Swinging the sword, I hit the neck of the straw body before using the back of the wooden sword to strike the torso. And then?
I repeat.
Again and again and again.
Until my body follows into a natural rhythm of whacking the straw.
It's been a week since the warg tried to eat me for lunch. Since then, I've been running around the keep every day with a shadow. Most of the time, it's Geralt, but when Geralt is needed in the alchemy room, Lambert or Eskel join me.
The sword slips out of my hand when I break concentration for a second.
I grunt, annoyed, and grab it, resuming the strikes. I've been working on the straw body for quite some time today, but I have no plans of stopping.
For the moment, I've been left without supervision, so I take the chance to execute some more difficult moves without anyone judging.
I perform one I've seen Geralt do- where he drops the sword, catches it, and drives it into the body at the same time. Unable to catch it in time, it falls to the ground. Grumbling, I reach forward, pick it up, and retry.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I almost catch it by the fifth time.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I catch it by the ninth time and manage to tap the straw body. I need to hit it harder. I need to catch it with more momentum.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I perform the maneuver by the thirteenth time, albeit a bit shakily on my feet.
Now that I've got the base down, I repeat the sequence for another twenty minutes, until I see confidence in my moves.
"Nicely done," I hear someone say behind me, causing me to flinch.
I see Geralt standing there, with his arms crossed in front of him, as he watches me train.
Pointing the sword to the ground, I ask, "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to see you've mastered that move. I didn't even teach you that one. Did one of the others show you?" He asks, walking towards me.
I shake my head. "I saw you do that one once, when you were training against Eskel."
"Hm. Not bad." He's close enough that he takes one of my hands and turns it palm up. My hand is severely chafed from working with the sword for hours. I see blisters and calluses across the area where I hold the sword. "You've been overworking yourself. Do you know how long you've been out here for?"
"I don't know. A couple of hours?" I guess, and I clench my hand into a fist, hiding the blisters from him.
"The whole day," he says, "The sky is darkening now."
Only now do I notice it's not as bright outside. "Oh. I suppose I just got really into it."
"Ciri," Geralt says, and I feel a lecture coming, "I know you're very dedicated about your training, but exhausting yourself is not the answer."
"I'm not exhausted," I deny and turn away from him, deciding to get just a bit more strikes in before going in. I have to be perfect in my form.
I raise my sword and start whacking the straw.
"No?" He tilts his head. "Your hand doesn't hurt? Your legs and feet don't ache?"
"They do, but it just means I'm doing a good job working out."
"Come on, Ciri, let's go inside. I can hear your stomach from over here."
"I'll be in soon," I promise. When I try to drop the sword to catch it, my flimsy hand loses grip, and it falls to the ground. Sighing, I reach to pick it up, but a boot steps on it before I can.
"Geralt," I grumble, standing up and facing him.
His palm is on my shoulder as he gently pushes me towards the entrance of Kaer Morhen. "That's enough training today. You can continue tomorrow, once you're well-rested."
"Fine." I sigh in defeat and let him steer me towards the keep. Before we enter, I say, "Geralt, do you think I'll ever get to the point where I can actually fight back and win?"
He pauses right before the entrance, facing me, and sees the unease on my face. "I think you already have a much better chance at fighting back than you had last week. Besides, sometimes defending yourself is just about buying yourself more time and not winning the battle itself."
"Like with the wyvern, or with the warg," I say, putting the pieces together.
He nods. "Exactly. It would give me, or one of the other Witchers, more time to get to you."
But what if that's still not enough, I can't help but wonder.
We enter the keep and then the dining hall, where the rest of the Witchers are already sitting in. They yell out greetings to Geralt, and to me as well now.
"How's training going, Ciri? The straw body still out to get you?" Lambert quips, never the one to miss out on taunting me. He wears a smug look under a few strands of ginger hair that cover part of his face.
"You want to switch places with the straw? Be my guest. I'll just need you to stand still," I joke back.
Coen and Eskel bark out a laugh and even Geralt chuckles.
"I'll only switch places if I can fight back," Lambert proposes, and he glances at Geralt for permission. Anxiety pools in my stomach as I can imagine how many bruises and cuts I would walk away with since Lambert wouldn't hold back.
Geralt shakes his head to my relief as he hands me a bowl of food, and we sit down next to the others. "Not yet."
I survey the food- some veggies, a couple strips of chicken, and barley. I've managed to skip out on some meals when Geralt disappears to the alchemy, but for the most part, I've eaten, even when my stomach begs me not to. The earlier anxiety of today swirls in my gut. Despite the meal looking actually pretty good- better than anything Lambert and Eskel has previously done- my body still wants to refuse it. What is wrong with me?
Lambert promises, "I'll go easy on her."
I can't help but scoff, making Lambert narrow his eyes on me.
Before he can say anything, Eskel jumps into the conversation. "If anyone's combatting Ciri, it's me."
And as easy as that, the attention is off of me again.
Lambert splutters, "Why you?"
Eskel puffs out his chest. "Because I'm obviously her second favorite Witcher."
"No fucking way, Eskel. I'm her second favorite Witcher." Lambert fights back.
"In your dreams, third favorite Witcher," Eskel sneers.
"Why don't you just ask her who her second favorite Witcher is?" Coen suggests, rolling his eyes at their banter.
"Ciri! It's gotta be me, right?!" Lambert says, trying to muffle Eskel's voice by shoving his hand on top of Eskel's mouth.
"Lambert's cheating!" Eskel yells out once he's able to push off Lambert. In the next second, they're on top of each other, wrestling one another on the floor.
"Does this happen often?" I ask, stabbing some mushrooms with my fork and eating them. By the way Coen and Geralt aren't even blinking at their behavior, I assume so.
Sipping his ale while Eskel and Lambert tussle in the background, Coen answers, "Every now and then."
"They'll stop sooner or later," Geralt reassures me.
After a week of observing the group dynamics, I am able to tell who is who. Lambert is the jokester, Eskel is the good-hearted, optimistic one, Coen is calm and rational, and Garelt is the loyal and protective one. And Vesemir, he is like a father to them all.
My forehead crinkles as I frown. Does that make Vesemir my Law-of-Surprise grandfather?
"What are you thinking of?" Coen asks, catching my facial expression.
"Oh, I was just wondering where Vesemir is." I decide to say instead of giving the truth. They don't need to know all of my thoughts.
"He went to stop by the nearby town for some supplies. He should be back soon," Geralt informs me.
And then I realize, if Vesemir is my Law-of-Surprise grandfather, does that make Geralt my Law-of-Surprise father?
Is that how he sees me? As a Law-of-Surprise daughter?
Maybe that's why he's so protective of me.
Eskel and Lambert finally settle down into their seats, drinking their ale as if they hadn't been rolling around on the ground over the past minute.
"Coen, do you still have that salve you used to help with chafing?" Geralt asks, and I already know where this conversation is heading.
He nods. "What do you need it for?"
"Your thighs chafing too much, Geralt?" Lambert laughs, knocking his ale down to the table and causing some to splash over.
I find myself admiring Geralt's patience with Lambert, because if I had the strength, stamina, and speed of Geralt, Lambert and I would have already battled our differences out.
As expected, Geralt ignores Lambert's comment. "Ciri's hand isn't looking too great."
"It's looking fine," I defend myself, crossing my arms.
Coen motions with his hand. "Let's see it."
Muttering something about annoying Witchers under my breath, I display the palm of my hand. Ok, yes, maybe it doesn't look too great, but it feels fine! It just burns for a little until you stop noticing it.
"Ouch," Eskel comments, eyeing it, "That must hurt. How are you still holding that wooden sword?"
I shrug. "It looks worse than it is." To be honest, I didn't really realize I had that until Geralt mentioned it. I guess I was just so engrossed in swinging my sword that I didn't take note of it.
"Maybe you should take a couple of days break from sword training," Geralt suggests, unhappy at my palm's condition.
I shake my head. "It's okay. I'll be more careful and take a couple of breaks in between."
The door to the dining hall opens, ending the conversation regarding my training. Vesemir strides in, a cloak over his shoulders.
He says hello to us before heading towards the food. "Who cooked today? This actually smells good."
"Couldn't have been Lambert," Eskel murmurs with a smirk on his face.
"Alright, you little shit, I will-"
"Geralt did," Coen interrupts and chides Eskel and Lambert, "Can you both be quiet for the rest of the evening? Just once."
Knowing that there's no hope for them, I laugh quietly, but it doesn't escape the notice of any of the Witchers. All of their heads turn to me, and even Vesemir pauses scooping food into his bowl to peer over at our table.
I see Geralt at the periphery of my vision smiling at me.
Guilt hits me every time I feel happy. I remember warning myself not to smile or laugh a week ago, and I've kept myself mostly in control.
The Witchers, however, seem to encourage it. It's putting me at odds.
I decide a few laughs per week shouldn't hurt, right? My grandmother would want me to avenge her, but maybe I can do that while feeling some occasional happiness here and there.
Vesemir drops his bowl at our table and sits down. "You will never guess who I ran into the market today!"
"Who?" Coen asks.
"Harald. Remember him? The dwarf."
Eskel chortles, "Harald, that old fly bag!"
Vesemir goes on to recount a story of who Harald is to Lambert, since he's the only one besides me who doesn't know of him, but I'm too deep in my thoughts to concentrate and listen.
Despite being surrounded by people who are willing to take care of me, I find myself missing my grandmother. Mousesack, too, and Eist and Sir Lazlo. I even miss Anton, before the war turned him desperate. Times like these, where I finally feel safe, remind me back before the Slaughter of Cintra, when the only preoccupation was who I had to dance with at the ball that night, and what dress to wear to greet diplomats, and how I could sneak out to meet up with some of my friends.
I miss the normality, the calm, and the safety I was brought up in in Cintra. Though, I guess the only reason I had that normality, calm, and safety was because everyone lied to me about who I am.
I don't know what I prefer more- not knowing and being content, than knowing and being worried.
Though, I am paying for those years of safety now. They were never free to begin with.
I tap Geralt's arm to capture his attention, and he looks down at me in question.
"Can I go to bed? I'm tired."
"Of course." He nods. I can sense his worry sometimes. I think he realizes that I'm scared every so often and takes note when I have flashbacks, even though I never mention my few seconds of loss with reality. After the first time I came to him in the middle of the night because of a nightmare, I've stopped.
Instead, I go and train outside until I'm too tired to move. It makes me feel as if next time I will be able to fight against whatever comes visiting me in my dreams, but that's always a lie.
I stand up from the table, tell everyone goodnight, and walk away, my head still swirling with one thought after the other.
I already know, this will be a long night.