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Chapter 40
Ciri came to a halt under the dome of the gazebo. Eredin, the King of the Wild Hunt, sat on a wooden bench, calmly regarding her. “Caedmil,” he whispered sadly.
Ciri was silent. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want sad whispers, kisses, or sorrowful glances. She just wanted it to be over. Once and for all.
Nearby, the Whisper trickled softly. It was the name of the stream, which in Elder Speech was called the Tuathe. Kelpie stood below on the bridge, snorting softly and tossing her black mane. The world of Aen Elle was beautiful as ever with its reaching alders, little rivers, flowers and butterflies, and white towers.
The King of the Wild Hunt sat quietly on the wooden bench, regarding her with the corners of his mouth turned down. Ciri was surprised to see he was not clad in his magnificent armor – no horned helm, no gauntlets. Instead, he wore a simple white tunic, ruffled at the collar and sleeves. On his fingers were large rings, and they gleamed when he pushed the long black hair back from his face. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful. And it had always fascinated her.
Her heart skipped a beat when she realized he wore no weapons whatsoever. No sword gleamed on his hip. No dagger was in his boot. Nothing.
Ciri was clad in a dark red tunic and tight trousers. Her ashen hair was down and streaming, earrings sparkled in her ears, and her sword, Swallow, was on her back in the scabbard that buckled across her chest. She also carried a dagger in her boot – just in case. She’d no intention of coming to Aen Elle unarmed. She also had no intention of being kept against her will. Not ever again.
“Sit,” he said, looking off at the stream. The Whisper trickled loudly in the silence that followed. “Please,” he added.
Ciri obliged, trying in vein not to think about the last time she had been so near him. All the times he pursued her in her world, he had been a wraith. It was through a wraith’s stomach that she plunged her sword when last they met. But now, sitting beside her was the real Eredin. She could smell him, feel the heat of him. She secretly wished he would look at her with his fathomless black eyes and hated herself, hated herself for suddenly wanting his hands on her body . . . one last time.
Eredin cleared his throat. “For years, I mourned him. Cerbin. Our son.”
“Yes,” Ciri whispered hoarsely.
“The blood of our child is on your witcher’s hands.”
“You still intend to kill him.”
“That is up to you.”
Ciri looked at him quickly.
He turned his black eyes on her at last, and the wind picked up, dragging tendrils of black hair across them. The ruffled collar of his tunic fluttered open, revealing the smooth skin of his neck and chest. “Stay here with me,” he whispered. She trembled a little when he took her hand. “Stay here, we will have another child, and I will never pursue Geralt again. I will stop the hunt.” His thumb caressed the skin of her hand and he peered imploringly into her eyes.
Ciri swallowed hard, staring at him through streaks of ashen hair. She could see the color of her hair changing before her eyes, could see the blonde streaks she had regained fading away to gray. He saw it too.
“My little butterfly . . .” he implored.
“Yes,” Ciri whispered at last.
“Yes?”
“I will stay.”
Without a word, he kissed her. Without a word, they fell to touching, whispering, moaning as tunics and belts suddenly littered the floor. They walked to the stream together, leaving a trail of clothes. Eredin stepped out of his boots and so did Ciri. The King of the Wild Hunt pulled her down into the grass with him. They made love.
When Ciri opened her eyes again, it was almost morning, and yet, she could still feel his hot kisses on her neck and breasts. His arm was around her, her head was on his shoulder, and she could see the gentle rise and fall of his rippling belly and hard chest. Her eyes slowly traveled up to find his eyes, watching her fondly.
“Me elaine luned,” he whispered softly. “If I said I loved you . . .” He frowned. “Would you believe me?”
“Yes. Would you believe me?”
“Say it.”
“Eredin . . .”
He kissed her cheek, her neck, pulling her close. She started to tremble. “Say it,” he said again and his trembling lips found her breasts. “Whisper it to me, little butterfly . . .”
The nasty sound of flesh tearing made the King of the Wild Hunt freeze. Tears blinded Ciri as the hot blood oozed over her hand. Eredin’s lip trembled and he looked at her, his eyes wide and unseeing.
Choking with sobs, she sank the dagger deeper, to the hilt, and whispered, “I love you.”
Ciri came to a halt under the dome of the gazebo. Eredin, the King of the Wild Hunt, sat on a wooden bench, calmly regarding her. “Caedmil,” he whispered sadly.
Ciri was silent. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want sad whispers, kisses, or sorrowful glances. She just wanted it to be over. Once and for all.
Nearby, the Whisper trickled softly. It was the name of the stream, which in Elder Speech was called the Tuathe. Kelpie stood below on the bridge, snorting softly and tossing her black mane. The world of Aen Elle was beautiful as ever with its reaching alders, little rivers, flowers and butterflies, and white towers.
The King of the Wild Hunt sat quietly on the wooden bench, regarding her with the corners of his mouth turned down. Ciri was surprised to see he was not clad in his magnificent armor – no horned helm, no gauntlets. Instead, he wore a simple white tunic, ruffled at the collar and sleeves. On his fingers were large rings, and they gleamed when he pushed the long black hair back from his face. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful. And it had always fascinated her.
Her heart skipped a beat when she realized he wore no weapons whatsoever. No sword gleamed on his hip. No dagger was in his boot. Nothing.
Ciri was clad in a dark red tunic and tight trousers. Her ashen hair was down and streaming, earrings sparkled in her ears, and her sword, Swallow, was on her back in the scabbard that buckled across her chest. She also carried a dagger in her boot – just in case. She’d no intention of coming to Aen Elle unarmed. She also had no intention of being kept against her will. Not ever again.
“Sit,” he said, looking off at the stream. The Whisper trickled loudly in the silence that followed. “Please,” he added.
Ciri obliged, trying in vein not to think about the last time she had been so near him. All the times he pursued her in her world, he had been a wraith. It was through a wraith’s stomach that she plunged her sword when last they met. But now, sitting beside her was the real Eredin. She could smell him, feel the heat of him. She secretly wished he would look at her with his fathomless black eyes and hated herself, hated herself for suddenly wanting his hands on her body . . . one last time.
Eredin cleared his throat. “For years, I mourned him. Cerbin. Our son.”
“Yes,” Ciri whispered hoarsely.
“The blood of our child is on your witcher’s hands.”
“You still intend to kill him.”
“That is up to you.”
Ciri looked at him quickly.
He turned his black eyes on her at last, and the wind picked up, dragging tendrils of black hair across them. The ruffled collar of his tunic fluttered open, revealing the smooth skin of his neck and chest. “Stay here with me,” he whispered. She trembled a little when he took her hand. “Stay here, we will have another child, and I will never pursue Geralt again. I will stop the hunt.” His thumb caressed the skin of her hand and he peered imploringly into her eyes.
Ciri swallowed hard, staring at him through streaks of ashen hair. She could see the color of her hair changing before her eyes, could see the blonde streaks she had regained fading away to gray. He saw it too.
“My little butterfly . . .” he implored.
“Yes,” Ciri whispered at last.
“Yes?”
“I will stay.”
Without a word, he kissed her. Without a word, they fell to touching, whispering, moaning as tunics and belts suddenly littered the floor. They walked to the stream together, leaving a trail of clothes. Eredin stepped out of his boots and so did Ciri. The King of the Wild Hunt pulled her down into the grass with him. They made love.
When Ciri opened her eyes again, it was almost morning, and yet, she could still feel his hot kisses on her neck and breasts. His arm was around her, her head was on his shoulder, and she could see the gentle rise and fall of his rippling belly and hard chest. Her eyes slowly traveled up to find his eyes, watching her fondly.
“Me elaine luned,” he whispered softly. “If I said I loved you . . .” He frowned. “Would you believe me?”
“Yes. Would you believe me?”
“Say it.”
“Eredin . . .”
He kissed her cheek, her neck, pulling her close. She started to tremble. “Say it,” he said again and his trembling lips found her breasts. “Whisper it to me, little butterfly . . .”
The nasty sound of flesh tearing made the King of the Wild Hunt freeze. Tears blinded Ciri as the hot blood oozed over her hand. Eredin’s lip trembled and he looked at her, his eyes wide and unseeing.
Choking with sobs, she sank the dagger deeper, to the hilt, and whispered, “I love you.”
“Freedom,” he spat. “You are still talking about freedom. What would you do if you finally regained it? Where would you go? Do you realize that you are on our world at the moment, not only in space but time. Time flows differently here than there. Those whom you knew as children are now elderly, those who you once knew have long since died.”
“I do not believe it.”
“Remember your legends. Legends about people missing and returning after a year, only to see the graves of their relatives covered by grass. Are you going to say that they were pure fantasy, things taken from stories? You are wrong. For centuries, people have been kidnapped, snatched by riders, by the Wild Hunt. Abducted, exploited and then thrown away like an empty shell once consumed. But do not expect to be that lucky, Zireael. You will die here, you will not see the graves of your friends.”
“I do not believe what you say.”
“You chose your destiny. Let’s go back. I want to ask you something, Swallow. Would it be ok to have a meal together before going back to Tir Na Lia?”
For a few heartbeats, hunger fought fascination and anger, fear of poising and a general dislike.
“I’d be happy to.” She looked down. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Thank you. Let’s go.”
-- The Lady of the Lake
In the book, Eredin/The King of the Wild Hunt, sort of had a thing going on with Ciri. She was attracted to him and he used it to try and get her to fulfill the prophecy. I do not believed he ever really loved her -- that's just something I did for this fan fiction -- but it seems right that she would be the one to have to kill him, not Geralt.
It also makes sense to me because Ciri is the only one who can travel to Eredin's world, so she's the only one who can kill him in his real form. They apparently can't kill him when he's a wraith. (I think it's said in the second game that Geralt met Eredin in his real form under the Hanged Man's tree? I think. I can't remember.)
The games took an entirely different route.
This is not the end, however. One more chapter to go.
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