Old Love

Chapter 1

Jolting awake, Geralt sat up, his eyes scanning the room frantically. A deep sigh escaped him as he settled back down, only to realize his sheets were drenched in sweat. "That's the fourth dream about her this week," he muttered to himself. In an attempt to calm his racing heart, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift back into a deep slumber.

In the recesses of his mind, haunting images unfolded—a young woman writhing on the ground, her face contorted in a mixture of pain, panic, and fear. Her attempts to scream were silent, futile, and blood seemed to pour endlessly from her wounds. Defenseless, she succumbed to the advancing beast, weakened by shock and severe blood loss. Geralt, sprinting through the forest, shattered branches like glass in his desperate race to reach her. But it was too late; her lifeless form lay in a gruesome display, face frozen in terror.

"No, no, she can't be dead," Geralt's voice wavered as if on the brink of tears. A guttural growl echoed through the forest, prompting him to shift into a fighting stance, prepared for the inhuman noises closing in. Abruptly, he awoke to violent shaking and urgent calls of his name.

Blinking against the intrusive light streaming through his window, Geralt squinted before sitting up. A figure in a chair nearby asked, "Another dream about her?" He nodded in response, dropping his head with a heavy sigh.

"Vesemir, I know what you're going to say," Geralt said, lifting his head to meet the gaze of the older man.

"Then I shouldn't have to keep repeating myself to you, Wolf. We all miss her, and we all loved her, but we both know she's gone," Vesemir stated, his eyes fixed on a painting depicting himself and two children.

"I refuse to believe it. She's too strong to have been killed so easily. She's a witcher, for god's sake, Vesemir. A beast could not have taken her down that easily. She was one of our best and strongest," Geralt protested, frustration evident in his voice. Ignoring Vesemir, he focused on donning his armor, strapping his swords to his back, preparing for the journey that lay ahead.

Vesemir sighed, his gaze lingering on the painting for a moment before he turned his attention back to Geralt. "Wolf, denial won't bring her back. We honor her memory by continuing the fight against the monsters that threaten this world. That's what she would have wanted."

Geralt remained silent, the weight of grief and frustration evident in his eyes. After a moment, he stood up, the scrape of his chair against the floor echoing through the room. "I know what she would have wanted," he muttered, his jaw clenched. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

As Geralt finished gearing up, Vesemir placed a hand on his shoulder. "We're all hurting, Geralt. But we can't let it consume us. There are still people out there who need our help."

Nodding solemnly, Geralt acknowledged Vesemir's words. He slung his silver sword over his back, the weight a familiar and comforting presence. "I'll do what needs to be done," he said, his voice resolute.

The two Witchers left the room, the wooden door creaking as it closed behind them. The fortress of Kaer Morhen stood tall and imposing against the backdrop of the mountains, a silent guardian in the face of countless trials. Geralt's steps echoed through the stone corridors as he made his way to the stables, where Roach awaited.

Vesemir followed him, the older Witcher's gaze fixed on the younger one. "We'll get through this, Geralt. Together."

Mounting Roach, Geralt nodded, his expression hardened. With a glance back at Vesemir, he urged Roach forward, the hooves clattering on the cobblestone. The journey ahead was uncertain, filled with the shadows of both past and present. But Geralt, fueled by determination and the memory of a lost comrade, rode out into the world once more, ready to confront whatever challenges lay in wait.