The Wrong Last Wish

Chasing Your Destiny

A few years passed, and nothing of notice happened in his little village. While in other parts war was being waged, they remained untouched, hidden from the path of the invading armies. Men and women married, bore children and died. Life went on as it always had. Little Ciri was not so little anymore and began to venture outside the village. She was growing more beautiful by the day, and soon he would have suitors at his door, asking for her hand in marriage. Word of her striking looks was spreading to the neighbouring villages, and whilst this worried him, it made Anna hopeful that her daughter would find a suitable match. Geralt's only hope was that she would find love, so he turned away those who were looking for a trophy wife without batting an eye. His daughter was not to be bought or traded like a mare.

For a while, this was his only concern, until one day when the world caught up with him and threw a wrench into his peaceful life.

One day, as he came back from a long hunt that lasted a few days, the smell of burning wood and flesh greeted his return. His heels dug into Roach's side, urging her into a gallop, his heart beating out of his chest.

The sight that met him was his worst nightmare realized. The village had been razed to the ground in his absence. Only charred remains of houses and people stood in their place. His house was no exception. The beautiful garden Anna had so lovingly grown and fostered was trampled and scorched, and his house burned to the ground like all the others. He walked amongst the remains, too shellshocked to express any emotion, still nursing the vain hope that somehow Anna and Ciri had escaped the massacre. The burned and blackened body curled into a ball on the floor of his former home trampled any hope he had. The necklace around its neck was Anna's. There was no doubt, she was dead. He kneeled and wept sorrowful, angry tears that refused to be kept at bay. He wept until there were no more tears in him, only rage and the desire for vengeance. They burned his world down, he'd burn theirs.

He searched through the bodies for a sign that someone had escaped, and although the bodies themselves were burned beyond recognition, small trinkets such as bracelets or amulets remained as telltale signs of the owner's identity. A few of the villagers were missing, including Ciri. Perhaps they escaped, perhaps they were taken prisoners. Either way, there was a chance he could find her again. A slight chance, but it was enough to give him a purpose beyond pure distilled revenge.

There wasn't anything he could do for the dead except give them a proper burial. He dug, and he dug for what seemed to be an eternity, until he had made enough graves for each and every one of them. Many of them had been his friends, and they deserved more than an unmarked common grave.

When all were laid out in their graves, he said a prayer he learned as a child. Perhaps it wasn't even a prayer, perhaps it was just a way of saying goodbye and wishing the dead their well-deserved rest. Either way, it was all he knew and all he could do.

He had no worldly possessions left except the clothes on his back, his horse, a crossbow and the short sword hanging on his hip. But that didn't bother him. He could work, hunt, build anything the army destroyed, but he couldn't bring back the dead. However, he could try to recover the missing.

With no idea of where to search for first, he scouted the area surrounding the village for any telltale signs of survivors fleeing. If there weren't any to be found, then he'd follow the obvious trail of the moving company of soldiers. Fortunately, he soon found the tracks of two men, three women and three children fleeing from the village. From the indents left on the soft ground, they had been running as fast as their feet could carry them, heading west. He mounted Roach and followed the tracks, hoping to find the survivors before man or beast got to them.

It took him a few hours to catch up to the refugees and when he did, he found them scared half to death, hiding in the bushes, thinking he was a soldier. After they regained the ability to speak, they told him the invaders had indeed taken Ciri. Apparently, there was a very specific order from the emperor to take any ashen-haired lasses alive and unharmed to Vizima, where he has taken temporary residence. No one knew what he wanted with them, not even the Nilfgaardian soldiers, but all knew better than to lay a hand on any such lass.