There are times when Geralt dreams of a woman. She’s older, long white hair and a ginger gait-- a grandmother, maybe, though the memories are too faded to tell.
He knows her by her smile, the way the crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes crease gently. He knows her by her touch, a warm hand against the back of his neck, fingers carding into the white hair that’s shorn close to the back of his head-- or, was it growing back in?
Sometimes he sees her amidst chaos and blood. There is screaming and agony, and Geralt sees her like a beacon of hope amongst the carnage. She holds him, and whispers “be still, be still. It will be over soon, young one,” and Geralt believes her.
Sometimes he sees her at a lakeside. She sits, draped in royal reds and purples, and invites him to sit with her and watch the sunrise. Geralt does, and together they watch the entire world awake in a fire that glitters off the icy waters.
He does not know this woman. He could not possibly tell you her name, or even what she looked like, if you asked.
He knows she is kind, though. Can see it in her eyes. Blue, the kind of blue that holds something deep inside of it. Something safe, something welcome-- something more.
It is a good night, when he sees her in his dreams.
