The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter Eight

Magic poured from her into Geralt. She allowed it to overflow to his other wounds, let it take whatever it needed from her own reserves. The words flew seemingly of their own will from her mouth—a complex spell weaving its own tapestry. By the time it stitched the last thread, Triss was panting heavily, her magic drained.

Flawless skin shone through the slash in Geralt's armor, his chest perfectly healed.

But motionless.

No.

The spell had taken too long. It had restored him only after his heart had stopped beating.

"No, no, no, no, come on! Geralt!" She shook him by the shoulders. His head lolled, a small dribble of blood from his mouth the only surviving proof of his ruined lung.

She wasn't going to let him die like this. Wasn't going to let Roth reach out from his grave and drag Geralt down alongside him. She started beating her fist against Geralt's chest.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He juddered with every strike, but did not wake. Nevertheless, she kept at it, refusing to give up on him. Tears streamed unnoticed down her cheeks; each attempt to start Geralt's heart steadily worked to stop her own.

This couldn't be the end. Not like this.

Please, not like this.

All-consuming despair was looming ever nearer. Then Geralt's chest surged outward at long last, drawing in an eager breath, dispelling the shadow cast over Triss' heart and filling it with overwhelming joy. His eyes flew wide, searching and questioning, urgently trying to fill in the blanks. They finally lit upon her face. A spark of recognition. His breathing eased as light imbued his eyes once more.

Triss let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

~~~

Geralt couldn't remember anything after opening the door to the carriage, but he could piece together the facts well enough. From the dull ache in his chest to the absence of pain everywhere else, he knew that Triss had healed his injuries and then restarted his heart.

What luck in friends indeed.

He realized that she was waiting for him to show some sign of life, so, letting gratitude saturate his voice, he simply said, "Thank you."

She heaved a sigh of relief, wiping her tears with a swipe of her hand. "I'm the one who should be thanking you. If you hadn't come, I'd be secured in Novigrad, waiting to be burned at the stake."

"You know I'd never let that happen." He pushed himself to his feet, surprised at how easily he could do so. A lack of pain was a strange sensation to him considering the past week. Strange—but welcome.

Triss was slightly slower to rise. Bruised ribs, he realized as he pulled her up.

"Are you alright?"

She flashed him a smile. "I'll be fine. Just a parting gift from Roth's men." Geralt flashed concern. "Don't worry, it's nothing I can't handle. I've certainly endured far worse. Just a little sore is all." She turned to the carnage around them. "We should get going though. Dawn will be arriving soon and someone is bound to come looking once Roth and his men fail to show up in Novigrad."

"There's just one more thing I have to do." Geralt walked over to Roth and picked up his sword, giving it a twirl, enjoying the feel of the weight in his hand once more. A weight that, for the first time in a while, was steadying rather than burdensome.

Then he swiftly chopped off Roth's head.

Triss gave him a look.

Geralt shrugged. "Can't be too careful."

At a snap of Triss' fingers, Roth's head and body were suddenly ablaze. "Indeed."

Epilogue

Spring had landed at Kaer Morhen, bringing with it cloudless skies and chirruping birds that danced together in the pleasant breeze. The trees burst into every shade of green and flowers of every color and shade swept across the plains. Geralt and Ciri lounged on one of the upper balconies of the witcher fortress. Orange skies had faded to deep purple while they had chatted through the night and the gentlest pink had just given way to cerulean blue as the sun yawned and stretched over the horizon. They both hadn't wanted the night to end.

It had been a few months since Ciri had reappeared from that tower, had defeated the White Frost. The following weeks they had spent avoiding Emperor Emhyr. Ciri had turned down his offer to become Empress, instead choosing to live out her life as a witcher.

She would be leaving today to tread her own path. Geralt knew she had to be on her own, for a while at least. She needed to find her own place in the world.

It didn't make her parting any easier.

"How come I haven't heard this story before now?" Ciri asked.

"Well, it's been a little hectic what with saving the world, wars raging, and angry kings breathing down our necks. Plus, it's not exactly something I like to remember."

Ciri grew somber. "I can imagine. I'm sorry you went through so much just to find me."

"Ciri, look at me." Their eyes locked. "There is nothing to apologize for. And I didn't tell you that story to make you feel bad."

"So, then why tell it to me now?" Ciri stroked the leather sheath of her silver sword, Zirael. Geralt had given it to her mere hours before.

"Because you're going to be leaving soon and I might not see you for a while. I've taught you everything I know. The rest will have to come from your own experiences, but that doesn't mean you can't learn from someone else's. From mine." A humorous twinkle lit Geralt's eyes. "There was a moral to that story, you know."

"Yes, yes." Ciri half rolled her eyes, her mood brightening. "Never give up no matter how bad things are. Love and friendship are more powerful than hatred," she rattled off.

"No, you clearly weren't listening," Geralt playfully chastised. He paused until Ciri indicated for him to continue. "Always cut off your enemy's head."

Ciri glared flatly, unable to hold back a chuckle.

THE END

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