Once again, Hestia de Aretuza was no where to be found. Rumors told a story of revenge and how the Emperor kept her captive, others said she was dead, turned to ashes and there were the optimistic ones, who believed she was hiding somewhere close to...
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Geralt was completely drenched. He kept thinking about how to get to Hestia, all he knew was that he had to get there. It would not be an easy path, of that he knew and had always known, but now he finally had a light, a light at the end of the tunnel that shone brightly, calling him to follow it. How long would this flame last? He had no idea, but he would do anything to keep it burning, run through the darkest woods, fight whatever and whoever it took, but he would get to it.
Hestia would shine once again.
His steps were deep in the mud, strong footsteps that didn't think much, just acted. Water dripped from his long hair, running like a stream down his bare, scarred back. Geralt ran his hand through his hair, squeezing it to make it less wet, and then rubbed his face, still in disbelief that all this was real.
There was something strange about mage magic, especially the powers that were directly linked to nature. It hit them in their core, it was something inexplicable, indescribable, a sensation that only those who had experienced something like that knew. He felt dizzy and weak, something he would have known if he had waited a few seconds to hear Serena explain that he should rest, that the magic used on him was very powerful and that he would be bewildered for a while. But Geralt was stubborn, and every step he took, he was taking to get to Hestia.
No matter how blurred his vision was, like his reflection in the water, how blurry the edge of his vision was, how soft his muscles seemed and his tongue felt numb, he still took the steps, because he needed to reach her, he needed to get there in time and his time was short. He also made an effort to keep his memory intact, he needed to remember the vision, he needed to decipher every detail, he needed to keep Hestia's memory alive, so he hissed to himself, words without meaning, but that he understood, words that were like a map to get to Hestia. He knew every road he had to take, every step he had to take, all the enemies he might encounter, he knew it wouldn't be easy, he knew the place was heavily armed. But he would never give up, not on her.
He walked through the forest, missteps making him stumble in the invisible, taking momentum in the trees while mumbling curses of how he couldn't walk, talk or even think straight. He felt like he was walking with gravity a thousand times heavier than normal, his head felt as light as a balloon, his backbone like a rooted tree, he was sure he would be split in half, his guts would fall out in front of him and the animals of the forest would feed on his hot and bloody stomach. He hated the pain, but he knew he had to keep going.
He couldn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
And then, almost like a mirage, Geralt could see Hestia in her typical red robes, flying along with the wind, giving the sensation that she was floating. Her feet didn't seem to touch the ground, but they were full of dirt. Her gravity seemed to have been transported to him and she laughed, laughing as she ran from him, looking back only to see his expression.
Her laugh was so delicious, he could delight in the melody of her voice, a voice that called him, voice that laughed, voice that moaned, voice that guided him. And like a determined drunk, he took his steps towards her, seeing the red strands like embers floating, strands that escaped from the two braids that started at the top of Hestia's head and went halfway, until they reached the loose part. She looked so happy, which made no sense at all, she looked free, but he knew she wasn't, so why was she standing in front of him? Why did she look so happy? Why was she calling him?
Nothing made sense, but he didn't care, he smiled like a court jester, running to her. It was strange, the way his cheeks burned from the smile, the muscles he had to move to smile, it was unfamiliar to him, because he rarely did it, but this time he smiled so sincerely that he didn't even have time to think about how unusual it was. He smiled because for the first time in years he saw her. He felt his face wet and he didn't know why, but it was the tears, tears that flowed without stopping, forming a small accumulation on his chin, dripping with the wind.
It was such a familiar feeling, seeing her smiling, her red robes, her face, the way she said his name. It was as if he was reviewing every moment beside her, the boat, the tower, the lake, the horses, the snow, the griffen, the ball, everything went through his mind like a movie.
So familiar.
He missed her so much, he wanted her close and loved her so much that it was torture that every step she took seemed to make him more distant and not closer. He would do anything to have her in his arms once more, so he screamed, screamed of frustration because he could not keep up with her. They both ran, until she reached the edge of the cliff and turned on her back, arms open, falling without thinking twice on the cliff.
Geralt ran faster, completely desperate, he yelled "no" several times without stopping.
"NO, NO, NO"
He seemed to be begging, pleading, for her to come back.
He threw himself on his knees at the edge of the cliff, his eyes searching for the redhead's body, his heart felt like it was going to explode and he wanted to vomit, until he saw a red bird flying in front of him. He frowned, confused, watching as the bird flew in front of him.
And for a second, the goddess Freya crossed his mind.
'Freya is the archetype of the völva, a professional or semi-professional practitioner of seidr, the most organized form of Norse magic. It was she who first brought this art to the gods, and, by extension, to humans as well. Given her expertise in controlling and manipulating the desires, health, and prosperity of others, she's a being whose knowledge and power are almost without equal.
In the Viking Age, the völva was an itinerant seeress and sorceress who travelled from town to town performing commissioned acts of seidr in exchange for lodging, food, and often other forms of compensation as well. Like other northern Eurasian shamans, her social status was highly ambiguous - she was by turns exalted, feared, longed for, propitiated, celebrated, and scorned.'
Freya could transform into a bird, she was a shapeshifter.
Imagine how insane it would be if Hestia had anything to do with Freya, an actual descendent of her.
Geralt looked at the flying bird and then sat up, completely static and expressionless, his focus fixed on the bird, so much so that he didn't even notice when Ciri's hands touched his face, gripping it somewhat tightly, trying to get him to look her in the eye, but his pupils were dilated like two black holes and he couldn't hear a word she was saying.
"You shouldn't be here" Geralt said, still distracted.
"You shouldn't be on the edge of a cliff" Ciri replied, irritated "what do you think you're doing?"
"Going after her."
"After whom?".
"Whose else, Ciri? Who else?"
"Do you know where she is?" Ciri shook Geralt "GERALT! DO YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS? GERALT" she shouted, but it was in vain, for then Geralt collapsed, looking up at the sky, fixated on the bird "come on Jaskier, help me carry him, we have to get to Skellige soon, before it's too late".
