@zireeael said: “DO YOU SEE NO GHOSTS IN ME AT ALL?”
THEIR HORSES GALLOP IN SILENCE MADE MONOTONOUS BY STEADY HOOVES. The sun sets along the horizon, no longer obscured by branches but by the enveloping hilltops. The grass, pale and withered and orange-brown from the change in seasons, blandly lights up. In silence, they set up camp. It is formulaic, in the way that their life should have been together--unseparated and predictable, with each night composed of them together looking out for each other. Geralt makes off with his fishing rod and Ciri makes off with an axe. And it is a funny story, too, because he remembers telling her, once, that she did not need to have a large build to fight Monsters, but the speed to parry and dodge. She did not need to be built like a lumberman. And here she is, too, with an axe in hand, to gather kindling. It is a funny story, too, but he does not smile.
As he fishes, he thinks of the time they’ve had together. His knee aches, indicative of poor weather to come, perhaps. And he thinks of how fables spread, inevitably, of the Witcher and the Witcher Girl. When they arrive in townships, in villages, Geralt is the first to correct: attention, good man, but there is no Witcher Girl here--only my companion, the Witcher. A subtle distinction, but an important one nevertheless. And he thinks, too, of Change. And he frowns. But he leaves it at that.
The bones of the trout, then, help feed the fire. Geralt nearly swallows a bone, but he hacks it up, and they laugh about it afterwards. They laugh, but their smiles quickly disappear, like illusions, like smoke. There is unease in him, perhaps--like relief and trepidation compete for his attention. The fire crackles. The horizon doesn’t look so ugly now, they both think, with the sun having finally set, and the moon now in full display.
Ciri’s words, then, do not change his face, unchangeable, like Stone. But she does not believe him, does not believe it. And a silence, thick, gathers.
“There exist ghosts everywhere, in everyone, Ciri.”
She is a ghost in the same way that he is, he thinks. An apparition, pieces of him vanished along with noble companions. Along with aen hanse. But it does little to mourn their losses repeatedly, like a reopened wound. Like blood that pours and pours, and will not stop pouring, and will leak until he dies one day. Exsanguination of the heart, Geralt thinks, will do no-one any good. And your scars, my girl, he does not tell Ciri, cause me great pain. The scars which he knows not the whole truth about, the scars which he wishes to brush away with the pad of his thumb as he would hold her face, carefully. Ghosts of a little girl, perhaps, made harsh by the World ... the World that he so aggressively sought to protect her from. For naught. They say little about it. He sighs breathlessly.
Geralt finally gets up. His hands, then, from a pouch in their pack, gather a bunch of oats in each palm. He feeds the horses quietly, in silence, in comfort. They are content, these noble companions. Geralt smiles, small. He busies himself before responding to Ciri, before growing gravely quiet. She almost thinks he’ll ignore the question, he’ll completely overlook it, desperate for some semblance of comfort. She would not blame him, either.
With finality, Geralt returns, this time at her side. He sits next to her, on their log bench, and he squeezes her shoulder, carefully, warm. And he speaks very quietly, as though this truth is meant exclusively for her.
“I’m too tired for anything else ... to speculate, to mourn anything else. I see--I see you, and my heart is warmer for it. That is all that matters, Ciri.”
