its sheath.
Yet, all the same, Eredin spoke.
"Witcher… I had hoped you would come," The King of the Aen Elle uttered the words like a death sentence, turning around as he drew his longsword. His voice was low and rough, that of a King that didn't claim the crown through diplomacy, but with skill of arms. It was how he took the throne, and it was how he kept it.
"Hm," Geralt grunted, feeling the noose closing around his neck.
Things certainly looked dire for him.
…
Once, way back when Guts had been a boy that barely came up to Gambino's knee, he had fought in a bloody siege. Siege weapons, like catapults, weren't often used as a defensive weapon, but they could be if you were desperate enough. In those days, he had played more of a supporting role since he didn't have the strength to kill a man. He had been sent to bring up new spears and arrows, and when he came back…
He never forgot the sight of seeing a huge ass boulder come flying through, smashing through a dozen men and rolling over them like they were nothing when it continued onward with its momentum. A fate he had narrowly managed to avoid… and knowing what he knew now, that had been Fate trying to take his life.
The point being that the battlefield he stood on was unlike any he had fought on before. He caught flashes of lightning and fire exploding on clusters of people on both sides, the scent of charred flesh, blood, and smoke were heavy in the air. A lot of that fire and lightning was being thrown his way, only for it to be magically blocked with shimmering shields. And if it couldn't be blocked by those, then Guts used the enemies around him to take the brunt of it. There were plenty of them, after all.
He had only used the armor on Zodd before, which left him wildly underestimating his abilities. Zodd had been the greatest of his foes -- the strongest warrior, and the strongest Apostle. And it showed, because everything that they threw at him now couldn't hope to measure up. Even quantity wasn't enough to match Zodd in quality. The Apostles cried out as his reforged Dragonslayer cut into them, parting their twisted flesh with oceans of blood spilling from them. They cried out as they died. They cried out as they fought.
They cried out in fear as he ripped and tore his way towards them.
"You can't be human! You can't-" one of them denied before he found himself with Dragonslayer thrusted into his brain while Guts grabbed a member of the Wild Hunt to smash into another, reducing both to chunks of meat and shattered bones inside of twisted metal. Hurling the corpse at another, he leapt up at the lumbering Apostle, ripping his blade up and unleashing a shower of blood as the Apostle stumbled back and collapsed upon scattering elves.
Fire exploded above him, a shimmering shield protecting him from it, but the fire still spilled over the edges and rained upon those below, much like the bloody rain. Guts was soaked with it, it dripped from his armor in rivers, and the heat made it steam. From his small vantage, he saw that the heart of the palace might as well be miles away as arrows, fire, and lightning fell from the archways.
"Guts!" Casca shouted out, her blade darting between the plates of an enemy before dancing out of the way of another's swing. He knew what she was bringing his attention to as he shouldered Dragonslayer.
Big fucker. He almost looked like Skull Knight, only he was backed by a dozen others like him as they rode in the air as specters. "Struggler!" The lead one called out, his helmet marked with a few eye holes, but nothing else. His weapon of choice was a large hammer, the head of which was marked with a bunch of faces. "Face your death!" He roared a challenge, flying down and Guts realized that his horse had a horn sticking out of its forehead. A unicorn?
It didn't matter.
Guts leapt into the air to meet them, landing on the big one in the lead, who positioned a tower shield between them in anticipation of a blow. Their specter intangibility meant nothing. He was more aware of it now. The profane blood that soaked him to the bone. Tangible or not, he could cut them. He could kill them.
"Spare me the grandstanding. I don't even know who the fuck you are," Guts dismissed him, swinging Dragonslayer. The shield caught the edge, but the strength behind the swing made sure Dragonslayer continued. The shield gave way, then the armor, and finally flesh and blood. With a single swing, he took everything above the rib cage of the elf off, and he used his corpse as leverage to launch himself at another while sending the corpse into the side of another rider.
Before, Guts might have struggled against such foes. It might have been a true, genuine battle. But this armor… it was cursed. A curse that would never leave him. Even now, it fought for control of him, tempting him to fall into the black madness that was his hate. But it was this very same armor that ensured that he had the strength he needed to carve out the life he wanted. For Casca. For Judeau.
Gaunter might be the devil himself… but a life of torment was a price he was more than happy to pay so long as they were in it.
His gaze turned to Casca, who fought side by side with Ciri as they pushed through the army. The battle was going poorly. They'd lose eventually.
Which just meant he had to do the heavy lifting and ensure Ciri got where she needed to go.
…
The mages were flagging, Yennefer knew. It was to be expected, really. Most of the mages of their Sphere were researchers. Scholars. Most merely knew how to defend themselves, usually as a means to defend their research or to acquire materials needed for it. There were precious few that truly dedicated their time and talents to war.
It was something that Yennefer wished she could say about the Aen Elle elves. But they were a warlike race. Any advancement they discovered was in pursuit of finding a more efficient way of killing the enemy. And they were damn good at it, Yennefer found herself admitting as sweat dripped from her brow.
"We can't keep this up," Triss exclaimed, sensing the tide turning against them as she did. As if to prove her point, a shield shattered, letting a firestorm erupt in the mass of soldiers. A few mages collapsed, utterly spent. They all had their methods of leeching the energy needed to cast spells. And with the short battle, some of them already found themselves tapped out.
"I know," Yennefer replied. In a way, it wasn't strictly wrong to say that the greater a mage was, the better they could offload the cost of doing magic. Some drew from things around them. Others drew from predetermined trinkets that were loaded with stored power or power that it drew into itself. Yennefer had tried her hand at a number of sources over her near century of life. Some were more preferable than others. "But we must hold on until we see the signal."
She could see it. Her gaze was trained on Caranthir, and because of it, she saw the rope that was still tied underneath it. Geralt… honestly, his mind was like a tailor made glove at this point. She could read his thoughts easily, and with but a glance. Dozens had tried to slip into his mind, to see what he was doing, but she saw it. The bomb under the bridge. In her mind, the knowledge was well worth the cost.
Only she needed the right moment to use the information. Caranthir was a monster of a mage, and it would require more than a lucky shot to bring him down. Only they were rapidly running out of moments to spend waiting.
Magic coiled around her hands, shooting up and shaping to her movements. Under her breath, she chanted, speaking words of magic to shape the chaos that she unleashed. Fires that were snuffed out and lightning that was shattered into sparks. With each spell, she felt herself growing weary. And at this point she knew that the only reason she hadn't collapsed was the magic Triss and Philippa shared with her. But even with the two sorceresses' at her side, she was flagging, as were they.
Caranthir shaped a spell, air condensing overhead. Yennefer shaped a barrier -- a cone with the base encasing them. It held strong, breaking the compressed air that flattened everything around them that wasn't within the area.
Yennefer's knees buckled and she found herself falling to them. A ragged gasp filled her lungs with air-
A streak of light shot up from the palace, and if she had any breath to spare, she'd let out a sigh of relief. The signal. It was almost too late, but better late than never, Yennefer supposed as she forced herself to stand. She took in a slow breath as she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.
There was no school of magic that was truly forbidden. Certainly, there were schools of magic that were frowned upon. That were considered too dangerous to be worth the effort, or whose effects were disastrous for both the wielder of the magic and those that surrounded them. Such magics earned the title of 'black magic', making them as being as deadly as they were dangerous, and they were exceptionally dangerous. But, in the right hands, with the right knowledge, and with the proper care… even black magic was just another tool to be used.
One such black magic was necromancy. There was some scholarly debate about the nature of a soul. Some believed that wraiths and the like were simply a mind imprinting upon ambient magic, giving it shape and will. Others believe in the immortal nature of the soul, and every time you reach past death, you reached into heaven or hell. Yennefer didn't care one way or another, it was all the same to her. What did matter, however, was power.
And few things carried more power than life itself.
"I'm… sorry," she whispered to the killing field before her. An ultimately pointless apology, when it came right down to it. An empty one as well, for it implied that she felt any measure of regret for what she was about to do. The only regret she felt was that it was necessary. In a low building tone, Yennefer began to chant as she reached out with her magic towards the killing field. Where it then touched every single dying man and woman. The ones that were too far gone. At least, that's what she liked to think.
Some of their wounds could be survivable. But they were lying in the blood soaked mud, and that help wouldn't be coming for them. Instead, she grabbed hold of them by clenching a fist as a sense of… wrongness flowed through her. Like her blood was filled with pus and oil, her skin crawling while it felt like worms writhed underneath it. She tasted bile on the back of her tongue that she swallowed down.
Then, with a yank, the ones that could no longer fight died. The stolen embers of their lives gathered in her hands, acting as fuel for the next spell she crafted. Both Triss and Philippa helped shape it, sharing in the wrongness that Yennefer felt. The flames condensed into a single fire that was no larger than a candle's flame, but when she blew it forward with a breath, it erupted into a torrent of fire that swept forward like a sea of orange flames.
It raced overhead of the armies, going straight for the palace and Yennefer knew that barriers were being erected. However, they had a… flaw, Yennefer supposed you could call it. Personal barriers typically ended at one's feet in a bubble when you were defending yourself, but that was wholly impractical when you were protecting a position. Too much wasted energy. It was far simpler and more efficient to create a large shield. Perhaps curved and shaped to throw off the worst of the impact.
The inferno couldn't reach them, but with a heave, Yennefer rose a hand up high and the flames lurched up.
The sounds of explosions echoed out over the roaring flames as the bombs placed under the feat of the enemy mages went off. Yennefer felt the resistance there vanish entirely, like a stopper being removed from a drain. A smile tugged at her lips despite the wretched feeling that filled her with nausea.
"That makes things much easier."
After all, without mage support… well…
There were many valid reasons why common folk feared mages. With a dozen mages, they had managed to defend Sodden Hill and rout an army. With nearly a hundred, and with no mages to support the Aen Elle elves… Yennefer imagined that they would be inspiring a few more reasons to be afraid.
…
Geralt pivoted, blocking a blow that rattled his bones, sparks showering from his sword before he thrust as a counter. Eredin batted the thrust away before his form blurred, becoming translucent, and his sword flashed at his neck, forcing Geralt to dodge out of the way. A vibration ran through his feet, and he took that as confirmation that the mission was a success. When it came right down to it -- numbers, monsters… it didn't really matter. The side that had mages won battles like these.
"Your world will burn for this," Eredin snarled at him as they traded blows. Geralt found himself on the defensive, even as his veins blackened from the Witcher potions he had ingested. "I'll see to it that you survive long enough to watch everything you care for go up in flames!"
Geralt simply grunted, shifting from the defensive as he parried a blow and feinted a blow to his legs. As he expected, Eredin shifted and appeared behind him, arriving just as Geralt shifted his grip to perform a reverse thrust that managed to find purchase in a gap in Eredin's plate armor. His blade glinted with red, but Eredin was a warrior king. It would take more than a few scratches to put him down. Spinning his blade, Geralt blocked a retaliatory strike and their blades clashed together between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the fire that washed over the palace, nearly reaching the balcony they fought on. The walkways and rooms crumbled to the ground, chunks of rock slamming upon the enemy blow. Those were the lucky ones because the fire clung to the stone like they were covered in oil. It clung to the warriors as well, making them scream in agony.
"Looks like your world's already burning," Geralt replied, backing away a half step and their blades clashing in a deadly dance. He was answered with an animalistic growl before Eredin attacked with renewed ferocity. He understood what the flames meant -- that his mages were no longer protecting his army. And more than anything else, that made it vulnerable.
In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea to piss him off, Geralt reflected as a blade nearly took his head off, but only managed to give him a new scar below his right eye. Provided he lived long enough for it to heal. Once again he was forced on the defensive as he was nearly overwhelmed with a flurry of blows. His heart pounded in his chest, even as his hands were steady. His reflexes saved him as Eredin came at him from all angles -- the sides, behind, and even above.
He had hoped one of the others would be able to make their way here to lend a hand, but no such luck.
At least, so Geralt thought before he caught a flash of movement before a familiar woman leaped on Eredin's back before driving her saber into a gap in his armor. Eredin cried out for the first time as a half foot of steel slipped down past his collarbone and when he lashed out, Casca flipped over him to land lightly on her feet.
He was relieved to see her. He understood what it meant. The blocks on teleportation were gone, and he had never been more happy about portals than he was now. They had managed to cut through the army, and that meant Ciri was nearing her destination. However, he couldn't say that. There wasn't time. Instead, he said, "Can you keep up?"
Casca gave him a smile that reminded him dangerously of Ciri. "I can keep up with Guts. I imagine I can keep up with you," she replied with some amusement.
"Heh."
With that, the two of them sprung forward. And Geralt believed her. Casca let him take point in the fight, drawing Eredin's attention while she flanked with her blade darting out like the head of a snake. He and Eredin were on nearly even footing when it came to ability, exchanging a flurry of blows as they danced around each other. Casca, however, was tipping the balance.
The injury she had delivered slowed Eredin. And with every passing second, he slowed more. It was a fatal wound without magic, and he likely knew it. Which is why he didn't waste his breath with pointless taunting and focused on trying to take them with him. He also realized the danger that Casca presented, because while she wasn't as fast or as strong as either of them, she was used to fighting around someone that was faster and stronger.
Her blade struck out, needling Eredin with blow after blow that never failed to strike a gap in his armor. Sometimes the chainmail held, but sometimes it didn't. With every wound he took, it showed in his swordsmanship.
Until it reached a tipping point.
It was a desperate gamble and Geralt had been waiting for it. Eredin blurred forward, not at him, but for Casca, intent on taking her out of the equation. Geralt did something that Vesimer would throttle him for if he ever saw it, but he reversed his grip on his blade before he launched it.
Just as Eredin materialized behind Casca, who had barely started to turn around to face him, Geralt's blade punched through his throat with enough force that the crossguard was the only thing stopping it from sailing all the way through. Eredin aborted the attack, one hand groping up at the blade lodged in his neck, but the hesitation cost him. Casca pivoted sharply, going low before driving her blade into him at his hip in an upward thrust, skewering his heart.
No final words. No grand gestures or acts.
Just another dead king with his trousers full of shit as he died.
…
Ciri didn't know how to describe Guts other than as a monster for monsters. It was a daunting thing to follow in his wake as he butchered everything in his way. It was humbling. And terrifying. With enough time and enough swings of his sword, Ciri could truly believe that he could slaughter the army on his own. The only difficult part of it would be convincing them to climb up the mountains of their fallen comrades to reach Guts at the top.
As much as she would like to stop and stare at the grisly display, they didn't have the time.
Ciri had seen what happened. A line of possible futures. Yennefer and the others were completely spent, and running on spite. They inflicted an astounding amount of damage upon the Aen Elle elves, but only enough to make up for their lesser numbers. Ciri couldn't say for certain, but she felt they were still outnumbered. The men would be ground away, and if they weren't careful… Guts really would be the last man standing.
She caught a glimpse of their destination -- the Place of Power. She could feel a hum as it resonated with the Elder Blood. A bridge between space and time -- a bridge that connected this Sphere to her home. A bridge she was going to have to burn down.
And with a final spray of blood, Guts carved the path for her to arrive. It seemed awful to ask any more of him, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. "I need you to defend me while I do this," she said, stepping towards the Place of Power. A dozen stones erected around a single one that acted as an anchor for this half of the bridge.
"Just do your thing," Guts said, stepping upon charred corpses. "I'll handle it on this end." Only he could say that in the face of an army, and have her believe him wholeheartedly.
It was a struggle to tune out the sounds of death and destruction around her. All the same, she forced the sounds from her mind as she knelt before the center stone, closing her eyes and pulling upon the power in her blood. The sensation that filled her… she could only compare it to when Judeau held her hand and, honestly, that was a pretty terrifying comparison. Pure power flooded her veins and Ciri felt herself… expanding. Like her body couldn't hold her mind so it bled out into space.
The sounds of battle were gone. The stench of blood and burnt hair were gone. The aches in her body, the stinging of the few wounds she had endured… all of it was gone. She couldn't hear anything. She couldn't smell or taste anything. She couldn't feel anything. What she could do, however, was see.
And if she could breathe, what she saw would have left her breathless.
A vast infinity that stretched on endlessly, and the infinity only grew with every passing second. Before her eyes, Ciri could see Spheres coming into existence. She could see them being wiped away. She could see a thousand different Conjunctions happening in a thousand different places, all at the same time. Each was contained in their own bubble that floated in a black void. It was mesmerizing. It was terrifying.
Every time she jumped between Spheres, she thought she knew how vast space really was. Ciri realized that she didn't have a single clue. Within each Sphere was a universe of endless space where entire worlds were filled with life. And within each Sphere, countless timeliness were being created every second. It was… it was honestly indescribable. Hauntingly beautiful but utterly terrifying.
It made her feel small. It made her Sphere feel small. All that she had endured, everything that she had done and accomplished… her Sphere could vanish and it wouldn't be noticed. It was all that insignificant.
It was a struggle to focus, but she managed to turn her attention to the task at hand. Between the Spheres, Ciri saw what amounted to lines drawn in sand. A road, or a bridge, that connected the stolen Sphere of the Aen Elle to her home. And with an action as simple as wiping her hand across a line in sand, the bridge vanished entirely. It was simply gone.
Space and Time were hers.
Ciri looked down to her Sphere, and she could peer into it. She could see everything. She could see her father pacing in a room, a heavy frown on his face. She could see Dijkstra plotting a betrayal. She could see everything. And that included the Wild Hunt, joined by Apostles that were terrorizing her home. Only the Apostles…
Ciri saw what she could only describe as chains attached to them. They were invisible to the naked eye, but she saw them all the same. Each one… each one anchored into the Brand that was burned into their flesh. Ciri saw that it was the same for Guts and Casca -- She watched them fighting to defend her body, joined by Geralt and so many others. It reminded her what she was here for.
The White Frost. It was big. Even in an ever expanding infinity, it was big. It had claimed trillions upon trillions of Spheres and it was encroaching ever closer. And she saw it. A cold hard truth that she couldn't deny even if she wanted to.
She couldn't stop the White Frost. It was inevitable. It wasn't a disaster so much as a fact. Just as you grew colder the further you got from a fire -- that's what the White Frost was. It progressed logically and, just as if you were next to an iceberg you would feel its coldness, it affected the Spheres near it.
"I didn't come all this way to give up," Ciri said with no voice, imposing her will on her domain.
The White Frost was inevitable, but it could be delayed. A delay of millions, even billions, of years. Nearly an eternity and barely an instant. But a delay all the same.
Ciri swept the affected worlds together and shoved them away into what amounted to the corner of infinity. Eventually, the space between the affected Spheres would grow cold enough that it would continue but… she didn't have to stop it forever. So long as the people that she loved and the future she wanted to create had the chance to thrive…
"And that gives me an idea on what to do with you," Ciri continued, turning her attention to where the chains led. Guts' Sphere. Or, rather, Hell. She peered into it, and she saw Hell in all of its terrible glory. She saw the Godhand and she saw them looking back at her. Griffith's piercing gaze met her own, but she was unfathomably their greater. They stood uncowed but helpless, left waiting for her sentencing.
Only she couldn't destroy them. Just as she was the daughter of Space and Time the Godhand were the physical manifestations of Evil. Ciri couldn't destroy them any more than she could destroy the concept of Evil within the Sphere. Not unless she chose to destroy the Sphere itself. And she hated them -- for what they did to Guts. For what they represented. Their very existence was Evil. There was no hope for redemption or antonment. So long as they existed, they would inflict evil upon the innocent and undeserving.
Her training as a Witcher came in handy. There were plenty of things that you couldn't simply slay with a swipe of a sword, or the right combination of words and herbs. To those things… you sealed them away. You isolated them and ensured that they couldn't harm anyone else until you, or another, figured out how to kill them.
Ciri reached out to the Sphere, holding it in her hands as if it were no greater than a marble. "You won't get to lay your filthy hands on their souls. I can't kill you… but enjoy a billion years in time out," Ciri snarled at them and the Godhand was helpless to stop her as she closed the door on them. That didn't stop them from trying, though. They were powerful, in their own way. They were just picking a fight in her domain. The first sign that the battle of wills was turning against them was the chains that stretched across Time and Space that would ensure that the Branded would be damned to Hell shattered. Freeing Guts and Casca while robbing the Apostles of their power.
The very last thing she saw as the doors closed to Hell was Griffith's piercing gaze, and with that, the doors slammed shut. Hell was closed. The Godhand would be trapped within, unable to affect even their own Sphere. It wasn't as satisfying as squishing them like a couple of bugs, but… it wasn't about satisfaction. It was about stopping them so there wouldn't ever be another Guts or Casca.
Who knows. Maybe in a billion years, the Idea of Evil wouldn't mean a damn thing.
Ciri smiled to herself as she began to fade away, falling back to her kneeling body. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling, but she ignored it in favor of standing on her own two feet. She took in a deep breath and tilted back her head, savoring the feeling even as chaos erupted around them.
"We've won!" Her triumphant cry echoed out, impossibly loud. She looked to see Geralt, Guts, Casca and all the others fighting to defend her. She gave them a gentle and thankful smile. "And it's time for us to go home."
They didn't win for forever… but for today?
Today, they had won.
...
Next chapter will be the epilogue of Castoff and it will earn its Complete tag.
A battle for the world. To stave off the apocalypse. It was just his luck the world would try to end just as he got a leg up in life.
That wasn't the case, Guts realized, looking out at a field of soldiers as he sat on top of his horse with his cursed armor covering him from head to toe. There were fifteen thousand in total. Not a sizable amount, all things considered -- it was a joint army between Nilfgaard and the North. A core of five thousand knights while the remaining ten thousand were the dregs that were passed over for every draft. Probably never held a pike in their lives before today. However, they were foolish enough to answer the call that rang out.
A call to arms to save the world.
"Do you think it'd be bad form to just repeat most of my first speech? Swap out 'Nilfgaardian bastards' for 'the Wild Hunt'?" Ciri asked him, and in the few short hours it had been since their arrival, she had been shoved into a royal set of armor. It was practical in form, at least, but the jewels and glittering gold made her stand out. Which was likely the point.
"You could try elven bastards. That'll get them riled up," Guts remarked and Ciri pointedly rolled her eyes at him.
"Psssh, just promise them a free meal! I'll fight to the ends of the earth for food!" Puck helpfully informed, waving a fist into the air. Guts himself felt… odd. A sense of deja vu falling over him. He stole a glance at Ciri to see her looking out at the army with an indifferent expression. Words couldn't describe how good it felt seeing her back to her old self, but there was no small part of him that wished she stayed behind.
"Might try to slip that anecdote in. Thank you, Puck," Ciri said before she took in a long, slow breath. She held it in for a few seconds before letting it out as a heaving sigh. She spared a glance at Yennefer, who simply nodded, and with that, she urged her horse forward.
And Ciri began to speak. "Today is a strange day. Today is the day that you will fight beside those that you once called enemies -- for the Northern Kingdoms, you will fight, bleed, and even die beside Nilfgaardian warriors. For the Nilfgaardians -- you shall battle, kill, and die beside those you once considered barbarians." There was a stir at the mention of rather recent history, but Ciri continued, her voice magically amplified to reach everyone. "The difference between yesterday and today is a common enemy. The Wild Hunt. I'm sure you've all heard tales of them. Rumors. Some of you might have even seen them as they marauded through your homes"
Ciri paused and Guts saw emotion on a number of faces. At the end of the day, people didn't care about grand causes or the greater good. Or even about the world itself. They cared about their own interests and feelings. If Guts had to put a number to it, half of the army was here out of personal gain and the other half due to wanting revenge. Both motives Guts understood deeply.
Then Ciri continued. "I won't claim that this will be easy. Or that the problems will stop. In the end, should we win… what we gain is the right to continue onward. But how we continue onward is up to us -- all of us. It is my hope, in this moment as we all stand together in the face of an enemy that demands our annihilation… that we see that for all that we are different, we are more alike than not. That when the cards are down, and we stare the end of the world in the eye, that all of us here are united by one thing if nothing else -- that we spat in death's eye and told it, not today."
It was hardly the most rousing speech. It wasn't the type to garner cheers and applause as morale surged to the point that everyone forgot that they could die. Instead, the speech received a much grimmer response. Guts saw in the sea of faces how thousands upon thousands of men and women prepared themselves for death. To fight, kill, and die. Simply because they understood that this wasn't a fight for glory nor riches. This was a battle to live. For their families' lives.
And with a handful of words, Ciri transformed a pathetic army into one of the greatest the world had ever seen simply because they were willing to die. They wouldn't cut and run. They wouldn't break or cower.
"She reminds me of Griffith," Casca muttered to him, and he was almost relieved that she could see the similarities. It wasn't just the ashen hair or the ambition. Ciri… she carried the same aura as Griffith when she wanted to. That aura that sucked you in and made you want to listen. To believe in whatever she said or strove toward.
"She does," Guts agreed. "Except… she's what we thought Griffith was." Griffith was a lot of things to a lot of people, but to Guts… as much as he inspired, as much as he led, Griffith had always been one thing above all else -- a friend.
To that, Casca was silent, seemingly taking his word for it. Ciri glanced their way, seemingly looking for reassurance that she hadn't botched the speech. He gave her a small nod in response before stealing a glance at those that would be staying behind. Her father, for one, stood behind Ciri as the representative of Nilfgaard. Ciri didn't seem to pay him much mind and Guts saw a shadow of emotion flicker across his face.
Yennefer and the other mages began waving their hands while they pulled the same con as before. The warriors were so focused on the mages, they missed Ciri starting to glow white. It rose off of her like smoke as she used her power, and Guts took a bracing breath.
He felt himself move, but that was the only indication that something had happened. It transpired in the span of a single second and in that second, Guts felt himself being watched… it was the sensation of looking into the darkness and knowing something was looking back at you. It was a sense well honed in him by now, since it was usually true in his experience. However, that moment passed, bringing them to what must be another Sphere.
Didn't look that much different than the last one, only it was nearing dusk and there was an immediate drop in temperature. Above them, in the darkening skies, were colorful lights that Guts glanced up at -- shades of green and blue. As if someone had taken a brush to the sky itself. It might have been a hauntingly beautiful sight if it wasn't for what laid before them.
An army. Their arrival had been anticipated, it would seem. The army before them was a motley bunch -- his Brand ached just looking at the sheer number of Apostles that stood inside of the ranks of elves. They didn't bother with their human form, revealing their true nature for all to see. Dozens upon dozens of them. And if that wasn't daunting enough, Guts saw that they were outnumbered. Rather severely.
"That's at least thirty thousand," Casca remarked, sounding tense but unafraid. Though, she gripped the reins to her horse tightly. Double their number. They were arranged before a… Guts supposed he could call it a building, but it was a funny looking one. A vast, expansive palace that was built with the goal to not have any walls in mind, leaving an interconnected web of walkways and rooms that defied gravity. "This won't be an easy fight."
"We aren't the only ones fighting to survive," Guts agreed. The elves wouldn't break. They couldn't. If they lost this battle, then they lost the ability to conquer Ciri's world. They would be stuck here until that White Frost thing killed them all and turned their Sphere into a massive snowball. This wasn't a battle for riches or glory…
This was a war for the oldest reason to fight in the book. To kill or be killed.
"I have to get to the center of the palace," Ciri informed them -- everyone that was nearby. Geralt, the witches, him and Casca. She pointed to her destination and Guts saw that the army wasn't arranged to defend the palace that lacked any walls. It was arranged to defend some old looking stones. They seemed vaguely familiar to him, Guts realized.
They looked a lot like the stones he had passed out near in his Sphere. A Place of Power? The only difference was that they were glowing with weird magic energy, casting them with a blue hue. Even with a quick glance and not really understanding what it was, he knew that it couldn't mean anything good. The fact that the army of Apostles was defending it meant that it had to be destroyed.
"Just worry about what you're going to do when you get there. Leave the getting there to us," Puck spoke up, snapping off a salute as he stood on Guts' shoulder. Ciri glanced his way, and Guts could see the nervousness in her eyes. The fear and uncertainty. All the same, she managed to flash a small thankful smile at him.
That proved to be a mistake.
Guts heard the whistling of air, and his body moved on instinct. He wouldn't have made it without the armor, he realized as he blurred forward, the reforged Dragonslayer in his hands as he put himself between Ciri and an arrow that was as long as a spear. The tip of it slammed into his blade with thunderous force, skidding him back a half step while splinters exploded outward. Horses neighed and bucked, and across the long field, into one of the many archways, Guts seemed to lock eyes with an Apostle. The one that used his demonic goat-like body to act as a crossbow, using his horns as leverage.
Just like that, the battle began in earnest.
…
It would be a lie to say that magic had always come naturally to Yennefer. At the very beginning, when she had just been another ugly girl with a hunched back, sold by her father for less than he would get for a pig…back before she knew what she could really do. It had been many years since that time, and since then, Yennefer had learned exactly what she was capable of. Sodden Hill had just been a taste, and now she gorged herself as she pulled upon the forces of chaos, imposing order upon it with her iron will, molding it like an artist would clay.
Only instead of art, Yennefer conjured death and destruction.
She stood upon a platform made for the mages beforehand, allowing them to cast without worry of friendly fire. She breathed in deeply, feeling the hum of magic in her veins. Fire sparked at her fingertips. And despite all the teasing that she might give about the nature of Signs that the Witchers relied on, at their core, they weren't that different from true magic. A simple Ignis Sign might conjure a shower of sparks and flame… but in the hands of a true magician, the scale could hardly be comparable.
Fire leapt from her hands, surging forward like a tidal wave towards the elven army that stood in her way. Emotions fed the flames, making them hotter, brighter, and deadlier. They surged forward like a moving wall, spreading up and out as Guts led the charge. He ran after the flames, leading the army even as those that followed him galloped on horses. A truly monstrous man. And she would be forever in his debt.
However, for all of her talent, it did not mean that she was without equal. After all, the Aen Elle had mages of their own. Some far older and more experienced than she. And the fact that it took a dozen of them to counter her wall of flames was a very cold comfort. A barrier stopped her flames dead in their tracks, washing over the shimmering surface. Yennefer grit her teeth, fueling the flames with raw emotion.
Hate. Rage.
Forged from thoughts of the life that could have been. Without the Wild Hunt hounding Ciri every step of her journey, they could have settled in that little villa. She and Geralt could have watched her grow up. A truly peaceful life wouldn't have likely been in the cards, but it would have been more peaceful than… this. At the very least, they would have had more time together. Yennefer channeled her mourning of what could have been into the flames, demanding that everything before her burn away until not even ash remained.
The flames grew in intensity, crawling up the barrier. A bead of sweat dripped down her forehead and next to her, Yennefer caught a flash of movement. Triss.
The red haired mage said nothing as she stood by her side, magic coiling around her hands like a snake before she flicked it forward. Compressed air slammed into the barrier that trembled under the force. She wasn't alone in her efforts to break through. Dozens of other mages, though few trained for war, still knew the basics of war magic. They hammered the shield until it shattered like a pane of glass, letting her flames surge forward once more.
Unlike Geralt, Yennefer did recall her time with the Wild Hunt. They weren't pleasant memories. She was treated worse than an animal, kept in a cage and only barely kept alive because she was meant to be bait for Ciri. Those memories too fueled the flames as well as they shot across the grass and field, reaching the Aen Elle army.
Only for the flames to be divided. Yennefer looked up at a shining light. One Aen Elle mage in particular.
Caranthir Ar-Feiniel. Perhaps the single most talented Aen Elle mage in existence. Yennefer recalled him quite well. Silent, calm, pragmatic -- all words that could be used to describe him. But, above all else, Yennefer would use the word incredible. His incredible talent for magic had been honed to a razor's edge, backed with centuries of experience. Simply put, if a normal mage was a candle, then Yennefer was a fireplace. And if Yennefer was a fireplace, then Caranthir was a burning building.
While the flames were pushed away by a cold wind, Caranthir was unable to stop Guts slamming into the waiting elves. Guts cut through them like a hot knife through soft cheese, sending pieces of corpses flying with every swing of his blade along with buckets of blood. He was carnage made manifest, and the morale of their soldiers soared at the sight because they understood that they had a monster of their own. Men poured into the wake that Guts created, and likewise, the Apostles carved lines through their army.
An expert of war, she might not be, but Yennefer could already see the writing on the wall. They would lose eventually. The Wild Hunt simply had more monsters at their disposal.
Which is why Yennefer had to win this battle to aid the war.
"I'm going to need your help with this one," Yennefer told Triss, her voice even. The betrayal had stung. It still did. But, Yennefer knew it would fade in time. For now, however, there were far more pressing matters than mere hurt feelings.
"I can support whatever you throw at them," Triss replied.
"As shall I," Philippa added, stepping to Yennefer's left. Their magic fed into the spell that Yennefer crafted as a deadly back and forth began. The mages on their side were stuck in a give and take of protecting the soldiers from the devastating spells that the Aen Elle mages unleashed while trying to do the same to their army. Only their situation was a lot more desperate than the Aen Elle elves.
Taking a slow breath, she turned her focus to Caranthir. He stood there, clad in Wild Hunt armor, and the only reason he stood out was due to his staff that glowed white with power.
It made him an easy target, at least. Now, to actually hit him…
With that thought in mind, fire blossomed between Yennefer's hands.
…
Geralt was starting to think he wasn't exactly good at being apolitical. Neutral. It wasn't the first time he had the thought, but there had always been a readily available excuse of something or someone forcing his hand. This time, though… well, it was more difficult when you found yourself working with Nilfgaardian and Temerian spies and assassins on a hunt to pick off a few specific foes behind the line.
"I suppose we could do worse for a Duke," Vernon Roache remarked as they stalked through the hallways and stairs of the palace. It was easy to tell what had prompted the remark when Geralt saw Guts slay an Apostle -- a large mammoth fiend-like creature, and before its body even hit the ground, Guts was slaughtering elves like a mad hound in a chicken coup. It wasn't the first time Geralt saw him in action, but it was a sight to behold when Guts truly cut loose.
"He makes a good distraction, at least," remarked a member of the Nilfgaardian equivalent to the Temerian special forces. Two of them, joining himself, Vernon and Vex. As far as a team of killers went, they were a small squad of the best both armies had to offer. Part of him wanted to be down in the field itself, even as monsters rampaged through crowds of men, fire and lightning exploding on both sides. But Geralt knew that he could have the greatest effect like this. Down there, he'd just be another sword.
The School of the Cat might have taken a step or two off the Path, but… they had one thing right. Sometimes a dagger had a lot more reach than a sword.
Which is why they stalked through the halls, putting the sounds of chaos out of their minds. Ciri had brought them here -- they started off in a guest room, the one that she had been kept in, Geralt imagined. Back when they had managed to capture her, before she managed to escape. The spells woven into their medallions and clothing would help prevent magical detection, but actually sneaking up on their targets was up to them.
A powerful blast of lightning struck a walkway, sending up chunks of rock before the entire thing gave out in the wake of a loud clap of thunder. Geralt heard sounds of panic below as Aen Elle elves were crushed underneath the weight of rubble, but his focus was on the fact that the direct walkway wasn't available to them any longer. Leaving the indirect walkway, that was currently being manned by a number of archers and mages.
"Underneath," Vernon spoke, taking out a spool of rope. Geralt saw what he was talking about. The Aen Elle elves were lovers of abstract beauty. The walkways that wove around each other weren't simple mundane arches, like you would find coming in and out of Novigrad or over a river. They were richly decorated with carvings -- Geralt wasn't entirely sure what of. The important thing was, they offered a number of handholds to let them climb under the bridge.
Geralt looked at the mage, Caranthir, that stood on the bridge, magical energies swirling around him like air currents. "Hm. He was one of the shortlist targets anyway. I'll go first and secure the rope," Geralt said, wrapping one end of the rope around his waist. With little hesitation, he hopped over the edge of the railing that led to Caranthir and, one by one, the others followed him.
Looking up was something that one had to be trained to do. In the end, it simply wasn't a natural inclination for most species -- the only ones who did were the ones whose natural predator was able to fly. And that was to say nothing of the great many distractions that were before them as the battle raged, filling the air with the sounds of clashing metal and war cries. Even from where he was, Geralt could smell the scent of blood that wafted up from the battlefield.
It was a slaughter on both sides. A field of absolute ruin. Battles, in his experience, meant a few dozen, maybe a hundred, dying on the field with most of the deaths coming from injuries after the battle was done. However, even in the few short minutes since the battle began… at least a thousand were dead. Maybe more. It was bloody carnage, with neither side willing to retreat even a single step. And Guts was the tip of their spear. The Aen Elle knew it too, so they threw everything they could at him in an attempt to slow him down. Geralt wasn't even sure if Guts noticed.
Thanks to the generous amount of handholds, Geralt had an easy time reaching the walkway. Climbing underneath it, however, he saw that there were fewer in the arch itself. For a normal human, that might have proven a problem, but with his Witcher enhanced strength, he was easily able to make the few handholds available work as he claimed upside down towards the other end of the arch.
However, not before planting something of note. A gift from Guts.
Black powder.
This wasn't quite what Geralt had intended to use it for, but plans changed. He secured the brick of packed powder in a nook underneath Caranthir. Then he made sure it stayed there by slathering it in alghoul marrow -- sticky, and highly flammable. With the bomb secured, Geralt continued climbing underneath the walkway until he reached the other side.
When he did, he secured the rope around a statue that jutted out while the others did the same on the other side. One by one, they crawled along the taut rope over an army of elves. If Geralt let it, he knew that his heart would be beating like a drum, but they couldn't afford nervousness. Instead, they had to focus solely on the mission at hand.
"This is where we part ways, Witcher," Vernon said to him, offering a small nod. Their explosive charges would be used elsewhere, while he had a different task to accomplish. Geralt offered the dour man a small nod, and it conveyed everything that he wished to say.
'Good luck, and don't die.'
The five of them split up, each going their separate way as Geralt continued onward to his target. It didn't take him long to catch sight of him. He was in the very heart of the palace, overlooking the battlefield from a balcony. He cut an impressive figure, at least. As tall as Guts, wearing bulky heavy armor with a skull for a mask. Jutting out from his helmet was a crown, marking the elf as Eredin Bréacc Glas, the King of the Aen Elle. Killing him wouldn't ensure victory. The army wouldn't magically fall apart. What it would do was cause fractures.
Just like a blade, if the fractures were plentiful enough… all it would take is one big hit to shatter it.
He was unguarded, his Wild Hunt on the battlefield, likely deployed against Guts in hopes of slowing him down. It was their best chance. However, this wasn't anything different from a normal hunt -- patience was required. A slow, cautious, approach would ensure that the job got done, even if the sounds of the battlefield echoed in his ears. He advanced inch by inch, foot by foot, drawing ever closer to the unguarded King. Second became minutes, and it felt like it was hours later that he was in position to get the drop on him.
Geralt entered the throne room from above, climbing through the windows, and allowing him to approach from behind. Slowly, soundlessly, Geralt drew his steel sword from its sheath.
Yet, all the same, Eredin spoke.
"Witcher… I had hoped you would come," The King of the Aen Elle uttered the words like a death sentence, turning around as he drew his longsword. His voice was low and rough, that of a King that didn't claim the crown through diplomacy, but with skill of arms. It was how he took the throne, and it was how he kept it.
"Hm," Geralt grunted, feeling the noose closing around his neck.
Things certainly looked dire for him.
…
Once, way back when Guts had been a boy that barely came up to Gambino's knee, he had fought in a bloody siege. Siege weapons, like catapults, weren't often used as a defensive weapon, but they could be if you were desperate enough. In those days, he had played more of a supporting role since he didn't have the strength to kill a man. He had been sent to bring up new spears and arrows, and when he came back…
He never forgot the sight of seeing a huge ass boulder come flying through, smashing through a dozen men and rolling over them like they were nothing when it continued onward with its momentum. A fate he had narrowly managed to avoid… and knowing what he knew now, that had been Fate trying to take his life.
The point being that the battlefield he stood on was unlike any he had fought on before. He caught flashes of lightning and fire exploding on clusters of people on both sides, the scent of charred flesh, blood, and smoke were heavy in the air. A lot of that fire and lightning was being thrown his way, only for it to be magically blocked with shimmering shields. And if it couldn't be blocked by those, then Guts used the enemies around him to take the brunt of it. There were plenty of them, after all.
He had only used the armor on Zodd before, which left him wildly underestimating his abilities. Zodd had been the greatest of his foes -- the strongest warrior, and the strongest Apostle. And it showed, because everything that they threw at him now couldn't hope to measure up. Even quantity wasn't enough to match Zodd in quality. The Apostles cried out as his reforged Dragonslayer cut into them, parting their twisted flesh with oceans of blood spilling from them. They cried out as they died. They cried out as they fought.
They cried out in fear as he ripped and tore his way towards them.
"You can't be human! You can't-" one of them denied before he found himself with Dragonslayer thrusted into his brain while Guts grabbed a member of the Wild Hunt to smash into another, reducing both to chunks of meat and shattered bones inside of twisted metal. Hurling the corpse at another, he leapt up at the lumbering Apostle, ripping his blade up and unleashing a shower of blood as the Apostle stumbled back and collapsed upon scattering elves.
Fire exploded above him, a shimmering shield protecting him from it, but the fire still spilled over the edges and rained upon those below, much like the bloody rain. Guts was soaked with it, it dripped from his armor in rivers, and the heat made it steam. From his small vantage, he saw that the heart of the palace might as well be miles away as arrows, fire, and lightning fell from the archways.
"Guts!" Casca shouted out, her blade darting between the plates of an enemy before dancing out of the way of another's swing. He knew what she was bringing his attention to as he shouldered Dragonslayer.
Big fucker. He almost looked like Skull Knight, only he was backed by a dozen others like him as they rode in the air as specters. "Struggler!" The lead one called out, his helmet marked with a few eye holes, but nothing else. His weapon of choice was a large hammer, the head of which was marked with a bunch of faces. "Face your death!" He roared a challenge, flying down and Guts realized that his horse had a horn sticking out of its forehead. A unicorn?
It didn't matter.
Guts leapt into the air to meet them, landing on the big one in the lead, who positioned a tower shield between them in anticipation of a blow. Their specter intangibility meant nothing. He was more aware of it now. The profane blood that soaked him to the bone. Tangible or not, he could cut them. He could kill them.
"Spare me the grandstanding. I don't even know who the fuck you are," Guts dismissed him, swinging Dragonslayer. The shield caught the edge, but the strength behind the swing made sure Dragonslayer continued. The shield gave way, then the armor, and finally flesh and blood. With a single swing, he took everything above the rib cage of the elf off, and he used his corpse as leverage to launch himself at another while sending the corpse into the side of another rider.
Before, Guts might have struggled against such foes. It might have been a true, genuine battle. But this armor… it was cursed. A curse that would never leave him. Even now, it fought for control of him, tempting him to fall into the black madness that was his hate. But it was this very same armor that ensured that he had the strength he needed to carve out the life he wanted. For Casca. For Judeau.
Gaunter might be the devil himself… but a life of torment was a price he was more than happy to pay so long as they were in it.
His gaze turned to Casca, who fought side by side with Ciri as they pushed through the army. The battle was going poorly. They'd lose eventually.
Which just meant he had to do the heavy lifting and ensure Ciri got where she needed to go.
…
The mages were flagging, Yennefer knew. It was to be expected, really. Most of the mages of their Sphere were researchers. Scholars. Most merely knew how to defend themselves, usually as a means to defend their research or to acquire materials needed for it. There were precious few that truly dedicated their time and talents to war.
It was something that Yennefer wished she could say about the Aen Elle elves. But they were a warlike race. Any advancement they discovered was in pursuit of finding a more efficient way of killing the enemy. And they were damn good at it, Yennefer found herself admitting as sweat dripped from her brow.
"We can't keep this up," Triss exclaimed, sensing the tide turning against them as she did. As if to prove her point, a shield shattered, letting a firestorm erupt in the mass of soldiers. A few mages collapsed, utterly spent. They all had their methods of leeching the energy needed to cast spells. And with the short battle, some of them already found themselves tapped out.
"I know," Yennefer replied. In a way, it wasn't strictly wrong to say that the greater a mage was, the better they could offload the cost of doing magic. Some drew from things around them. Others drew from predetermined trinkets that were loaded with stored power or power that it drew into itself. Yennefer had tried her hand at a number of sources over her near century of life. Some were more preferable than others. "But we must hold on until we see the signal."
She could see it. Her gaze was trained on Caranthir, and because of it, she saw the rope that was still tied underneath it. Geralt… honestly, his mind was like a tailor made glove at this point. She could read his thoughts easily, and with but a glance. Dozens had tried to slip into his mind, to see what he was doing, but she saw it. The bomb under the bridge. In her mind, the knowledge was well worth the cost.
Only she needed the right moment to use the information. Caranthir was a monster of a mage, and it would require more than a lucky shot to bring him down. Only they were rapidly running out of moments to spend waiting.
Magic coiled around her hands, shooting up and shaping to her movements. Under her breath, she chanted, speaking words of magic to shape the chaos that she unleashed. Fires that were snuffed out and lightning that was shattered into sparks. With each spell, she felt herself growing weary. And at this point she knew that the only reason she hadn't collapsed was the magic Triss and Philippa shared with her. But even with the two sorceresses' at her side, she was flagging, as were they.
Caranthir shaped a spell, air condensing overhead. Yennefer shaped a barrier -- a cone with the base encasing them. It held strong, breaking the compressed air that flattened everything around them that wasn't within the area.
Yennefer's knees buckled and she found herself falling to them. A ragged gasp filled her lungs with air-
A streak of light shot up from the palace, and if she had any breath to spare, she'd let out a sigh of relief. The signal. It was almost too late, but better late than never, Yennefer supposed as she forced herself to stand. She took in a slow breath as she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.
There was no school of magic that was truly forbidden. Certainly, there were schools of magic that were frowned upon. That were considered too dangerous to be worth the effort, or whose effects were disastrous for both the wielder of the magic and those that surrounded them. Such magics earned the title of 'black magic', making them as being as deadly as they were dangerous, and they were exceptionally dangerous. But, in the right hands, with the right knowledge, and with the proper care… even black magic was just another tool to be used.
One such black magic was necromancy. There was some scholarly debate about the nature of a soul. Some believed that wraiths and the like were simply a mind imprinting upon ambient magic, giving it shape and will. Others believe in the immortal nature of the soul, and every time you reach past death, you reached into heaven or hell. Yennefer didn't care one way or another, it was all the same to her. What did matter, however, was power.
And few things carried more power than life itself.
"I'm… sorry," she whispered to the killing field before her. An ultimately pointless apology, when it came right down to it. An empty one as well, for it implied that she felt any measure of regret for what she was about to do. The only regret she felt was that it was necessary. In a low building tone, Yennefer began to chant as she reached out with her magic towards the killing field. Where it then touched every single dying man and woman. The ones that were too far gone. At least, that's what she liked to think.
Some of their wounds could be survivable. But they were lying in the blood soaked mud, and that help wouldn't be coming for them. Instead, she grabbed hold of them by clenching a fist as a sense of… wrongness flowed through her. Like her blood was filled with pus and oil, her skin crawling while it felt like worms writhed underneath it. She tasted bile on the back of her tongue that she swallowed down.
Then, with a yank, the ones that could no longer fight died. The stolen embers of their lives gathered in her hands, acting as fuel for the next spell she crafted. Both Triss and Philippa helped shape it, sharing in the wrongness that Yennefer felt. The flames condensed into a single fire that was no larger than a candle's flame, but when she blew it forward with a breath, it erupted into a torrent of fire that swept forward like a sea of orange flames.
It raced overhead of the armies, going straight for the palace and Yennefer knew that barriers were being erected. However, they had a… flaw, Yennefer supposed you could call it. Personal barriers typically ended at one's feet in a bubble when you were defending yourself, but that was wholly impractical when you were protecting a position. Too much wasted energy. It was far simpler and more efficient to create a large shield. Perhaps curved and shaped to throw off the worst of the impact.
The inferno couldn't reach them, but with a heave, Yennefer rose a hand up high and the flames lurched up.
The sounds of explosions echoed out over the roaring flames as the bombs placed under the feat of the enemy mages went off. Yennefer felt the resistance there vanish entirely, like a stopper being removed from a drain. A smile tugged at her lips despite the wretched feeling that filled her with nausea.
"That makes things much easier."
After all, without mage support… well…
There were many valid reasons why common folk feared mages. With a dozen mages, they had managed to defend Sodden Hill and rout an army. With nearly a hundred, and with no mages to support the Aen Elle elves… Yennefer imagined that they would be inspiring a few more reasons to be afraid.
…
Geralt pivoted, blocking a blow that rattled his bones, sparks showering from his sword before he thrust as a counter. Eredin batted the thrust away before his form blurred, becoming translucent, and his sword flashed at his neck, forcing Geralt to dodge out of the way. A vibration ran through his feet, and he took that as confirmation that the mission was a success. When it came right down to it -- numbers, monsters… it didn't really matter. The side that had mages won battles like these.
"Your world will burn for this," Eredin snarled at him as they traded blows. Geralt found himself on the defensive, even as his veins blackened from the Witcher potions he had ingested. "I'll see to it that you survive long enough to watch everything you care for go up in flames!"
Geralt simply grunted, shifting from the defensive as he parried a blow and feinted a blow to his legs. As he expected, Eredin shifted and appeared behind him, arriving just as Geralt shifted his grip to perform a reverse thrust that managed to find purchase in a gap in Eredin's plate armor. His blade glinted with red, but Eredin was a warrior king. It would take more than a few scratches to put him down. Spinning his blade, Geralt blocked a retaliatory strike and their blades clashed together between them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw the fire that washed over the palace, nearly reaching the balcony they fought on. The walkways and rooms crumbled to the ground, chunks of rock slamming upon the enemy blow. Those were the lucky ones because the fire clung to the stone like they were covered in oil. It clung to the warriors as well, making them scream in agony.
"Looks like your world's already burning," Geralt replied, backing away a half step and their blades clashing in a deadly dance. He was answered with an animalistic growl before Eredin attacked with renewed ferocity. He understood what the flames meant -- that his mages were no longer protecting his army. And more than anything else, that made it vulnerable.
In hindsight, maybe it wasn't the best idea to piss him off, Geralt reflected as a blade nearly took his head off, but only managed to give him a new scar below his right eye. Provided he lived long enough for it to heal. Once again he was forced on the defensive as he was nearly overwhelmed with a flurry of blows. His heart pounded in his chest, even as his hands were steady. His reflexes saved him as Eredin came at him from all angles -- the sides, behind, and even above.
He had hoped one of the others would be able to make their way here to lend a hand, but no such luck.
At least, so Geralt thought before he caught a flash of movement before a familiar woman leaped on Eredin's back before driving her saber into a gap in his armor. Eredin cried out for the first time as a half foot of steel slipped down past his collarbone and when he lashed out, Casca flipped over him to land lightly on her feet.
He was relieved to see her. He understood what it meant. The blocks on teleportation were gone, and he had never been more happy about portals than he was now. They had managed to cut through the army, and that meant Ciri was nearing her destination. However, he couldn't say that. There wasn't time. Instead, he said, "Can you keep up?"
Casca gave him a smile that reminded him dangerously of Ciri. "I can keep up with Guts. I imagine I can keep up with you," she replied with some amusement.
"Heh."
With that, the two of them sprung forward. And Geralt believed her. Casca let him take point in the fight, drawing Eredin's attention while she flanked with her blade darting out like the head of a snake. He and Eredin were on nearly even footing when it came to ability, exchanging a flurry of blows as they danced around each other. Casca, however, was tipping the balance.
The injury she had delivered slowed Eredin. And with every passing second, he slowed more. It was a fatal wound without magic, and he likely knew it. Which is why he didn't waste his breath with pointless taunting and focused on trying to take them with him. He also realized the danger that Casca presented, because while she wasn't as fast or as strong as either of them, she was used to fighting around someone that was faster and stronger.
Her blade struck out, needling Eredin with blow after blow that never failed to strike a gap in his armor. Sometimes the chainmail held, but sometimes it didn't. With every wound he took, it showed in his swordsmanship.
Until it reached a tipping point.
It was a desperate gamble and Geralt had been waiting for it. Eredin blurred forward, not at him, but for Casca, intent on taking her out of the equation. Geralt did something that Vesimer would throttle him for if he ever saw it, but he reversed his grip on his blade before he launched it.
Just as Eredin materialized behind Casca, who had barely started to turn around to face him, Geralt's blade punched through his throat with enough force that the crossguard was the only thing stopping it from sailing all the way through. Eredin aborted the attack, one hand groping up at the blade lodged in his neck, but the hesitation cost him. Casca pivoted sharply, going low before driving her blade into him at his hip in an upward thrust, skewering his heart.
No final words. No grand gestures or acts.
Just another dead king with his trousers full of shit as he died.
…
Ciri didn't know how to describe Guts other than as a monster for monsters. It was a daunting thing to follow in his wake as he butchered everything in his way. It was humbling. And terrifying. With enough time and enough swings of his sword, Ciri could truly believe that he could slaughter the army on his own. The only difficult part of it would be convincing them to climb up the mountains of their fallen comrades to reach Guts at the top.
As much as she would like to stop and stare at the grisly display, they didn't have the time.
Ciri had seen what happened. A line of possible futures. Yennefer and the others were completely spent, and running on spite. They inflicted an astounding amount of damage upon the Aen Elle elves, but only enough to make up for their lesser numbers. Ciri couldn't say for certain, but she felt they were still outnumbered. The men would be ground away, and if they weren't careful… Guts really would be the last man standing.
She caught a glimpse of their destination -- the Place of Power. She could feel a hum as it resonated with the Elder Blood. A bridge between space and time -- a bridge that connected this Sphere to her home. A bridge she was going to have to burn down.
And with a final spray of blood, Guts carved the path for her to arrive. It seemed awful to ask any more of him, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. "I need you to defend me while I do this," she said, stepping towards the Place of Power. A dozen stones erected around a single one that acted as an anchor for this half of the bridge.
"Just do your thing," Guts said, stepping upon charred corpses. "I'll handle it on this end." Only he could say that in the face of an army, and have her believe him wholeheartedly.
It was a struggle to tune out the sounds of death and destruction around her. All the same, she forced the sounds from her mind as she knelt before the center stone, closing her eyes and pulling upon the power in her blood. The sensation that filled her… she could only compare it to when Judeau held her hand and, honestly, that was a pretty terrifying comparison. Pure power flooded her veins and Ciri felt herself… expanding. Like her body couldn't hold her mind so it bled out into space.
The sounds of battle were gone. The stench of blood and burnt hair were gone. The aches in her body, the stinging of the few wounds she had endured… all of it was gone. She couldn't hear anything. She couldn't smell or taste anything. She couldn't feel anything. What she could do, however, was see.
And if she could breathe, what she saw would have left her breathless.
A vast infinity that stretched on endlessly, and the infinity only grew with every passing second. Before her eyes, Ciri could see Spheres coming into existence. She could see them being wiped away. She could see a thousand different Conjunctions happening in a thousand different places, all at the same time. Each was contained in their own bubble that floated in a black void. It was mesmerizing. It was terrifying.
Every time she jumped between Spheres, she thought she knew how vast space really was. Ciri realized that she didn't have a single clue. Within each Sphere was a universe of endless space where entire worlds were filled with life. And within each Sphere, countless timeliness were being created every second. It was… it was honestly indescribable. Hauntingly beautiful but utterly terrifying.
It made her feel small. It made her Sphere feel small. All that she had endured, everything that she had done and accomplished… her Sphere could vanish and it wouldn't be noticed. It was all that insignificant.
It was a struggle to focus, but she managed to turn her attention to the task at hand. Between the Spheres, Ciri saw what amounted to lines drawn in sand. A road, or a bridge, that connected the stolen Sphere of the Aen Elle to her home. And with an action as simple as wiping her hand across a line in sand, the bridge vanished entirely. It was simply gone.
Space and Time were hers.
Ciri looked down to her Sphere, and she could peer into it. She could see everything. She could see her father pacing in a room, a heavy frown on his face. She could see Dijkstra plotting a betrayal. She could see everything. And that included the Wild Hunt, joined by Apostles that were terrorizing her home. Only the Apostles…
Ciri saw what she could only describe as chains attached to them. They were invisible to the naked eye, but she saw them all the same. Each one… each one anchored into the Brand that was burned into their flesh. Ciri saw that it was the same for Guts and Casca -- She watched them fighting to defend her body, joined by Geralt and so many others. It reminded her what she was here for.
The White Frost. It was big. Even in an ever expanding infinity, it was big. It had claimed trillions upon trillions of Spheres and it was encroaching ever closer. And she saw it. A cold hard truth that she couldn't deny even if she wanted to.
She couldn't stop the White Frost. It was inevitable. It wasn't a disaster so much as a fact. Just as you grew colder the further you got from a fire -- that's what the White Frost was. It progressed logically and, just as if you were next to an iceberg you would feel its coldness, it affected the Spheres near it.
"I didn't come all this way to give up," Ciri said with no voice, imposing her will on her domain.
The White Frost was inevitable, but it could be delayed. A delay of millions, even billions, of years. Nearly an eternity and barely an instant. But a delay all the same.
Ciri swept the affected worlds together and shoved them away into what amounted to the corner of infinity. Eventually, the space between the affected Spheres would grow cold enough that it would continue but… she didn't have to stop it forever. So long as the people that she loved and the future she wanted to create had the chance to thrive…
"And that gives me an idea on what to do with you," Ciri continued, turning her attention to where the chains led. Guts' Sphere. Or, rather, Hell. She peered into it, and she saw Hell in all of its terrible glory. She saw the Godhand and she saw them looking back at her. Griffith's piercing gaze met her own, but she was unfathomably their greater. They stood uncowed but helpless, left waiting for her sentencing.
Only she couldn't destroy them. Just as she was the daughter of Space and Time the Godhand were the physical manifestations of Evil. Ciri couldn't destroy them any more than she could destroy the concept of Evil within the Sphere. Not unless she chose to destroy the Sphere itself. And she hated them -- for what they did to Guts. For what they represented. Their very existence was Evil. There was no hope for redemption or antonment. So long as they existed, they would inflict evil upon the innocent and undeserving.
Her training as a Witcher came in handy. There were plenty of things that you couldn't simply slay with a swipe of a sword, or the right combination of words and herbs. To those things… you sealed them away. You isolated them and ensured that they couldn't harm anyone else until you, or another, figured out how to kill them.
Ciri reached out to the Sphere, holding it in her hands as if it were no greater than a marble. "You won't get to lay your filthy hands on their souls. I can't kill you… but enjoy a billion years in time out," Ciri snarled at them and the Godhand was helpless to stop her as she closed the door on them. That didn't stop them from trying, though. They were powerful, in their own way. They were just picking a fight in her domain. The first sign that the battle of wills was turning against them was the chains that stretched across Time and Space that would ensure that the Branded would be damned to Hell shattered. Freeing Guts and Casca while robbing the Apostles of their power.
The very last thing she saw as the doors closed to Hell was Griffith's piercing gaze, and with that, the doors slammed shut. Hell was closed. The Godhand would be trapped within, unable to affect even their own Sphere. It wasn't as satisfying as squishing them like a couple of bugs, but… it wasn't about satisfaction. It was about stopping them so there wouldn't ever be another Guts or Casca.
Who knows. Maybe in a billion years, the Idea of Evil wouldn't mean a damn thing.
Ciri smiled to herself as she began to fade away, falling back to her kneeling body. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling, but she ignored it in favor of standing on her own two feet. She took in a deep breath and tilted back her head, savoring the feeling even as chaos erupted around them.
"We've won!" Her triumphant cry echoed out, impossibly loud. She looked to see Geralt, Guts, Casca and all the others fighting to defend her. She gave them a gentle and thankful smile. "And it's time for us to go home."
They didn't win for forever… but for today?
Today, they had won.
...
Next chapter will be the epilogue of Castoff and it will earn its Complete tag.
Acheroraptor
Probably mortal
Dis Ciri just shove hell in a box and ducktape 'em? On one hand, Thats awesome, on the other, its goddam hilarious
Who You Were
- Location
- USA
"I can't believe you talked me into wearing this thing," Guts grumbled as he picked at the cuff of what he could only describe as a doublet. Black and gold were the coloring with the gold coming from fine embroidery that ran along the hem and his sleeves. The man in the mirror was an unfamiliar one -- he was starting to get used to the finery, shockingly. But the reason he still struggled to recognize himself was the absence of the dark bags underneath his eyes.
A hand went up to his neck, touching where the Brand should be, and yet he only felt smooth skin. It was gone. The last vestige of the Eclipse was gone.
"Really? I believe it. I just have to flutter my eyelashes at you, and you melt like snow on a summer's day," Casca remarked from behind him, sounding far too amused for her own good. He glanced at her through the mirror to see that she was leaning on the door. She was beautiful, dressed in a fine gown that was primarily gold with black highlights. To compliment each other's outfits, she had said.
However, what most drew his attention about her was the hand on her round stomach.
A lot had changed in a year.
"Half the Empire is terrified of you, and all it takes is a pretty face and you fold like a linen sheet," Casca continued to tease.
"No. Just your face," Guts replied, and he got the reaction that he wanted when her dark skin darkened a hue further before she rolled her eyes. He gave his own reflection a lingering look, still not quite recognizing himself before he turned to Casca. "Why are these people bothering us in the first place?" He asked, offering an arm and Casca gave him a dry look, but accepted it all the same.
"It's Judeau's birthday celebration. It didn't mean anything to us growing up, but it's important for nobility. Which we are, Grand Duke," she stressed his title as if he had forgotten it. Honestly, he almost wished that he could. The sniveling made him miss the days on the road where everything in the shadows wanted to kill him. At least then it wasn't considered impolite to kill them back. "I had to run logistics for the entire thing, you know. We have upper nobility from across the Empire showing up just to rub shoulders. It was a nightmare -- it was easier planning battles."
An elbow dug into his ribs, "You had better enjoy yourself."
"I won't strangle anyone, Grand Duchess," Guts replied, and that was the best she was going to get. He sent her a look as he stressed her title, getting a small twitch of her lips before the two of them shared a chuckle. They left their quarters -- a bedroom that was larger than most of the peasant homes he came across in his travels. The hallway was made of marble flooring and granite walls, both tiled with mosaics. They walked the hallways that still didn't quite feel familiar to Guts even though he walked them at least twice a day.
An open window let him glance out at the surrounding terrain -- rolling hills that were covered in trees, with a great river running between them. Beyond the hills, he caught a reflection of the ocean itself. It was a beautiful view. And the man in the mirror was the kind of man that could understand beauty when he saw it. Much closer to the castle was the castle town that surrounded them, sprawling out around the hill the castle was built on.
He saw that the celebrations were already well underway. Wasn't much of a surprise there. People always looked for a reason to cast off their worldly concerns and get drunk. Still, it was… something, he supposed, that the reason that they had an excuse to party today was that this was the day his and Casca's kid had been born. At the very least it was better than his birthdays. Guts wasn't sure when exactly he was born, but odds were that day Gambino was trying to kill him.
"My feet are already killing me," Casca complained as they arrived at the grand hall. It was done up with decorations and luxuries -- some magical in nature, Guts noted as a fountain turned water into wine. "I'm almost glad we skipped over all this when it came to Judeau," she added, and Guts heard a clamor in another room that he was nearly certain was Judeau and the kids. The orphans that they had saved at Crookback Bog, though it wasn't really a bog anymore.
As if to confirm it, he saw the lot of them stream out of the backroom as if the devil himself was nipping at their heels, darting around servants who nearly tripped over them. Guts saw Judeau among them, his expression one of intense concentration with Puck riding on his shoulder. "Cheese it! Run! Run away!" Puck exclaimed, catching sight of the two of them and the kids vanished behind a door.
"We can't see it, so it's not our problem," Casca reasoned, earning a rumbling chuckle from Guts. He looked at the hall -- white marble, more gray walls, all of it decorated with rich tapestries with a large hearth on the far wall across from a large set of double doors. Every time he stepped into the room, he was washed with the same sense of unease that he felt way back when they had been invited to that celebration back in Midland. A feeling of not belonging. Wealth was nothing he particularly cared about before -- it had just been a means to an end.
Now, he was wealthy. He was a Grand Duke, second only to the royal family. To Ciri. And a year wasn't enough time for him to not feel like an imposter.
"You sure you're up for this? I can deal with them while you rest," Guts offered, making Casca laugh as his attention went down to her swollen stomach. Their child. Their second one. With Judeau, Guts had only known after the Eclipse and… well… with their second kid on the way, Guts had had about seven months to stew in new anxieties and fears that he had missed out on.
His gaze flickered to a door, knowing what was beyond it because he put it there. Just in case.
Dragonslayer.
"I'll be fine," Casca reassured. "If it ever gets too annoying, I'll call you over to growl at them." That worked for him. Then she patted him on the shoulder, "Come on. It's about time that we make them stop waiting."
With that, the large double doors swung open, and their majordomo began to announce the attendees. Name, noble rank, and lands beholden to them. Naturally, the important ones came first. Other Dukes and Duchesses -- they approached with smiles that didn't match their eyes, words as sweet as poison, making idle chatter as they probed for weakness. They didn't find any. Casca, as it turned out, was pretty diplomatic when she wanted to be.
It also helped that they were terrified of him.
The next batch of people welcomed were more of interest to Guts -- direct vassals to him. Or the newly risen. They stepped into the grand hall, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Guts felt. A year wasn't enough time for them either. A year ago, they had been peasants. Now, they were nobility. Some of them even high nobility.
It was one of the best decisions Ciri had made so far, in his opinion. After the battle, there had been an odd five thousand left of the fifteen thousand army. The remaining third of the army was rewarded for their bravery and valor. They were given lands, they were made knights, and a few became nobility to fill the void in the North and to replace those purged in Nilfgaard. Guts had a number of them sworn to him.
"Lord Duke," One of them greeted with an easy smile, holding up a bottle of cheap rum. "A gift for the parents. My boy was an angel until my wife and I gave him a brother. Then the two became hellions," he said with a laugh. The old blood sneered but Guts took the bottle of rum quite happily. He'd had fine wines, but so far, nothing had managed to beat the taste of cheap rum.
"Well, here's hoping for a sister," Casca replied dryly, earning a few laughs. Some more genuine than others.
Guts was on better terms with the new blood than the old blood. And they… well, they had seen first hand what he was capable of. They had said it more times than he cared to hear, and the tales spiraled out of control into outright impossibility -- that he won the battle singlehandedly. That he slaughtered hundreds of demons with every swing of his blade. Ciri got what she wanted, he supposed.
The old blood was being drowned out by the new. And after what they saw… if they didn't listen to Ciri, then they listened to him.
"Welcoming Yennefer of Vengerberg! First Sorcereres and Hero of the White Night. Accompanied by her paramore, Geralt of Rivia, a Hero of the White Night and a Master Witcher," the majordomo announced, breaking Guts free of his thoughts to look over at the two. They were arm in arm, and Yennefer looked right at home with the attention. Geralt looked like he was silently hoping for a monster attack.
Both of them looked well, though. The magic side of things wasn't something that Guts really concerned himself with, but Ciri managed to impose order on the mages with the help of Yennefer and Triss. They got more freedoms than they did under old Nilfgaard, but not complete freedom like some wanted. Novigrad was home for most, and as for those that felt any oversight was too demanding, they ended up fucking off to Kovir.
Time world tell how well things would work out, but at the very least, any overly ambitious mage would have to get through Yennefer. And looking at her, Guts didn't see that happening easily.
"I see he's no better than Geralt when it comes to finery," Yennefer remarked as they approached. The words might have carried an edge, but the amused smile on her lips took the bite out of them.
As if on cue, Geralt rolled his shoulders, "You paid someone to stitch wires in this thing," he accused without any real heat, nodding a greeting at Guts. Guts held up the bottle of rum and he offered a thin smile as a waiter poured him a cup. He would never get used to having servants, but he couldn't deny that they were convenient. "Big crowd. Birthday boy decided parties aren't for him?"
"Hm. Decided they were boring and ran off with the others," Guts agreed.
"Clever kid," Geralt praised.
"Really, you two have to get used to this. You aren't on the Path hunting monsters anymore," Yennefer pointed out. That was a little less true in Geralt's case, but not false enough that she didn't have a point. One of the very first things that Ciri did was overhaul how Witchers were treated. Contracts were subsidized, they received a Guildhall in every city and villagers would be reimbursed by the crown for providing food and lodging. It was already being abused, but it was for coppers out of gold.
Geralt himself had essentially retired from the life. The only dabbling that he did was overseeing a hunt for the various knight orders that popped up to deal with more mundane monsters like drowners.
"Not if I can help it," Geralt replied dryly.
Before Guts could reply, a voice caught his attention. Or, rather, a lyric.
"Our hero, our hero -- one of stout heart and endless courage~!" Guts heard, immediately recognizing the lyric. He looked over to see that the music was coming from Priscilla and Dandelion, the two performing a duo with Dandelion strumming his lute. He noticed Guts' expression and tossed a wink his way, a thoroughly unrepentant smile on his face.
Then he sang, "A veritable wall and an unbreakable spear~!" He said the next line, and Geralt chuckled.
"You get used to it," he offered, earning a grunt from Guts.
"I'd rather not," he decided. It was a strange thing to have a song written about him. He might have inspired one or two back in Midland, but he was willing to bet that he was the monster in those songs. This song was a popular one when it first sung, and a year later, it had only gotten more so. A song about the battle to save the world. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't such a surprise the battle would inspire such songs, but it was rather uncomfortable to be the main focal point for a lot of them.
The music, however, proved to be a cue because not a second later, the majordomo spoke out again. "Introducing her Imperial Majesty Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon -- Empress of the North and Nilfgaard and Grand Duchess of Cintra. Accompanied by her Imperial Father, Emhyr var Emreis, Grand Vizier of Nilfgaard." The most important guests of the evening, and Guts was looking forward to meeting one of them a great deal more than the other.
The two strode through the double doors, which had been closed just so they could be opened dramatically for them. Ciri wore a silver and white gown, a thin band of silver and gold on her head to make sure it was clear that she was the queen. The make up around her eyes was dark, done professionally rather than whatever she had done before. Her hair was a bit longer, done up, and she made no effort to hide the scar on her cheek.
She did a good job of looking regal, at least until their gazes met and she cracked a sly looking smile. Her father was as dour as he ever was, wearing black and white, his expression utterly blank.
He had lost his title as Emperor, and instead took up the title of Vizier. A title that allowed him to oversee the original territories of Nilfgaard. A title that would pass to Ciri upon his death, so she could issue it to someone else if there was ever a need. And if Guts was her blunt hammer, then her father was her knife in the dark.
A year had passed and the unification of the North and Nilfgaard had been anything but smooth. Even now, there were those in the room that were probing. Poking. Trying to gauge the temperament of everyone in the room because Ciri's entrance had the same effect as a stone tossed into a lake. There were loyalists, traditionalists, and opportunists. Everyone watched her every move as she approached, with Yennefer greeting her warmly.
"Ciri! You look lovely," Yennefer said, freely wrapping her in a hug before she openly glared over Ciri's shoulder at a few in particular. It was hard to keep secrets from someone who could read minds, Guts imagined. It was a good thing that he didn't have any secrets that would interest Yennefer.
"Thank you. Hearing that makes the three hours putting it all together worth it," Ciri replied with dry humor, pulling back. She favored Geralt, who had gotten into a glaring contest with Emhyr, with a smile before she turned to him and Casca. Her eyes lit up when she saw Casca, "You've gotten so much bigger! The little one was just a bump last I saw you," Ciri greeted Casca with the same warmth she greeted Yennefer with.
"Don't I know it," Casca sighed with a smile. Early on, the fussing at her pregnancy caused no end of annoyance, but by now she had gotten used to it. "You look well, your highness."
"Ugh, please, don't call me that," Ciri made a dramatic face and Guts heard the quiet sigh her father let out. "Only for official stuff. This is a birthday, so it doesn't count. Speaking of which, where is the little guy?"
"Probably taking turns beating every wit out of his head with the other kids," Casca replied bluntly, much to Ciri's amusement.
"Sounds like they have the right idea," Ciri remarked with a teasing smile. "If little Judeau is half as hard headed as this one, then the stick is more likely to break." She added, the casual remark a little stilted. Tense. That was her realizing how many eyes were cast in their direction, noting the familiar way they spoke. Guts couldn't give less of a shit about social hierarchies if he actively tried, but he wasn't blind to them either.
Others looked on, from the outside, and only saw their closeness. They plotted how to drive a wedge between them, how to get as close as Guts and Yennefer were to the Empress, and thought of all the things they would do with the Empress' friendship. And, from the looks of it, Ciri realized it too.
"How about we find somewhere a little more private to talk? Oh, and I can give Judeau his gift!" Ciri ventured, throwing on a smile that seemed a little diminished to Guts' eyes.
"I wouldn't recommend it, daughter," Emhyr said, his voice dry and flat. He already knew what the response would be.
"Let them talk. If having a private conversation with my friends is a step too far for some, then they're welcome to speak up," Ciri replied. Despite Emhyr's evident displeasure, Guts was relieved to see that being Empress hadn't changed Ciri much. She was still unrepentantly herself.
There were some mutterings -- Yennefer and Casca walked off to find wherever the kids had gotten off to while Geralt remained behind to make sure that Emhyr remained honest. Leaving Ciri and Guts finding a rare moment of privacy as they headed off to a balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the castle.
"You look well," Ciri greeted, dropping all pretenses as she leaned unceremoniously against the stone railing. "Glad to see I'm not the only one that can't stand banquets."
Guts grunted, "Misery loves company." He acknowledged. "How are things on your end? I have a bet with Geralt that you'd be tearing out your hair by the first year."
Ciri shot him a smile that was downright smug. "You owe him money, then. Things are going fabulously," she replied triumphantly. Then she chuckled, "Next year is going to be different. This year has been about mending bridges and burying axes. To limited degrees of success," she admitted with a shrug.
"You can't make people forget about hate so easily," Guts conceded, his gaze going to his own flickering shadow due to the torches that flanked the doorway to the balcony. The edges might flicker, but the core of it was solid and after a year, he could see the cursed armor looking back at him. Waiting. Wanting.
"Maybe not," Ciri agreed. "Does it get any easier to bear?" She asked, her tone curious despite herself.
Was it any easier to bear? "Sometimes," Guts admitted after a moment, tearing his gaze away from the shadow to the sky above to see that the stars were starting to emerge. "Sometimes, I wake up and I'm filled with hate. Like how I was back when we first met. I didn't care if I lived or died, just so long as I was spitting in his eye." He admitted, oddly discomforted by the casualness of his tone. For years, he hadn't been able to so much as think about Griffith without seeing red.
"Other days, I barely think about him at all. He's stuck in a hell of his own making now. That dream he sacrificed us all for… he'll never realize it. Might mean it was all for nothing, but it also means he didn't gain anything from it either," Guts continued. Part of him wished he could have been there, standing before Griffith. To make him pay. To strike him down.
He always had to push those thoughts to the side. His wishes came with a cost, and that was the curse that he would bear until his dying day.
Then he shrugged, "I have more good days than bad days now." And that was still a novelty.
Ciri hummed in response, "We'll do it the right way. The hard way," Ciri spoke up, looking across the courtyard and beyond the walls. "This was the easy part. It's all uphill from here. I'm going to start exploring the Spheres for things and information we can use here. If you think making a Northling and Nilfgaardian get along was tough, you haven't seen anything yet. They're going to fight us every step of the way about every change we make."
We.
That was the difference between Ciri and Griffith, when it came right down to it. For all that they were similar…
Ciri used we and Griffith used I.
"If change was so easy, you'd be a dignified Empress by now," Guts remarked, looking back at her and receiving an indignant expression.
"... what's that supposed to mean, you borderline vagabond?" Ciri asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. The only thing that Guts resented in the remark was the borderline. "But, point taken. It's not so easy to change your stripes."
As she spoke, the kids came into view as they broke out in a dead sprint, laughing all the while. Their numbers had grown, likely due to blue blood parents trying to get their kids to strike up a friendship with the next Grand Duke. Who they were running from was obvious enough when Casca and Yennefer stepped into view.
His gaze lingered on Casca's face, her annoyed expression doing a poor job of hiding her amusement. Of Judeau, who openly smiled, his joy evident as the sun in a cloudless day.
His swordhand itched, aching for the comfortable weight of Dragonslayer. To be on the road. To be in the middle of the fight -- any fight would do. His life had become something wholly unfamiliar to him. The only thing that was familiar at this point was the ache for vengeance, but it had already been taken. Guts closed his hand into a fist, looking down at the two most important people in the world to him. Two, and within a few months, it would be three.
Maybe four, if he felt like counting Puck.
Puck likely sensed his emotions because he looked up, "Guts!" He called out, the small wind spirit waving at him, "Come play tag with us!"
A simple childish game. Guts felt the weight of Dragonslayer behind him -- hidden away in a closet, just in case he needed it. A sword that hadn't left his side for years.
Guts gripped the stone railing, "You're right," he admitted to her as he stepped onto it, a decision made. "But it's worth trying, when it's for the right reasons," he continued before throwing himself over the side to land on the ground a dozen feet down, much to the astonishment of the kids who promptly cheered. Above him, he heard Ciri laughing.
The past was dead. The Black Swordsman was dead.
Guts wasn't entirely sure who he would become in the future, but for now… For now, he wanted to become the kind of husband and father that would play a game of tag with his family. If he managed that much… then Guts would know he had accomplished all that he needed to.
And more than he ever dreamed.
…
So ends Castoff, my third story to earn a Complete tag. Overall, I'm pretty satisfied with it. It was a commissioned work, so I paid a lot more attention to the word count than I otherwise might have, but that let me focus on the main plot rather than get distracted with side stuff as I typically do. Either way, it's more or less what I set out to write.
I know some were disappointed with Guts not being the one to strike Griffith down, but the entire point of the story was Guts letting go of vengeance to embrace life. For most of his life, he lived for the sake of living, or for the sake of vengeance. Now, he has reasons to not just be alive, but live. He has a family. He has a future. And that's the biggest 'fuck you' he could realistically give Griffith because, one day, Guts won't think about him at all and Griffith will be trapped with his own failures for the next billion years.
As for the future -- Guts and Ciri both have a long life ahead of them. It won't be a story of 'things were happily ever after forever.' There will be highs and lows, successes and tribulations. But, I do think that they would come out with history recalling them quite fondly even if the utopia that Ciri set out to create wasn't fully realized. In their generation, at least.
And that's about it for Castoff. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.
A hand went up to his neck, touching where the Brand should be, and yet he only felt smooth skin. It was gone. The last vestige of the Eclipse was gone.
"Really? I believe it. I just have to flutter my eyelashes at you, and you melt like snow on a summer's day," Casca remarked from behind him, sounding far too amused for her own good. He glanced at her through the mirror to see that she was leaning on the door. She was beautiful, dressed in a fine gown that was primarily gold with black highlights. To compliment each other's outfits, she had said.
However, what most drew his attention about her was the hand on her round stomach.
A lot had changed in a year.
"Half the Empire is terrified of you, and all it takes is a pretty face and you fold like a linen sheet," Casca continued to tease.
"No. Just your face," Guts replied, and he got the reaction that he wanted when her dark skin darkened a hue further before she rolled her eyes. He gave his own reflection a lingering look, still not quite recognizing himself before he turned to Casca. "Why are these people bothering us in the first place?" He asked, offering an arm and Casca gave him a dry look, but accepted it all the same.
"It's Judeau's birthday celebration. It didn't mean anything to us growing up, but it's important for nobility. Which we are, Grand Duke," she stressed his title as if he had forgotten it. Honestly, he almost wished that he could. The sniveling made him miss the days on the road where everything in the shadows wanted to kill him. At least then it wasn't considered impolite to kill them back. "I had to run logistics for the entire thing, you know. We have upper nobility from across the Empire showing up just to rub shoulders. It was a nightmare -- it was easier planning battles."
An elbow dug into his ribs, "You had better enjoy yourself."
"I won't strangle anyone, Grand Duchess," Guts replied, and that was the best she was going to get. He sent her a look as he stressed her title, getting a small twitch of her lips before the two of them shared a chuckle. They left their quarters -- a bedroom that was larger than most of the peasant homes he came across in his travels. The hallway was made of marble flooring and granite walls, both tiled with mosaics. They walked the hallways that still didn't quite feel familiar to Guts even though he walked them at least twice a day.
An open window let him glance out at the surrounding terrain -- rolling hills that were covered in trees, with a great river running between them. Beyond the hills, he caught a reflection of the ocean itself. It was a beautiful view. And the man in the mirror was the kind of man that could understand beauty when he saw it. Much closer to the castle was the castle town that surrounded them, sprawling out around the hill the castle was built on.
He saw that the celebrations were already well underway. Wasn't much of a surprise there. People always looked for a reason to cast off their worldly concerns and get drunk. Still, it was… something, he supposed, that the reason that they had an excuse to party today was that this was the day his and Casca's kid had been born. At the very least it was better than his birthdays. Guts wasn't sure when exactly he was born, but odds were that day Gambino was trying to kill him.
"My feet are already killing me," Casca complained as they arrived at the grand hall. It was done up with decorations and luxuries -- some magical in nature, Guts noted as a fountain turned water into wine. "I'm almost glad we skipped over all this when it came to Judeau," she added, and Guts heard a clamor in another room that he was nearly certain was Judeau and the kids. The orphans that they had saved at Crookback Bog, though it wasn't really a bog anymore.
As if to confirm it, he saw the lot of them stream out of the backroom as if the devil himself was nipping at their heels, darting around servants who nearly tripped over them. Guts saw Judeau among them, his expression one of intense concentration with Puck riding on his shoulder. "Cheese it! Run! Run away!" Puck exclaimed, catching sight of the two of them and the kids vanished behind a door.
"We can't see it, so it's not our problem," Casca reasoned, earning a rumbling chuckle from Guts. He looked at the hall -- white marble, more gray walls, all of it decorated with rich tapestries with a large hearth on the far wall across from a large set of double doors. Every time he stepped into the room, he was washed with the same sense of unease that he felt way back when they had been invited to that celebration back in Midland. A feeling of not belonging. Wealth was nothing he particularly cared about before -- it had just been a means to an end.
Now, he was wealthy. He was a Grand Duke, second only to the royal family. To Ciri. And a year wasn't enough time for him to not feel like an imposter.
"You sure you're up for this? I can deal with them while you rest," Guts offered, making Casca laugh as his attention went down to her swollen stomach. Their child. Their second one. With Judeau, Guts had only known after the Eclipse and… well… with their second kid on the way, Guts had had about seven months to stew in new anxieties and fears that he had missed out on.
His gaze flickered to a door, knowing what was beyond it because he put it there. Just in case.
Dragonslayer.
"I'll be fine," Casca reassured. "If it ever gets too annoying, I'll call you over to growl at them." That worked for him. Then she patted him on the shoulder, "Come on. It's about time that we make them stop waiting."
With that, the large double doors swung open, and their majordomo began to announce the attendees. Name, noble rank, and lands beholden to them. Naturally, the important ones came first. Other Dukes and Duchesses -- they approached with smiles that didn't match their eyes, words as sweet as poison, making idle chatter as they probed for weakness. They didn't find any. Casca, as it turned out, was pretty diplomatic when she wanted to be.
It also helped that they were terrified of him.
The next batch of people welcomed were more of interest to Guts -- direct vassals to him. Or the newly risen. They stepped into the grand hall, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Guts felt. A year wasn't enough time for them either. A year ago, they had been peasants. Now, they were nobility. Some of them even high nobility.
It was one of the best decisions Ciri had made so far, in his opinion. After the battle, there had been an odd five thousand left of the fifteen thousand army. The remaining third of the army was rewarded for their bravery and valor. They were given lands, they were made knights, and a few became nobility to fill the void in the North and to replace those purged in Nilfgaard. Guts had a number of them sworn to him.
"Lord Duke," One of them greeted with an easy smile, holding up a bottle of cheap rum. "A gift for the parents. My boy was an angel until my wife and I gave him a brother. Then the two became hellions," he said with a laugh. The old blood sneered but Guts took the bottle of rum quite happily. He'd had fine wines, but so far, nothing had managed to beat the taste of cheap rum.
"Well, here's hoping for a sister," Casca replied dryly, earning a few laughs. Some more genuine than others.
Guts was on better terms with the new blood than the old blood. And they… well, they had seen first hand what he was capable of. They had said it more times than he cared to hear, and the tales spiraled out of control into outright impossibility -- that he won the battle singlehandedly. That he slaughtered hundreds of demons with every swing of his blade. Ciri got what she wanted, he supposed.
The old blood was being drowned out by the new. And after what they saw… if they didn't listen to Ciri, then they listened to him.
"Welcoming Yennefer of Vengerberg! First Sorcereres and Hero of the White Night. Accompanied by her paramore, Geralt of Rivia, a Hero of the White Night and a Master Witcher," the majordomo announced, breaking Guts free of his thoughts to look over at the two. They were arm in arm, and Yennefer looked right at home with the attention. Geralt looked like he was silently hoping for a monster attack.
Both of them looked well, though. The magic side of things wasn't something that Guts really concerned himself with, but Ciri managed to impose order on the mages with the help of Yennefer and Triss. They got more freedoms than they did under old Nilfgaard, but not complete freedom like some wanted. Novigrad was home for most, and as for those that felt any oversight was too demanding, they ended up fucking off to Kovir.
Time world tell how well things would work out, but at the very least, any overly ambitious mage would have to get through Yennefer. And looking at her, Guts didn't see that happening easily.
"I see he's no better than Geralt when it comes to finery," Yennefer remarked as they approached. The words might have carried an edge, but the amused smile on her lips took the bite out of them.
As if on cue, Geralt rolled his shoulders, "You paid someone to stitch wires in this thing," he accused without any real heat, nodding a greeting at Guts. Guts held up the bottle of rum and he offered a thin smile as a waiter poured him a cup. He would never get used to having servants, but he couldn't deny that they were convenient. "Big crowd. Birthday boy decided parties aren't for him?"
"Hm. Decided they were boring and ran off with the others," Guts agreed.
"Clever kid," Geralt praised.
"Really, you two have to get used to this. You aren't on the Path hunting monsters anymore," Yennefer pointed out. That was a little less true in Geralt's case, but not false enough that she didn't have a point. One of the very first things that Ciri did was overhaul how Witchers were treated. Contracts were subsidized, they received a Guildhall in every city and villagers would be reimbursed by the crown for providing food and lodging. It was already being abused, but it was for coppers out of gold.
Geralt himself had essentially retired from the life. The only dabbling that he did was overseeing a hunt for the various knight orders that popped up to deal with more mundane monsters like drowners.
"Not if I can help it," Geralt replied dryly.
Before Guts could reply, a voice caught his attention. Or, rather, a lyric.
"Our hero, our hero -- one of stout heart and endless courage~!" Guts heard, immediately recognizing the lyric. He looked over to see that the music was coming from Priscilla and Dandelion, the two performing a duo with Dandelion strumming his lute. He noticed Guts' expression and tossed a wink his way, a thoroughly unrepentant smile on his face.
Then he sang, "A veritable wall and an unbreakable spear~!" He said the next line, and Geralt chuckled.
"You get used to it," he offered, earning a grunt from Guts.
"I'd rather not," he decided. It was a strange thing to have a song written about him. He might have inspired one or two back in Midland, but he was willing to bet that he was the monster in those songs. This song was a popular one when it first sung, and a year later, it had only gotten more so. A song about the battle to save the world. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't such a surprise the battle would inspire such songs, but it was rather uncomfortable to be the main focal point for a lot of them.
The music, however, proved to be a cue because not a second later, the majordomo spoke out again. "Introducing her Imperial Majesty Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon -- Empress of the North and Nilfgaard and Grand Duchess of Cintra. Accompanied by her Imperial Father, Emhyr var Emreis, Grand Vizier of Nilfgaard." The most important guests of the evening, and Guts was looking forward to meeting one of them a great deal more than the other.
The two strode through the double doors, which had been closed just so they could be opened dramatically for them. Ciri wore a silver and white gown, a thin band of silver and gold on her head to make sure it was clear that she was the queen. The make up around her eyes was dark, done professionally rather than whatever she had done before. Her hair was a bit longer, done up, and she made no effort to hide the scar on her cheek.
She did a good job of looking regal, at least until their gazes met and she cracked a sly looking smile. Her father was as dour as he ever was, wearing black and white, his expression utterly blank.
He had lost his title as Emperor, and instead took up the title of Vizier. A title that allowed him to oversee the original territories of Nilfgaard. A title that would pass to Ciri upon his death, so she could issue it to someone else if there was ever a need. And if Guts was her blunt hammer, then her father was her knife in the dark.
A year had passed and the unification of the North and Nilfgaard had been anything but smooth. Even now, there were those in the room that were probing. Poking. Trying to gauge the temperament of everyone in the room because Ciri's entrance had the same effect as a stone tossed into a lake. There were loyalists, traditionalists, and opportunists. Everyone watched her every move as she approached, with Yennefer greeting her warmly.
"Ciri! You look lovely," Yennefer said, freely wrapping her in a hug before she openly glared over Ciri's shoulder at a few in particular. It was hard to keep secrets from someone who could read minds, Guts imagined. It was a good thing that he didn't have any secrets that would interest Yennefer.
"Thank you. Hearing that makes the three hours putting it all together worth it," Ciri replied with dry humor, pulling back. She favored Geralt, who had gotten into a glaring contest with Emhyr, with a smile before she turned to him and Casca. Her eyes lit up when she saw Casca, "You've gotten so much bigger! The little one was just a bump last I saw you," Ciri greeted Casca with the same warmth she greeted Yennefer with.
"Don't I know it," Casca sighed with a smile. Early on, the fussing at her pregnancy caused no end of annoyance, but by now she had gotten used to it. "You look well, your highness."
"Ugh, please, don't call me that," Ciri made a dramatic face and Guts heard the quiet sigh her father let out. "Only for official stuff. This is a birthday, so it doesn't count. Speaking of which, where is the little guy?"
"Probably taking turns beating every wit out of his head with the other kids," Casca replied bluntly, much to Ciri's amusement.
"Sounds like they have the right idea," Ciri remarked with a teasing smile. "If little Judeau is half as hard headed as this one, then the stick is more likely to break." She added, the casual remark a little stilted. Tense. That was her realizing how many eyes were cast in their direction, noting the familiar way they spoke. Guts couldn't give less of a shit about social hierarchies if he actively tried, but he wasn't blind to them either.
Others looked on, from the outside, and only saw their closeness. They plotted how to drive a wedge between them, how to get as close as Guts and Yennefer were to the Empress, and thought of all the things they would do with the Empress' friendship. And, from the looks of it, Ciri realized it too.
"How about we find somewhere a little more private to talk? Oh, and I can give Judeau his gift!" Ciri ventured, throwing on a smile that seemed a little diminished to Guts' eyes.
"I wouldn't recommend it, daughter," Emhyr said, his voice dry and flat. He already knew what the response would be.
"Let them talk. If having a private conversation with my friends is a step too far for some, then they're welcome to speak up," Ciri replied. Despite Emhyr's evident displeasure, Guts was relieved to see that being Empress hadn't changed Ciri much. She was still unrepentantly herself.
There were some mutterings -- Yennefer and Casca walked off to find wherever the kids had gotten off to while Geralt remained behind to make sure that Emhyr remained honest. Leaving Ciri and Guts finding a rare moment of privacy as they headed off to a balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the castle.
"You look well," Ciri greeted, dropping all pretenses as she leaned unceremoniously against the stone railing. "Glad to see I'm not the only one that can't stand banquets."
Guts grunted, "Misery loves company." He acknowledged. "How are things on your end? I have a bet with Geralt that you'd be tearing out your hair by the first year."
Ciri shot him a smile that was downright smug. "You owe him money, then. Things are going fabulously," she replied triumphantly. Then she chuckled, "Next year is going to be different. This year has been about mending bridges and burying axes. To limited degrees of success," she admitted with a shrug.
"You can't make people forget about hate so easily," Guts conceded, his gaze going to his own flickering shadow due to the torches that flanked the doorway to the balcony. The edges might flicker, but the core of it was solid and after a year, he could see the cursed armor looking back at him. Waiting. Wanting.
"Maybe not," Ciri agreed. "Does it get any easier to bear?" She asked, her tone curious despite herself.
Was it any easier to bear? "Sometimes," Guts admitted after a moment, tearing his gaze away from the shadow to the sky above to see that the stars were starting to emerge. "Sometimes, I wake up and I'm filled with hate. Like how I was back when we first met. I didn't care if I lived or died, just so long as I was spitting in his eye." He admitted, oddly discomforted by the casualness of his tone. For years, he hadn't been able to so much as think about Griffith without seeing red.
"Other days, I barely think about him at all. He's stuck in a hell of his own making now. That dream he sacrificed us all for… he'll never realize it. Might mean it was all for nothing, but it also means he didn't gain anything from it either," Guts continued. Part of him wished he could have been there, standing before Griffith. To make him pay. To strike him down.
He always had to push those thoughts to the side. His wishes came with a cost, and that was the curse that he would bear until his dying day.
Then he shrugged, "I have more good days than bad days now." And that was still a novelty.
Ciri hummed in response, "We'll do it the right way. The hard way," Ciri spoke up, looking across the courtyard and beyond the walls. "This was the easy part. It's all uphill from here. I'm going to start exploring the Spheres for things and information we can use here. If you think making a Northling and Nilfgaardian get along was tough, you haven't seen anything yet. They're going to fight us every step of the way about every change we make."
We.
That was the difference between Ciri and Griffith, when it came right down to it. For all that they were similar…
Ciri used we and Griffith used I.
"If change was so easy, you'd be a dignified Empress by now," Guts remarked, looking back at her and receiving an indignant expression.
"... what's that supposed to mean, you borderline vagabond?" Ciri asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. The only thing that Guts resented in the remark was the borderline. "But, point taken. It's not so easy to change your stripes."
As she spoke, the kids came into view as they broke out in a dead sprint, laughing all the while. Their numbers had grown, likely due to blue blood parents trying to get their kids to strike up a friendship with the next Grand Duke. Who they were running from was obvious enough when Casca and Yennefer stepped into view.
His gaze lingered on Casca's face, her annoyed expression doing a poor job of hiding her amusement. Of Judeau, who openly smiled, his joy evident as the sun in a cloudless day.
His swordhand itched, aching for the comfortable weight of Dragonslayer. To be on the road. To be in the middle of the fight -- any fight would do. His life had become something wholly unfamiliar to him. The only thing that was familiar at this point was the ache for vengeance, but it had already been taken. Guts closed his hand into a fist, looking down at the two most important people in the world to him. Two, and within a few months, it would be three.
Maybe four, if he felt like counting Puck.
Puck likely sensed his emotions because he looked up, "Guts!" He called out, the small wind spirit waving at him, "Come play tag with us!"
A simple childish game. Guts felt the weight of Dragonslayer behind him -- hidden away in a closet, just in case he needed it. A sword that hadn't left his side for years.
Guts gripped the stone railing, "You're right," he admitted to her as he stepped onto it, a decision made. "But it's worth trying, when it's for the right reasons," he continued before throwing himself over the side to land on the ground a dozen feet down, much to the astonishment of the kids who promptly cheered. Above him, he heard Ciri laughing.
The past was dead. The Black Swordsman was dead.
Guts wasn't entirely sure who he would become in the future, but for now… For now, he wanted to become the kind of husband and father that would play a game of tag with his family. If he managed that much… then Guts would know he had accomplished all that he needed to.
And more than he ever dreamed.
…
So ends Castoff, my third story to earn a Complete tag. Overall, I'm pretty satisfied with it. It was a commissioned work, so I paid a lot more attention to the word count than I otherwise might have, but that let me focus on the main plot rather than get distracted with side stuff as I typically do. Either way, it's more or less what I set out to write.
I know some were disappointed with Guts not being the one to strike Griffith down, but the entire point of the story was Guts letting go of vengeance to embrace life. For most of his life, he lived for the sake of living, or for the sake of vengeance. Now, he has reasons to not just be alive, but live. He has a family. He has a future. And that's the biggest 'fuck you' he could realistically give Griffith because, one day, Guts won't think about him at all and Griffith will be trapped with his own failures for the next billion years.
As for the future -- Guts and Ciri both have a long life ahead of them. It won't be a story of 'things were happily ever after forever.' There will be highs and lows, successes and tribulations. But, I do think that they would come out with history recalling them quite fondly even if the utopia that Ciri set out to create wasn't fully realized. In their generation, at least.
And that's about it for Castoff. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it.
What a nice ending of Castoff with Guts and Casca and their friends having their Happy Ending they earned and deserved.
This story is pure unadulterated awesomeness.
This story is pure unadulterated awesomeness.
