The Heart of Winter || The Witcher

Chapter Eight

Ciri had wanted to run to Yen and the others at Geralt's words. Words that had pulled the rug out from under Ciri's feet and sent her tumbling. Though initially flustered, Ciri composed herself. As much as she wanted to fetch help, she also didn't want to leave Geralt right after he had woken up. Especially since she was now the only person he knew in the world.

It soon became clear that Geralt didn't have any memories. Not one. Not before waking up to Ciri's face.

Patiently, Ciri had explained in broad terms who Geralt was and what had happened—that he was a witcher, that he had been injured in a battle with a dangerous cult, and that his friends had brought him back to Novigrad to recover. She had left out the specifics, she didn't think there was any need to go into the more gruesome details just yet.

Geralt had accepted her explanation, though he clearly remained lost. And then it seemed that what little energy his weakened body had contained had been expended and he had passed out again. Ciri's heart tugged at her when Geralt had closed his eyes. She had feared he would sleep for another three weeks. But he woke up the next morning when the sun's rays blazed through the window.

Over the next few days, he was awake more and more. Ciri had gotten the chance to alert the others to his awakening and they all exuberantly followed her back to the hospital to greet him. She had warned them of his amnesia, but only Yen had seemed disquieted by the news. Yen hadn't said anything, but Ciri could tell that Geralt's loss of memory disturbed her more than she wanted to show.

As Ciri had expected from his bearing the night before, Geralt was somewhat overwhelmed by everyone that came to greet him and he often forgot their names or mixed them up. The doctor seemed to sense this and started only allowing one or two visitors at a time to keep Geralt from being overtaxed. His body was still recovering. And not just from his injuries.

Geralt had wasted away in the hospital. The only sustenance he had been able to receive was a beef or chicken broth massaged down his throat. His lack of nutrition and movement had atrophied his muscles and eaten away what little meat there was on his bones. He had always been trim, but still muscular. Now, his face had hollowed out and his ribs shone painfully through his skin, his arms and legs incapable of supporting him fully.

Whenever any of them visited him, they brought as much food as they could—succulent meats and ripe fruits and steaming breads. Geralt devoured them all voraciously. In less than a week of such treatment, he had regained some of his vigor and strength. Enough to where he could go home.

Geralt was allowed to leave the hospital the next day. With arms slung over Ciri and Dandelion, Geralt wobbily took his first steps and they made their way to the Chameleon at a meandering pace.

It was around noon when they arrived so no patrons were in the tavern. Most nights, people didn't start showing up until sundown. They plopped Geralt down on a bench, all three a bit breathless from the arduous journey. Ciri placed herself next to Geralt, with Yen and Dandelion across from them. Zoltan pulled up a chair to join them.

None of them had spoken of Geralt's amnesia while he had been in the hospital. Partly because the doctor had been very strict about not upsetting him, but also because they hadn't wanted to go into anything in such a public setting.

Now seemed the perfect time to address what needed to be said.

At Yen's bidding, Ciri told the full story, or as much of it as she knew. Obviously, there was no way of knowing what Geralt went through at Endir's camp. The only thing Ciri glazed over was Geralt wounding and almost killing her, she didn't think there was any point in heaping any unnecessary guilt upon him. The others added their little tidbits as they saw fit until, finally, the room fell silent.