To Trust a Witcher

The Nightmare Strikes Back

A body lies in front of me; its head is missing. 

I want to vomit. I may have kept my composure at beheaded wolves and wyverns, but seeing the same with a human causes turmoil in my stomach.

Pressing my fist to my mouth, I swallow back the throw-up. 

Something on the body glints in the sun, capturing my attention.

I force myself to near the body to see what it is.

I tilt my head. It's a silver medallion, with the shape of a wolf, adorning some flecks of blood. 

It takes me a second to identify where I've seen it before.

My stomach drops.

"No," I whisper, tears spilling already, "Not him."

I wake up, not because the dream is over, but because my heart is thrashing so hard in my chest it hurts. Leaning over my bed, I hurl. My nose crinkles as the smell of my throw-up wafts in the air. 

Laying back down, I rub my chest with the side of my hand, trying to get rid of the pain that rages in there. 

"Calm down," I murmur to myself, but I can't get a hold of myself- I can't stop the trembles racking my body. My brain shows me the headless body of the Witcher again and again, mercilessly driving me insane.

I consider going outside and training until I can't feel my hands anymore, but I know it won't help tonight. No, I need more.

I can't help myself. I have to see him. I need to know he's alive.

Stumbling to my feet, I find my way to the door in the dark. I shove all my weight into the door and it throws open. With a hand on the wall, I keep myself steady as I arrive in front of Geralt's room. 

He won't be mad, I reassure myself. He's told me countless times to come to him if I need anything, and now, I need him more than anything. 

My hand hovers above his door for a couple of seconds before I force myself to move.

I knock twice. 

After a moment, the door opens. "Ciri?"

I am tired of pretending to be strong, pretending that I can do this on my own.

I fall into his arms, and he catches me. He simply holds me for a minute, knowing I need it. I clench my eyes shut and focus on the warmth radiating from him. I am so short that I don't even reach his shoulder, but it means that I can hear his heart thump every now and then, a stark contrast to my own pounding one. I wonder if he can feel me shaking in his arms.

A shiver races through me as I remember his lifeless body yet again. 

"Come in," he tells me, and I let go of him.

He takes a torch, gently pulls me into his room, and shuts the door. "Are you hurt anywhere? Is everything okay? Your heart's racing."

"I'm not hurt," I say, leaving his second question unanswered.

He opens his mouth to respond, but then he breathes in deeply. His brows draw together. "Why do you smell sick?"

I think of lying to him, to blame an upset stomach from last night's dinner, to make it seem like I'm not a broken girl.

"I threw up," I admit, clenching my fists in order to stop the trembles, "I had a bad dream." 

He motions to his bed, and I sit down, lifting my feet up too so I can reach around and hug my legs to my chest. I place my head on my knees and look at the ground.