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As soon as the heavy wooden door closed behind him, Geralt felt his body drain away. The unease he had felt rising since discovering Vesemir's body was nothing compared to what was now exploding within him. In the brutal silence of the room, in the absence of Yennefer's belongings, in the unmade bed, he suddenly became aware of everything he had just lost.
The absence of his loved ones overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees in the middle of the empty, hostile, sinister, and cold room.
His last home had just vanished.
This silence… this silence he had desperately sought for hours was unbearable. Instead of soothing his nightmares, it awakened within him the sinister echoes of battle, of screams, of turmoil. The echo of the fire crackling and popping against Vesemir's armor. The echo of Ciri's sobs. The echo of the portal through which Yennefer had vanished without a word of comfort.
Geralt dragged himself painfully to the bed, almost crawling, and curled up at its feet, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to silence the turmoil within him.
For a moment, it seemed that everything would be all right. That the sounds would subside. With his eyes closed, his head buried in his knees, and his hands clasped around his ears, he could almost believe that everything was under control, that nothing was truly real.
He exhaled deeply, a little relieved. But when he tried to breathe again, the chaos intensified.
Images followed sounds. Distorted, nightmarish images. Guilty images. If he had acted sooner, if he had moved away from the door… If he hadn't stopped those damned dwarves from stealing his boat on the Isle of Mists…
He knew it was pointless to rewrite history, to dwell on things. But his rationality had lost all hold. And nothing, absolutely nothing, could stop the images flashing by. Nothing.
He opened his eyes in a panic, desperate to escape these horrors. His vision blurred, the air refused to enter his lungs. He began to gasp, gripping the stone floor, feeling the creak of the bed's wood each time he rocked back. He no longer knew where he was. Was he sitting, lying down? In his room or in the woods? Had he…had he fallen asleep in that shabby hut after the dwarves left? Was Ciri…was she on the bed…dead?
He had to check, check that it wasn't all just a dream. That Ciri was really alive.
With a superhuman effort, he managed to sit up and look at the bed. There was nothing there. Just cold, rumpled sheets. Ciri was alive; he had indeed brought her home.
But once again, the relief was short-lived, and he collapsed again. Ciri was alive, yes, but Vesemir was dead. His father was gone, his home was gone.
The excruciating burning in his chest intensified, and he buried his face in the pillow, moaning in a hoarse, broken voice. He wanted it to stop. He wanted this terrible fall to end. In a fit of pure rage, he tore off his armor and tunic and hurled them across the room. The sharp clatter of metal against stone ripped at his eardrums and triggered another bout of dizziness.
Geralt gasped into the pillow, desperately inhaling the lingering scent of gooseberries and lilac. How he longed to embrace Yen. To tell her he loved her, to catch her before she vanished through that damned portal. What if he never saw her again? What if…
Consumed by his torment, he didn't hear the door open softly, the quiet footsteps approaching, or the bed sink when someone sat down beside him. It was only when a hand landed on his shoulder that he jumped and turned with a groan.
A figure with long black hair stood above him.
“Yen…”, he breathed, knowing full well it was impossible.
He had seen Yennefer and Triss disappear. She couldn't be here. But his desperate mind clung pathetically to the vision. He gripped the hand and closed his eyes again, letting out violent gasps from his chest.
“Cry… Cry, Geralt… it’s okay”, the voice whispered near his ear.
The hand left his for a moment to caress his temples and hair. The touch was so gentle amidst the turmoil that he let out a dry, ragged sob.
“I... I don’t know… I… I don’t know… how to do it”, he mumbled, trying to breathe again, but in vain.
“Just let yourself fall… I’m here to catch you.”
Let himself fall? He’d been letting himself fall for hours. The fall seemed endless. He’d been falling for too long; the impact would be too brutal. He shook his head, gripping the sheets again as the world spun. A dull, cold, creeping nausea began to curl in his stomach. He hiccuped, and the icy chill he'd felt when the Wild Hunt had frozen him seized his entire body once more. He shivered and groaned. Would it never end?
"It will end if you agree to cry, Geralt", the still-gentle voice continued.
Two surprisingly strong arms reached around his back and lifted him into a sitting position. He let himself be enveloped in an unexpected, warm, and comforting embrace. The strong scents of gooseberries and lilac filled his nostrils.
Then, without his wanting it, without his having decided it, the dam broke completely. His eyes burned, and tears streamed down his face. He opened his mouth, and a loud, ugly sob escaped. It was the first of many. His stomach clenched, and for a moment he thought he was going to vomit, but instead, spasms rose within him. Painful spasms fueled the endless sobs.
He clung to the illusion, eager to be cradled by the warm presence. And he let himself fall.
*
Yennefer jumped when Geralt collapsed against her, his breathing still ragged and ragged from crying. She had, however, sensed the fainting spell coming. He had been sobbing uncontrollably for almost an hour.
She carefully laid him down and removed his boots and trousers. He shivered violently in his sleep, and she quickly pulled up the covers. Then she took off her own shoes and lay down beside him, pressing her body against his, eager to soothe the lingering, heavy tremors of her love. Propped up on one elbow, she watched him. Geralt was extremely pale, his lips almost bluish. His eyes, rimmed with dark circles and bright red, were still moist, and wet lines creased his cheeks. She had never seen him like this. So vulnerable and fragile. She had, of course, cared for him before, after terrible injuries or an overdose of potions. But she had never seen him in such a state of distress. It was almost frightening, and it broke her heart.
She had barely left a few hours earlier when she regretted not having offered him some comfort. Even though the situation was urgent, he needed her, and she had turned her back on him. The fact was, she had been completely overwhelmed by Ciri and Geralt's grief. She had felt entangled, clumsy, almost intrusive. She herself didn't really know what she was feeling about Vesemir's death, her mind entirely focused on the urgent need to protect Ciri.
For a while, she and Triss had traveled in silence. Then her friend had turned to her, her eyes swollen with anger.
"Am I the only one who saw that Geralt was about to collapse?", she had finally asked.
Yen hadn't answered. She had simply bitten her lip and looked away. If she had been a little more alert, she would have retorted, started an argument. Geralt was a grown man, Geralt could handle himself. And Triss had no right to judge her.
But Triss was undoubtedly right, and Yen finally sighed.
“No.”
“Then go back, you dimwit, you're dying to. I can continue alone for a little while.”
“We don't have time…”
“No, we don't. So luckily for you, there are two of us. Go on. You'll be useless as long as you're so preoccupied.”
Yennefer gave a small smile and then turned away. When she arrived, she almost expected to see Geralt sitting and polishing his swords. Calm and serene as always. So she had been more than surprised and shaken to hear the groans on the other side of the door. And she hadn't been prepared for the sight of this total collapse. Guilt had overwhelmed her like a tidal wave. How could she have been so selfish as to believe Geralt would escape unharmed?
And now he was there, lying beside her in a troubled sleep. So shaky and exhausted… She felt tears welling up in her eyes and let them fall gently.
“Forgive me, my love”, she whispered, gently kissing his forehead, “forgive me for leaving.”
*
When Geralt finally awoke, it was long past day. He sat up with difficulty and let out a hoarse groan at the throbbing pain in his head. He rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. He ached all over, and nausea continued to gnaw at his insides. He felt as if he'd been trampled and nibbled at by a herd of ghouls.
Unable to remember the previous evening, he wondered for a moment if he'd spent another night drinking with Lambert and Eskel.
"Here, have this."
The voice startled him, and he jerked his head up. Yennefer was sitting beside him, offering him a steaming cup with the unmistakable aroma of honey and ginger. He was about to open his mouth to ask her what they had done last night when the memories flooded back, hitting him like a punch to the gut. Ciri, whom he had thought dead, the Wild Hunt, Vesemir's death… And his collapse. A mixture of distress, grief, relief, and shame rose in his throat. It all came rushing in so fast that he felt himself go pale.
Yennefer abruptly took the cup from his hands and slipped a bucket in its place, anticipating what was to come. He stared in astonishment at the container, completely disoriented. Then a wave of nausea burst like a bubble, followed by another, and he gasped into the bucket. His stomach twisted for a long time, expelling all these overwhelming emotions. He continued like this until he had purged the last drop of bile. Then the storm passed, and he felt strangely better afterward. Empty, exhausted, but better. He could finally breathe.
The cup was again in his hands again, and he straightened up slightly, feeling the blush of embarrassment replace his pallor as he watched Yen leave with the bucket and return a few moments later.
“My god, Yen… I’m sorry.”
“I’ve seen you looking sexier”, the witch smiled, her sarcasm softened by her inusual gentleness. “How do you feel?”
“I… I don’t really know, actually… strange…”
“Strange how?”
He looked at her again, embarrassed, and she sighed as she sat down beside him.
“It’s alright, Geralt. Stop being ashamed. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been through more than you can bear lately. Not to mention the stress since the beginning of this whole thing. I’m the one who should be ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?” he asked, genuinely surprised.
“Of leaving like that, without even a word of comfort, when… well… I’m sorry I left you.”
A faint smile played on the witcher’s lips, and he rested his head on Yen’s shoulder.
“Tell me”, he finally said, teasing despite the traces of sobs and discomfort still lingering in his voice, “I think i need a good bath.”
“You certainly could use one. You don’t exactly smell like flowers.”
He raised an eyebrow, and she responded with a kiss on the cheek.
“Come on, my great warrior, let’s go wash you up.”
*
Clean, with his hair braided back and dry clothes on, Geralt felt remarkably better. The pain from the previous day was still very raw, but the tenderness of the moment with Yen softened the blow a little. Sitting on the bed, still a little dazed and slightly groggy, he watched her get ready to leave. He couldn't believe she had come back for him, much less that she had been such a comfort.
He was extremely touched and couldn't help but grin like an idiot at her.
They were both finishing getting ready in tender intimacy when there was a knock at the door.
"Geralt... are you there?"
It was Ciri's voice, unusually hesitant and shy.
"Come in", he replied eagerly.
The young woman appeared, her expression dark and troubled. She flinched slightly at the sight of Yennefer, then her expression relaxed noticeably, and the shadow of a smile flickered across her pale lips.
“You’re back”, she murmured.
“Yes, but I’ll be leaving again soon,” Yen sighed. “Come here, Ciri.”
She wrapped the young woman in a tight embrace.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t comfort you more, my girl. I was awful yesterday.”
Ciri didn’t reply right away, preferring to bury her face in the witch’s shoulder and sigh deeply.
“I think we were all awful”, she muttered finally, pulling away. “I took my anger out on you all, which wasn’t any better.”
She glanced at Geralt, who hadn’t moved, his golden eyes once again clouded with sadness. Her father looked truly affected, his eyes still red and dark circles under them.
She approached hesitantly until she sat down beside him. He immediately put an arm around her shoulders and exhaled deeply. He hadn't realized how much he had longed to hold his daughter in his arms.
"How are you?", Ciri asked, resting her head against his arm. She hesitated for a moment, then added, "I... I heard you last night. I'm sorry."
Shame washed over Geralt again, but he let it subside, meeting Yen's gaze.
"I...", he cleared his throat, unaccustomed to being so honest, "Vesemir was like a father to me and the... the last bastion of Kaer Morhen... It's a lot to take in, but... I'm holding up. How are you?"
“Like you”, she sighed, “I’m not doing well, but… we can count on each other, right?”
With a lump in his throat, Geralt simply nodded into her hair. Yenefer then abandoned her preparations and came to sit beside them, wrapping them in her embrace as well.
Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, letting a tear fall. Ciri was right; whatever the trials, they could rely on each other.
And that was wonderful.