the lioness’ heart knew no fear, so the stories told, but the stories truly didn’t know her at all. there were times when she feared, of course. any mother who loved had fear in her heart, even as seemingly strong as calanthe. she daren’t face him, not yet, leaving him with just the sight of the back of her emerald green dress and the ashen grey curls scattered beneath the thin golden band of her crown.
“ i hoped….i hoped you wouldn’t. “ she spoke finally, and even though her voice sounded devout of emotions, her fist tightened on the emerald green fabric so hard the knuckles turned white around the rings of white gold. he could not be so cruel, could he now? the fate has been cruel to her in his stead already, taking away her pavetta and if ciri… oh, if ciri were to be taken away as well, she would no doubt share the fate of her ancestor and namesake. just like riannon, who had fallen into grief after losing two of her children, she’d die of broken heart, no doubt.
“ after pavetta… after she… i hoped, deep down. no, i wished you no harm, white wolf. but i thought you’d have mercy. i thought you’d have humanity in yourself, to leave me this child. for this child…. is all i have left, you know this. “
as a rule, geralt often did not trouble himself with the intricacies of human politics. rulers rose and fell, alliances were forged and dashed, and he paid it no heed. the scandals and happenings of nobility found no home in his thoughts... but he had made an exception, just this once. the lioness of cintra had always been a figure of great intrigue to him, and so once, and only once, did he listen to a bard’s ramblings in a destitute little tavern at the edges of temeria.
amber eyes hone in on every movement, and for what he lacks in social graces he tries to make up for in attentiveness. calanthe’s tension does not go unnoticed by the witcher, but he holds his tongue. no use in remarking on grief that he could not understand or ever know. idle hands find a nick in his belt, and he picks at the leather absentmindedly, mulling over words that sit awkwardly at the tip of his tongue.
‘ my condolences. ‘ though i’m not sure how much that means to you. he opens his mouth to speak again, but then stops. humanity... what an odd word to throw his way. had he been anyone else, it would have had a profound impact on him... at least, that is what geralt tells himself. ‘ i’m a witcher, your majesty. surely you know our reputation and our temperament. we’re not known for our empathy and sense of morality. ‘ ah, and yet, he implies that he is acutely aware of the absence of such things.
thoughts roil in his head like restless animals, all vying for his attention. none of them seem right, too aggressive, too cold. he picks one, quiet and unassuming. ‘ is the child well ? ‘