Chapter Text
Yellowhammers are quite common in this land. One of them, a pristine male, ceases its morning song and lands on a wet stone, charmingly shaking his feathers. It chooses to stay close to the river, moving its little head repeatedly, like it would be assessing itself on the water's surface.
It is a quite narcissistic being, so engaged in its refreshing ritual that it doesn't notice that he is being admired by a female lynx.
The ginger fur is just having her usual sunbath, lying gracefully under a weeping larch. She saw the bird at once, though she refrained from instant attack, simply taking time to take joy in watching her yellow snack-to-be.
Feeding her eyes takes a while, but it is high time to fill her belly. The distance between the feathery Apollo and the feline huntress eventually starts to shorten with every murderously silent step, but lucky for the bird the sneaking stops. The lynx dashes away into the shrubberies and the bird flies off into the tree crowns.
Approximately three meters up from the ground a circle of water and mud creates itself.
Two people flew out of it and with a sizable splash land in a shallow stream. They drag each other out, coughing and taking deep breaths. One of them immediately falls on the shore in a manner of exhaustion. The other one scans the surroundings, cape on his head and in his hand a long stick.
“We are safe.” He announces with certainty and kneels by the smaller one, who is still breathing rapidly.
The man quickly recognizes the changes in the air. The oxygen is diluted. For him this are sufficient breathing conditions, but not for her.
Zireael, she is so fragile, due to her humane genes, she may faint at every moment.
He falters for a second quickly assessing whether what he wants to do will be accepted or rejected.
“I will stabilise your breathing. Your lungs will adjust, but now this process is unnecessarily painful for you. Do you feel pressure in your chest?” He reaches to her neck, in order to send a single magical impulse which is supposed to expand her bronchi.
The girl catches his wrist in the air.
Rejection then. Some memories like to stay painfully fresh.
“Just give me a while. I’m not made of egg shell Avallac'h.”
…
They are towered by the edgy horizon of mountains with snow covered peaks. After spending two awfully hot days rummaging through a muddy green hell jungle they gaze at each other with relief.
They notice a deer, passing majestically through a meadow. The animals' impressive antlers adorn his head like a magnificent crown of a forest lord. Both of them have faces filled with simple happiness. The huge mammal is a nice change after the massive snakes they saw more than once in the last days.
They manage to descend to a lower level of this land until the evening falls. Avallac'h calculates quickly that the upcoming two weeks can bring them rest from the Wild Hunt’s pursuit and insists on following his distant memory about a small village here.
“How much longer are we going to play nature lovers? I am exhausted, Avallac'h.” Ciri whines, but doesn't slow down.
It turns out that time passed here quicker than the Sage estimated. He is mistaken. He got distracted. It’s a tiny sting in the Knower’s pride.
They move along the shores of a vast lake and find nothing left, but one abandoned wooden hut which taunts and greets them with a single but huge bed under a shared roof.
The first thing the sorcerer does is to precisely cut the bed in two with a power beam. Though Ciri should get used to his magic solutions, her brows raise up. His spectrum of power wielding never ceases to amaze her. She assumes it will never stop.
Avallac’h does not show it, but he likes to impress her. He likes it the most when she has those bad days of hers.
With another move which also looks entirely effortless, he pulls the parts apart, one landing far from the leaky window, further from the door, but closer to what undoubtedly once served as a fireplace. Afterwards, he pushes the lasting part away, as far as possible from the first one. While Ciri thinks he has given an end to his spells he pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, tosses it up and with the tiniest threads of power dismantles the fabric creating a gossamer curtain, covering the bed area.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He grabs an empty bottle and leaves her.
Ciri touches the curtain with her fingertips. From the start she knows this little nook is only hers. To say that the elf avoids physical contact would be overreacting. He rather keeps it to a minimum, for example leaving it for situations when the space-time tunnels resemble a storm of the century. He is also very casual when his healing abilities come in handy. Occasional hugs can be counted on one's hand fingers. Once he even stooped down to graze her head playfully, but took the hand away as burned.
Ciri thinks it's the scar, or her human origin.
Or maybe I’m just oddly repulsive to him. She pushes the inquiry to the back of her mind. There is no need for the two of them to be fond of each other's looks.
Time passes and without asking she knows they will not move further in the days to come. She has stopped to ask him about things like that. To an outside observer this would be interpreted as an immense trust. And in part it is, yet Ciri does not really have a big choice. In the end he is better than the Wild Hunt. He must be.
The Sage trains her consistently with unspeakable patience. He is a great teacher. Demanding, but engaged. His knowledge is so vast that sometimes Ciri chooses to hide her admiration.
But good days don't last forever.
Even if they have managed to at least ostensibly bury their differences, they are still who they are. He is an elf, she is a human woman. A dh’oine.
He does not offend her kin in front of her. Actually, not openly, but Ciri can sense the tension when their topics by chance reach Lara’s betrayal - an elf who betrayed him with a human.
Some time ago she wouldn't dare to ask him the details, but curiosity doesn't leave her. At the beginning she was literally afraid of him, but at the present moment there is no fear in her. She can do what she wants. For the past weeks the elf has been so stoic that she cannot even recall what his raised voice sounds like.
One evening she brings two hunted rabbits and prepares the meal. They eat in silence and Ciri decides to ask questions, but a strong cough ceases the trial. It turns out she took something with her from that previous world.
Ciri gets cold the next day. It starts as a casual runny nose and quickly changes to shakes and coughs.
The fever is high and the Aen Saevherne healing spells don't work.
It makes Avallac'h nervous. Impotence does not befit this elf. In emotions, he throws a few words, cursing her human ancestors and their poor immunity to germs and diseases.
Ciri does not agree to his offer to use the nature surrounding them to heal her. It involves other beings' energy and Ciri does not want this kind of magic.
After supper she apparently starts to feel better until she falls through his arms after she stubbornly refuses for his company in her outdoor toilet.
He carries her limp body up effortlessly and gets her to bed.
A cosmic road depicts in front of her eyes. Sparks and stars mingle with black shadows.
She loses conscience and she dreams. About drifting in oceans, lakes and streams. All saturated with aquamarine.
...
She wakes up weakened, but stable. She has no idea what time of the day it is. With bewilderment she notices that she is naked, covered in a sheet and Avallac’h’s cloak - an enchanted elven material.
Her skin is greasy. Her whole body, from head to toe is greased with some kind of lubricant or ointment-like substance.
Inside of the hut is exceptionally warm and filled with a pleasant scent of honey, flowers and something salty.
Ciri suspects that the Sage killed one of the water animals living in the lake. Took it life and extracted all he needed to heal her.
She speaks to him the same day.
Before approaching him she takes a while in observing him when she finds him at the shore of the lake. He looks like praying and sends flowers to the water surface. Ciri knows what it is: an elven apology.
He is openly relieved at her sight.
Despite the edgy experience nothing seems to change between them. He is repeating to her that he did nothing special as in the end she is his and the whole universe promised saviour, but Ciri points out that again he is the one who saved her.
When she throws her arms around his neck in an innocent attempt of an embrace he answers back for a mere second. His height helps him in cutting the closeness. It could get awkward, however Ciri doesn't care, she is herself, not pretending or shackling her feelings.
The Sage prohibits her from cleaning herself in the lake's cold waters.
“I am the epitome of grease. I will just take a quick swim.” She bends down to take off her shoes.
“Naturally. Right after I said not to do it.” He says with a note of bitter amusement.
“I mean just look at me, I feel so filthy.” Ciri helplessly points at herself, her eyes looking into his in a search of understanding. She finds none, so she adds: ‘Being around such a fine-looking elf like you obliges me to look at least decently.’ She smiles at him and stops for a second. They stay close enough for Ciri to notice he drifts off a little with his thoughts.
“Are you fine?” She stands up on her toes and touches him, disturbed.
He gazes at her hands like he would have the whole eternity to do this, one on the hem of his cloak and the other one his shoulder. He takes them off gently and with a reassuring soft smile holds them together, covered in his palms.
He can be physical like this, touching her as if she would be fragile and divine at the same time. Ciri melts at this behaviour of his, so rare, but filled with unspoken delicacy. She chuckles nervously and he lets her go.
“Just leave this idea of going into cold water. I will find a safe and warm solution.” He reassures her and walks away with his hands clasped behind his back.
The same evening Ciri thinks about breaking his prohibition when she strolls by through the meadows, just by the lake. The greasy glue in her hair makes her feel dirty as hell.
In the distance she sees a lynx, sitting on a huge boulder, watching her like she would be judging her bad looks. The wild cat is privileged to its mocking gaze - she looks purely majestic in the last rays of the setting sun.
The sunset rapidly steps aside to the cold which is ushering its chilly rule upon the valley. The grey ribbon of smoke coming out from the old chimney is like an invitation to hurry up her steps. When she enters the hut Avallac'h is sitting behind the table. He welcomes her back with an expression saying that he is clearly pleased with himself. He sees him lifting his head from his thick volumes with a contented smile. Ciri finds it charming; that an extraordinary person like him can look just like an ordinary man waiting to be praised.
She does not even have to ask him what is the reason behind his proud face. Close to the fire, a hollowed out tree trunk awaits her. The water in it evaporates with hot steam.
The witcher girl lets out a laugh of wonder.
“Well well Avallac’h, you have a gift of persuasion.” She praises him and starts to untie her corset inadvertently.
Without haste the elf stands up and relocates the chair, his back turned to the chamber.
As if unwillingly, he makes a move with his hand and in effect his cloak, which was hanging on his chair is aired, placed into a role of a temporary curtain, hiding half naked Ciri behind.
He turns his eyes to the window and stares into it. A splash of water and Ciri's pleased ‘mmm’ tells him that she is under water so he moves for some water too.
His throat has gone dry.
“Avallac’h? May I disturb you?” Ciri asks after a longer while and the elf can hear the water moving when she switches on her stomach into a more comfortable position.
He does not respond immediately and Ciri hears him giving out a long exhale. She notices his shadow on the wall, not obstructed by all the creative curtains he can invent in one blink of an eye.
With a peculiar effort he puts down his papers and gently bends his head back, just to speak with his usual tone.
“I am listening Zireael.”
Ciri smiles. It is a bit funny, a bit awkward to have this conversation in such a spacing.
“After all this ends…will we, sorry I mean, will you and I see each other from time to time?”
Again this silence. But Ciri gets accustomed to the fact that he sometimes does it; taking his time, weighing his words when serious matters appear in their conversations.
Despite this knowledge, a note of insecurity rises in her that she asked him about it right now. Maybe she exaggerated the fondness she felt and assumed he is likely to share it on a similar level.
Avallac'h finally speaks and pulls her out of her little pit of gloomy thoughts.
“If you need me I will know about it Loc’laith. And if you want it I will come.”
Ciri does not say anything in reply, she only smiles meltfully, diving under the water up to her nose.
Another type of familiar silence prevails between them now. A very nice one this time, which created itself through all those long evenings and nights, all the exhausting marches and waitings for the portals to open up, but also it is the same type of silence that takes place when they admire all those beautiful, sometimes desolated worlds of all shapes and colours. But foremost it is just simply nice, because not for the first time Avallac'h knows what to say to make her feel good and give her heart a sense of peace.
For someone else he might have sounded pathetic, too sublime, oddly mysterious, but Ciri appreciates it as she grew fond of it, even if in the beginning of their shared journey she rolled her eyes as a default reaction.
Despite the sword on her back it was pleasant to be treated like a frail maiden - from time to time.
Ciri knows the elf is dirty from the ointment too. His travelling cloak freshly wet after cleaning. That is why she presses on him to take a bath after her.
He grunts, but ultimately informs her with reluctance: “That tub is for you only.”
“Oh come on, loosen up. I'm not a peeper.” She jokes playfully behind the temporary curtain which still levitates, hiding her deepened in the hot water and warm mist.
“I will manage. Let us keep a modicum of decency in this wilderness. You stay here and relax.” He stands up and leaves her to her pondering.
Surely the great Aen Saevherne is too rejected by getting into the water after her. He rather goes to refresh himself outside in the freezing night. That alone already says a lot about his attitude to her physique. However Ciri does not care much about it at the moment. She is immersed in the egoistic pleasure of being warm and wet simultaneously. Avallac’h is good for her, like a friend would be.
The fire blazes, kept and boosted by magic and when Ciri hits the bed sheets she immediately takes a nap.
She wakes up with an empty stomach. The position of the moon indicates she slept for some considerable time. Avallac’h’s place is still empty and his workplace is a mess like he left in a hurry, but Ciri is sure she remembers he was ordinarily calm.
She feels a little troubled towards him. He always cares about her comforts and now he himself left his cloak and went out in the cold only in his shirt. A delayed feeling of guilt hits her. She touches the soft elven material and states that it is already dry. She wraps herself in everything she can and without further thinking dashes outside.
It is a mystic night. Elongated clouds appear languidly in the night sky. The beauty of nature thrives in the moonlight. The shore near the hut is empty so Ciri walks to a direction of a small pond where she sometimes refreshes herself. The area is shrouded in ashen fog.
She stops, but her straight manners win. She will only leave him his cloak. She will hang it on some nearby tree as soon as possible, as soon as she is sure Avallac’h is here.
The moss is fluffy, muting her footsteps like a wool carpet. Either way, she moves like a witcher.
Her ears reach deep breaths, inhale exhale, alternately. She frowns as worries grab her, but not for long. She lurks behind the trees into the ponds hollow.
Avallac'h is leaning with his elbow on a stone wall. Hiding his face behind his palm, while the other one is stroking his cock. Slowly. Up and down. In turns.
Ciri squeezes the cloak to herself.
Firstly she is taken aback, her first thought is to run away, to leave him alone, to erase what she saw from her memory though as she refrains from moving and speaking she starts to play with the notion that he is purely magnetising in the half darkness.
The night palette suits him so right.
She smiles lightly, but very indecently; it might be her only chance to see him in this version.
His body is covered in ritual black ink. His head bends back and he gasps, whispering words in his mother tongue.
It stirs her senses.
Ciri's mouth waters in response to his hand activity. She feeds on the arousal.
Messy thoughts occur to her. She pictures him holding her, his hands, those long fingers rubbing the ointment all over her unconscious body. So anxious about her well being. So caring, so nervous and so bloody thorough.
An insane idea rises, deeply in her bosom:
“ I could join him, touch him.”
But as longer as she looks she knows it is wrong. There is a note of sorrow in this act. Like he had been punishing himself. His breathing changes. The sound that leaves his mouth makes Ciri feel out of place and the name he whispers instantly contradicts her initial feelings.
That name that no one on the continent never used to call her.
The name she heard for the first name after she emerged from the tower of The Swallow.
The name which sounds so enchanting in his mouth.
‘Oh Zireael.’
Now she knows.
It is not Lara. It is not yearning and a broken heart speaking through him. It isn't even sorrow nor sadness. It is shame. He is ashamed of himself.
A stream of flashing pictures and thoughts occurs to her; he touched her that night before, rubbed the ointment thoroughly in her unconscious body, he was afraid that he could lose her, begging fate to spare her.
The realisation is bittersweet.
Praying to the goddess to keep her invisible and undetectable she stealths back and when she is far away enough she dashes to the hut, like she had never been there. She smashes the door and jumps under her blankets trying to fall asleep.
When she hears the doors open her heart beats crazily, but she knows how to control her breath. How to move her chest like a sleeping person would do.
She senses his aura. His steps. Closer. He moves so silently, that she had learned him for a long time.
He kneels down and Ciri feels him touching the top of her head. His lips are incredibly hot, brushing her scarred cheek gently, not taking the grey strands away and it feels like a shy butterfly would like to kiss her and fly away into the rising dawn.
Ciri does not move until her ears reach the squeaking of Avallac'h's bed. After that she lets herself release a single tear caused by all the spinning emotions.
She will pretend, just like he does. They will complete their mission. Together. He - her dearest Sage, her protector. She - his Zireael, his hope and shame.