The Heart of Winter || The Witcher

Chapter Seven

Darkness was the only thing Geralt knew, an infinite, soundless nothing that encased him in its totality.

But, out of the seemingly impenetrable darkness, came something. Something that roused Geralt's being. It flitted in and out of Geralt's perception, as if it were a dim light blinking in the distance. Like a newborn calf searching for its mother's teat, he reached for it without really understanding why. All he could do was extend himself toward it, toward what he soon came to realize was a sound.

The further he went, the more he understood, about himself, about his surroundings, about the sound that was guiding him.

He was Geralt. He was a witcher. But where was he? Why couldn't he see or feel anything? Why was there only one sound in this world of shadow?

As he became more and more self-aware, his progress toward the sound became more difficult. He was wading, waist-deep, through thick mud, every step taking more effort than it rewarded him in headway. Part of him questioned why he was doing this, why he was fighting an uphill battle. Was he not perfectly content where he was now? It seemed peaceful enough. But there was still that nagging itch in his mind that kept him going, told him that he needed to reach that sound. So he forged ahead.

The more he advanced, the more dire Geralt's need to find that sound became. It seemed familiar to him, though he couldn't quite place it. Like a word that was on the tip of his tongue, it dangled just out of his comprehension.

Then, all of a sudden, Geralt recognized what he now understood was a voice, calling out to him.

It was Ciri.

Everything came flooding back. All of Geralt's memories issued forth, ending with Endir overcoming Geralt's mind and banishing him to the endless void.

Desperately Geralt fought now to return himself to the world, to Ciri. She had to be in trouble. Gods, he hoped it wasn't too late already.

Vaguely, he could feel his arms describing familiar motions, repeating them over and over. The sensation was too faint to recognize the action, but somehow he knew it meant danger for Ciri and he redoubled his efforts to reach her, his heart in his throat just thinking about what might be happening.

After what seemed an eternity, a light filtered into the emptiness surrounding Geralt, diffusing around him. Sounds grew along with it—swords clashing and wind gusting, shouts of pain and misery. Cutting through it all was Ciri, pleading with him, begging him to return. The desperation in her voice lent him some remaining strength he didn't know he possessed and he threw it all into a final burst toward her.

The light bloomed into a scene of death and destruction, the dead and wounded strewn everywhere about Endir's camp, a raging blizzard obscuring everything more than twenty feet away.

Geralt's gaze didn't linger on his surroundings though. He could feel a lump beneath his left foot, could feel himself reversing his grip on the sword in his hand. And then he was plummeting down toward Ciri, ready to stab her through the heart.

Nothing but emotion and instinct drove him, the rest of the world draining away.

He couldn't kill Ciri.

That one thought became the sole focus of his being until killing Ciri turned into such an impossible reality that his body refused to let it happen.

"NOOOOOOOO!!" His internal roar turned outward as Geralt fought his way back to himself. He was screaming the word at Ciri when he turned the blade at the last possible second, shearing a hole through her coat and nicking the side of her chest. The sword sunk deep into the snow beside Ciri and Geralt came to a rest on one knee with head bowed, his left foot still on Ciri's wrist.