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Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, Chapter 5
22:57 Mar 28 2011
Times Read: 700

I awoke to darkness and quiet. The storm had ceased, and I lay idly peaceful and languid in the nest of my bed. I felt both empty and filled, aching and soothed. And sticky.



I reached out, but I was alone, with not even the memory of his warmth beside me. I sat up and looked around, my eyes straining in the shadows. The fire had burnt back to embers, a sullen red glow that only vaguely illuminated the room.



Pulling the blanket around my shoulders, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, wincing at the protest of muscles long unused, a purely feminine ache. Despite the pain, I smiled to myself in remembrance.



Barefoot, I padded over to the bench and fumbled in the darkness for the lantern and striker. A few quick sparks had it alight and a mellow pool of light brightened the room. It was only then that I realised Geralt was kneeling motionless before the fire, shirtless and feet bare. I stood, stupidly holding the lantern which was rapidly heating between my fingers, and admired the planes of his back, the way his hair fell over his shoulders, and the smooth clean lines of his torso.



The lantern glass grew hotter and my fingertips burnt and I dropped it to the table with a clatter and a hiss. He shifted back on his haunches and got himself to his feet in a fluid motion only slightly hitched by his injuries. In the light of the lantern he was palely golden, face shadowed and obscure. I sucked on my injured fingers and contemplated him. He stood in silence and let me.



Eventually I couldn't bear it any longer. "Geralt…"



He didn't shift but I felt his attention focus on me. It was electric.



"I ah… about…"



He folded his arms.



"I, that is, we… I want… we should…"



As I stuttered and stammered I could feel my face growing hotter with my awkwardness. And still he said nothing, did nothing. I couldn't even see if he was smirking, though I felt he was. I wanted to kick him in the shins, just to make him react.



Eventually I spluttered into silence, gave up and shrugged. "Hungry?"



His lips twitched and he nodded once. Infuriating man.



But as I turned away to fetch something out of the pantry, still draped in my blanket, he caught me close and settled a swift, warm kiss on my lips, his hand sliding under the cloth and delving to my bare skin, rousing all the nerves I'd thought settled. I gasped and pressed myself against him. My blanket dropped to the floor. Food was forgotten for the moment, in favour of other fare.



Over the next few days we settled into a comfortable routine. I learnt that Geralt rarely slept. He would exhaust me with his attentions and I would fall asleep, sated and safe in the circle of his arms. When I awoke he would invariably be out of bed, meditating before the fire, or pouring over my few books. He seemed indefatigable. He wore me out with his sheer presence.



I grew to know him intimately, physically at least. The curve of his spine, the intricate patterns of the many scars carved into his flesh. The scent and taste of his skin. The hard ridges of muscle that defined his belly. I was fascinated by his hair and would spend long hours playing with it while I sat behind him. I would stare enraptured into his eyes, studying the intricacies held within. It was his otherness that I found the most attractive. I am not sure that he quite knew what to make of that, being that it was his otherness that usually marked him for derision and scorn.



He defied all my limited knowledge of men, though admittedly this was mainly gained through first my father and then my husband, both of whom probably were not 'normal' in the strictest definition of the word; and completely set any notions of witchers I'd had on their head. He was unobtrusive, and yet he was always aware of everything that was happening. He'd cock his head, and then I'd hear someone walk past outside. He'd look up, and I'd feel that the wind had changed direction. It was uncanny. By the same token, I always knew where he was. I was attuned to him like a needle to a lodestone.



He was thorough in his loving, demanding and insistent. He was not entirely considerate, but he always ensured I achieved my own release. I had the distinct impression he enjoyed seeing me lost in the throes of passion. And yet he rarely ever let his own pleasure consume him. He constantly tried to distance himself from his emotions, though I knew they were there, running deep and still under his impassive face. I became determined to crack his stoic façade, to make his witcher mask slip and reveal the passions underneath.



He was clean and quiet, graceful and calm. Not boorish like the men of the village, though perhaps that was more due to the lack of availability to be so. He rarely spoke, but I hungered for his voice and so tried to encourage him to speak as often as I could. We would have long slow conversations – regaling each other with stories. He would tell me little of his witcher's life, despite my pleas, but would happily talk about cities he'd visited, towns he'd been to. He adored poker, I discovered, and was considered the keen opponent. He'd participated in fistfights in taverns for money, and grinned slightly when I expressed disapproval of this. He was by turns depreciatingly humorous and deeply philosophical when he wanted to be. He was, at the least, considerate enough to not flaunt his many conquests in his tales. In return I told him about my childhood and my father, about my meeting my husband and our elopement against my father's wishes. He held me when I described their deaths and kissed the tears from my eyes. Then he drove the sorrow from me in a more immediate manner, leaving me breathless and exhausted but no longer unhappy.



He could cook – after a fashion – and his knowledge of herbs was both more extensive and more limited than mine. He asked to appropriate my last two bottles of vodka and brewed himself some healing potions with them, adding the herbs I'd recovered from the clearing. I was unbearably curious about his techniques, but he could not explain much to me and was clearly uncomfortable with my questioning him. He'd memorised formulae, and made his potions solely from these tested recipes. He did not experiment, did not create anything new. I surmised his methods were part of witcher lore, and did not delve too deeply.



He downed one of the potions he'd brewed, and his back healed amazingly quickly after that, instantaneously almost, leaving only scarring and the now superfluous stitches behind. I picked the stitches from his skin, smiling in amusement as he quivered and flinched beneath me, much like a horse bothered by flies on a hot day. Then he started to work to regain his flexibility and strength. I watched him stretch and bend on the floor, watched the various contortions he put his body through, and was consumed by desire for him. I would teasingly run a hand across his chest, back or stomach while he balanced, or stroke the lines of his hard muscles as he performed whatever series of movements he was currently doing. I would kiss along his jaw, lick down his chest and suckle on him. My fingers would delve beneath the waistband of his trousers. I would tickle him, lick him in sensitive places: all in a vain attempt to make him falter and gasp. He rarely did, so intent was his focus. Once he'd finished, however, he would catch me up and take me hard and fast, growling under his breath while I cried out in delight, and I knew that I'd affected him after all.



He snuck out at night while I was asleep and pilfered firewood from my neighbours' caches. Once he stole an entire side of mutton. I found it in my pantry in the morning when it definitely hadn't been there the night before, and even in silence and with his back to me he seemed far too smug as he knelt before the fire. I rolled my eyes and cooked it and together we savoured the taste of his ill-gotten gains. I firmly believed that never had mutton tasted so good.



He was unfailingly polite, and obviously used to much better than what I had to offer. I would look around at the inside of my hut: at the worn furniture, the shabby walls, at the rapidly emptying pantry, all the trappings of borderline poverty, and cringe. But then he'd sweep me up in his arms and burn me with his kisses and I'd forget everything except the immediate pleasure to be found in his strong, hard body. It was only after I'd descended from whatever new dizzying heights he'd taken me to that the spectre of who and what he was would creep over me again.



In many ways he was the ideal person to be shut inside a small house with. It was an idyllic span of days, restful and invigorating, a brief time of peace before the world turned against us. Against me.



The morning I woke to the steely slither of grindstone against tempered metal was the morning I realised I was hopelessly in love. I rolled over, alone in my bed as usual, and watched him intently drawing the stone over the blade. His hawk's gaze was focused and intent, his movements displaying utter control. The muscles in his arms and back rippled as he sharpened the blade to shining lethality. He was imperfectly, strangely beautiful and my entire being clenched with a sharp, inarticulate longing.



Tears formed in my eyes and I berated myself angrily, for I was under no illusions. He was a witcher, a man who went his way alone, who took his pleasures frequently and fleetingly wherever he could find them. His life was a constant risk, a careful wending of the paths between life and death. He was forever only one quick sword stroke, one cruel claw away from annihilation. Oh, I could hope that he cared at least a little for me; but if he did it was a caring born only of necessity and close quarters. I did not think he had room in his heart for love.



I buried my head and railed at the unfairness of it all from the safety of my blankets. I swore at the goddess for allowing this to happen, for making me realise that my life was not yet over, for throwing him into my path and making me burn when he was near. But Melitele did not answer me. My pillow was well dampened before I ceased my tantrum, wiping from my face the tears that had escaped my eyes. I tried to be practical. I resolved to make the most of what I had, to treasure each moment so that in the years to come I could pull out the memories of him and keep them shiny and fresh in the halls of my mind. I wondered how long my resolve would last.



I wondered how many other women sat silent on a cold winter's night; either next to a husband they did not love or alone, with only their memories of Geralt to keep them warm.



I wondered if one day I would be a bright, treasured memory for him, brought out when he was alone to keep the dark and the cold at bay.



I wondered how loudly my heart would break when he inevitably left.



Consequently, I spent most of the day in a melancholy mood, completing my chores in silence. I caught Geralt eyeing me several times over the course of the day, but he said nothing, and neither did I.



I prepared supper as normal, and we ate in silence. After the meal was done and I started to clear the table, he caught my hand and pulled me into his lap. He pulled the knot out of my hair and let it cascade down my back, running his fingers through its length. I relaxed into him, resting my head on his chest, listening to the strong, sure beat of his heart. I grew drowsy from his slow, calm strokes and nestled contentedly into him, hoping to soak up as much of him as I could.



Gradually his fingers grew to be more caressing than relaxing, drifting down my spine and back up again, delicate touches at odds with his strength and masculinity, sending shivers coursing through me. I roused and nuzzled into him, rubbing my cheek over his chest, delighting in the feel of his warm skin under the rough fabric of his shirt.



He wove his fingers through my hair, cradling the base of my skull, and gently tipped my head back. I looked up at him, at his smooth, resolute face, his strange, shining eyes, and wondered briefly what was going on behind them. Then he bent his head and kissed me, softly and tenderly, and rational thought ceased.



Our lovemaking that night was slow and languorous: an unhurried exploration of each other, a hazy blur of feather light touches that he spread over me as insubstantial as gossamer and which blazed like wildfire across my skin. It was a slow climb into ecstasy where I remembered little more than the caress of his hands, his breath heating my skin, his taste on my tongue, the sensation of him filling me completely. When it was over, when our peaks had passed and we'd recovered, we lay in a quiescent tangle of limbs amongst the rumpled bedsheets. He started speaking, words in the Elder Speech, incomprehensible but poignant in his low, deep voice.



"Lynnéa, elaine, esseath en blath, en aine vente dhu. Squaess me va cáemme. Vatt'ghern a n'te en'ca minne. Ess'tuath deireadh, en esse dice'en va faille. N'ess a agerr. N'ess a tearth. Mir'me a'baeth, Lynnéa. Dearme, leede, dearme." *



I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep as he continued, lulled by the comforting, soothing rumble of his voice, and dreamt of safety and security and the thunder of a storm while I was warm inside.



Flames and shouting woke us, the stench of smoke making me cough as I started out of bed. For once Geralt had slept with me, and was caught as I was, naked and unprepared.



I scrambled out of my blankets, panic causing them to animate and grip my legs, dragging me down. I fell heavily to the floor, bruising my knees, while Geralt sprang up unhindered and crossed to the window. Whatever he saw beyond made him swear sulphurously under his breath, and then, ominously, he was dragging on his old witcher clothes, speedily tightening laces and settling the leather. It settled onto him like a second skin and he looked deadly and comfortable.



Fear gripped my heart in its strong fist. I fought my way out of the blanket and struggled into the dress that I'd abandoned mere hours earlier. I sat on the hard wooden planks and pulled on my boots, jamming my toes in and frantically tying the laces: already the air was growing close and hot and the smoke was thickening. My eyes stung and started to water as I stumbled to my feet and started throwing supplies into the blanket I'd dropped – food, bottles, clothes, my sewing kit and herbs. I dithered, trying to decide what to take. Geralt fastened his swords to his back and watched my frantic scurrying for a moment before he clicked his tongue in annoyance, strode over to me, and gripped my upper arm hard, jolting me from my panic.



"Leave it," he said harshly, his face impassive. "It's lost."



I struggled against him momentarily but his grip was like iron. Sparks started falling from the thatched roof and I gave up, sagging. I nodded dumbly and he released me, then strode over to the door, throwing it open.



The babble of voices outside ceased and only the slowly growing crackle of fire could be heard as he stood and faced what was outside. Hurriedly I bundled the blanket up into a sling and tied it across my shoulders, then moved to stand behind him, peering around his bulk.



It seemed the whole village had gathered to burn us out. People I'd known for a decade were now unrecognisable, faces twisted and contorted by fear, hatred and suspicion. At my appearance the shouting started again and they brandished their hoes, scythes, pitchforks and torches at me.



"There she is! There is the witch! The whore! Thief! Burn her! Burn the whore! Burn the witch!"



On and on it went, a hateful cacophony that echoed and compounded inside my head until I wanted to scream with it all.



I think I whimpered, quailing under the assault of sheer malice and spite directed against me. Geralt glanced down at me, and his normally emotionless face became a stony mask, his eyes bleak, promising death and pain. He stepped forward, drawing their attention.



"Enough," was all he said, but the single word was a physical attack, turning the hate of the mob back against them.



I saw a few of them actually take a step back, but then they bunched in together for support and their aggression surged.



"The witcher!" hissed a familiar detestable voice, my old friend the baker. "Filthy abomination! Consorting with the witch! See how she even now flaunts his mark? Whore! Kill him! Kill them both!"



A smouldering ember landed on my shoulder and I slapped at it, my palm stinging. Looking back inside, I saw that the roof over the bed was well ablaze. I crowded forward into Geralt and he shifted subtly to the side.



Gratefully I breathed in the cool night air and looked around at the mob arrayed against me – people who I'd lived with for so many years, people I'd laughed and cried with, cooked for, made syrups and poultices to ease their coughs and aching joints, people who had held me while I grieved over my babes and husband. That they'd betrayed me, that they hated me so now – enough to wish me dead – was incomprehensible to me. I looked at them, at their sweaty, ugly faces; their dirty skin and unkempt hair; their blackened teeth and boils and disfigurements; and suddenly I hated them back. I hated them all with a passion I hadn't felt ever before in my life. I wanted them dead. I wanted to be the one to kill them.



I stared at them, my hatred consuming me, and focused it on the baker. My fists clenched and I snarled. He stared at me. I must have looked a sight, like the witch they claimed me to be – face pale, eyes reddened, hair tangled and dress askew.



The baker levelled his torch at me, dangerously close, and sneered. Geralt shifted beside me: he was on his toes, coiled for movement, his hand curled and fingers flexed. I found myself hoping the baker would do something, just so Geralt would strike him down.



Hefting his torch, the baker took a step closer and thrust it into my face. I felt the searing heat of the pitch and the flames and recoiled. He laughed in satisfaction. "See! The witch fears fire! Burn her! Burn her!"



Wiping my face, I leaned forward and bared my teeth at him. "You bastard," I hissed. "I'll see you dead. I hate you. Would that I were a witch so I could curse you all here where you stand."



He crowed triumphantly. "See! She admits it!" He stepped forward again, brandishing his torch so close I could feel my hair shrivel in its heat. He reached out with his other hand and gripped my hair, loose about my shoulders, wrenching my head painfully askew on my neck. Tears sprang to my eyes at the sudden pain and I blinked them back furiously. "I'll see you dead, witch," he snarled, the reek of his breath heavy in my face. "After I fuck you like the whore you are."



There was a silvery flash, a momentarily unbearable drag on my neck, and the torch dropped to the ground, sputtering against the earth. A warm, wet rain with a heavy metallic tang pattered on my face and there was a shocked intake of breath from the mob. I heard a dull thump as the baker's limp body hit the ground, slack and heavy, face forever frozen in lifeless malevolence. Geralt shook the blood from his blade and stepped forward, righteous and menacing. The crowd shrank back from him, their mood suddenly changed from hatred to fear.



Blood dribbled down my cheeks and I blinked slowly. I hadn't even seen him move.



"Leave. Now."



He was one man against a mob, but he faced them. He stared at them all, holding them, until they broke under his gaze and the awful promises it held. He held their miserable, pathetic lives in his hand and on the edge of his sword, and they knew it. The fringes of the crowd started melting away, figures disappearing into the dark one by one, until only the core of the mob remained. They bunched together defensively, like sheep before the wolf. He stared them down, a lone figure framed by the light of my burning house, terrible and relentless in the dark; until finally their nerve broke and they too slunk back into the shadows.



He turned to face me, eyes glittering. "Let's go," he said, and strode away, sheathing his sword.



I looked around at the empty village, turned my back on my past, and followed the witcher away.









* Rough translation only. "Lynnéa, beautiful, you are a flower, a light in this darkness. Forgive me for what will happen. A witcher does not ask for love. It will end, and I will say goodbye. Do not grieve. Do not be afraid. Only kiss me, Lynnéa. Sleep, lover, sleep."

12:10 Mar 20 2011
Times Read: 710

So I caved and wrote DA2 fic. Because Anders broke my heart.



I recommend listening to this while reading.



This may or may not develop into having more chapters. We'll see how that goes.



It goes without saying that this contains spoilers for DA2.

"Anders, what have you done?"



He didn't even look at her as the wreckage soared gracefully through the air, a million tiny comets falling to the ground at their feet. Shooting stars, every star a death, a soul burnt in a conflagration of magic and pride.



Who would have thought, she mused inconsequentially as she stood in a rain of chaos, that the death of the Chantry was more beautiful than it had any right to be? That even though this man at her side had killed the one chance of reconciliation this blighted city had, she still loved him? The searing ache in her heart was more due to his betrayal of her than of Kirkwall. When did she become so arrogant that the Maker's love was worth less to her than the apostate's?



He avoided her gaze, his brown eyes wholly his as he refused to acknowledge hers. Not even the excuse of Justice shining from within them to explain his actions. The ache in her heart grew larger, spread upwards, her throat growing tighter and her eyes burning. From the smoke, she told herself, as she brushed tears away. From the smoke.



She studied him, the despair buried beneath resignation and acceptance in his face. Studied the lines on his forehead that had grown deeper over the past years. The slump to his shoulders, once broad and proud. The shake in his hands that belied his defiant stance. The aura of aloneness that even now tried to push her and everyone else away, that he'd carefully cultivated and nurtured and fostered until she felt like she would scream and stab him, torn between loving him and wanting him to open up to her.



"What have you done," she breathed. What have you done to me?



As if he heard her thoughts, rather than her words, he turned and looked into her eyes for the first time since he'd thumped his staff on the stones and made the Chantry incandesce. Maybe he read the incredulous disbelief, the hurt of betrayal in her face, because his softened. He reached out a hand, a familiar hand whose touch she cherished and craved, and rested it on her cheek.



"I'm sorry. If you knew..."



Her eyes filled with tears and even now she nestled her face into his hand, murderer though he was.



Kirkwall was in flames, her people screaming, her forces in disarray, and she loved him. Behind her her friends babbled, but she couldn't recognise the words, couldn't acknowledge them. He was all that mattered. He'd used her and lied to her and betrayed her, and still he was the most important thing to her. He'd forced her to a choice she never wanted to make, and still she wanted him, needed him. He'd torn out her heart but she'd still give him what remained.



She stared up at him, even as he stared down at her, while around them a city, an Order, a power crumbled. He wiped away the tears that overflowed with his thumb, a lover's touch, soft and gentle and oh so caring. He's a murderer, part of her mind screamed at her. He's a healer, countered another part. Murderer! she howled. Murderer!



She took a deep breath and quelled the riotous, disparate parts of herself. Yes. He is. But ...I love him.



For an unknown time they stared at each other. She measured what was happening behind his gaze. He was so... resigned. Whatever befell him he would accept, as no better or no worse than he deserved.



Her breath hitched. He wanted to die.



"Decide what you're going to do," said Orsino from behind her.



She looked around at her friends, at how they'd arrayed themselves either for her or against her. At the city she was a Champion of, though never really felt she belonged in. At the man in front of her, who had broken her heart even as he handed her his own.



She was forced to the choice and she chose... him.



And maybe she imagined it, but surely that was gratitude on his face? Or was that just her own, desperate, selfish need to not be alone in this world?



"Maker help us all," she whispered, and strode into the fires, abomination by her side, apostates, rogues and warriors behind her.

Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, Chapter 4
00:26 Mar 15 2011
Times Read: 718

Smut alert.







Morning dawned cool and grey, with the patter of rain on the roof. There was a low rumble of thunder overhead, and the sound of wind gusting through the eaves. I yawned sleepily and snuggled further into the warmth that was behind me, before I realised what – who – it was. Which woke me up abruptly.



His arm was still draped over me. I touched it, but he didn't move. The skin of his forearm was soft and smooth, the hairs fine; entirely not what I was expecting. I bit my lip and eased out from under his arm, letting it drop to the mattress. He snorted a little in his sleep but did not wake.

Asleep, his face was serene. With his golden eyes closed, he looked much like any other man, if more beaten than most. His pale hair fanned out about him, small locks fallen forward over his face, and even his scars seemed gentled by the watery morning light. I fought back the urge to brush his hair from his face, and instead crawled carefully out of bed.



I stretched luxuriously, working the knots out of my back, then slipped on my dress and opened the door, setting my kettles outside to collect the rain. The village streets were empty in the storm, but lights flickered behind windows. I retreated back inside and closed the door on the miserable day.



I built the fire back up, noting I only had about another day's worth of wood. I sighed. Hopefully the rain would let up by tomorrow so I could go cut some more. I sliced some bread and toasted it to a golden brown over the fire, before I dipped it in the remnants of last night's stew and ate. I chewed slowly and thoughtfully, staring into the fire, mulling over all that had happened yesterday. My jaw still ached, but at least none of my teeth seemed loose.



Sighing, I got up and retrieved a kettle and hung it over the fire to boil. While I waited, I got out the flour I'd bought yesterday and set about making bread. The water was well and truly bubbling by the time I'd finished kneading and set the dough on the hearth to rise. I opened the back door and rinsed my hands under the rain, then pulled the kettle from the fire and set it on the table. I made myself a mug of tea and looked around, wondering what I could do next.



My eyes alighted on Geralt's ripped shirt and jerkin. The leathers had dried well over the past day. I walked over and fingered the rents – three clean slices torn into the tough leather. I shivered and wondered what manner of creature did that.



I picked up my sewing kit and sat cross legged before the fire with his shirt in my lap, and started sewing up the slashes. The hut faded out as I worked, concentrating only on my quick, neat stitches. Only the cloth and the thread were real, only the quick silver flickers of my needle, flashing in the firelight. So I was taken completely by surprise when a hand fell on my shoulder.



I yelped and jumped, stabbing the needle into my thumb, and then swore. There was an amused chuckle from behind me and then Geralt sat down in my chair, leaning back carefully and crossing his legs at the heels. I sucked my injured thumb, tasting the coppery tang of blood, and glared at him. "Couldn't you have said something first?" I asked accusingly around the digit.



He blinked. "I did. I said your name. Twice. You didn't hear me."



"Oh. Well." I cleared my throat. "I apologize then."



He waved a hand dismissively and turned his attention to the bread. "No matter," he replied absently as he sliced the last of the loaf. I gestured at the stew and he helped himself.



I watched, chagrined, as he cleaned the pot out. I'd forgotten how much men ate…



I realised I was staring at him as he ate. I shook myself and continued the repair of his shirt while he chewed and swallowed behind me. Before too long it was done and I held it up to inspect my handiwork.



"As good as new," I announced, pleased with myself. I tossed the shirt to Geralt, and he caught it easily. I pulled over his jerkin and smoothed it out on my lap. "I don't suppose you want to tell me how this happened?" I asked as I fingered the rents in the leather.



"Cemetaurs," he said tersely, stabbing the bread knife into the tabletop. "Four of them."



I felt my jaw drop as I looked at him. Cemetaurs? Four cemetaurs? Sweet Melitele…



He shifted uncomfortably under my gaze. Tiny slivers of wood gouged up under his hands.



"Wait… you mean there's four cemetaurs near here? Melitele… we have to get out! We have to warn everyone!"



He held up his hand, cutting off my incipient panic. "They're dead, Lynnéa, it's all right."



"Dead?"



He nodded slowly.



I exhaled and relaxed somewhat, and picked up my needle again. "Were they your contract?"



He grunted. "I don't have a contract at the moment, actually. I was just passing through here."



"Where were you going?"



"Somewhere else."



I frowned and stabbed the leather with my needle. "You can trust me, you know. I'll not betray your secrets."



His lips twitched. "I know."



"So where were you going?"



"Somewhere…" I glared at him. He coughed and continued: "I wasn't sure. I was just going. I just got on my horse and… left."



I paused, needle mid air. "You have a horse?"



A quick flash of sorrow passed over his face. "Had. She died when the cemetaurs attacked. They ripped her throat out first, then turned on me. Poor beast." He sighed.



"I'm sorry, Geralt."



He grunted. "At least she never knew what got her."



We sat in silence for a while. I continued repairing the torn leather, pushing my needle through with difficulty and hoping it wouldn't snap, while he turned the knife in his hands. I cleared my throat and the knife stilled.



"So does that mean all your belongings are still on your horse?"



"Possibly. Or they may have been taken by now."



"Where were you when they attacked?"



He blinked, thinking. "About a half hours' ride north of here. In a small clearing in the curve of a stream, surrounded by old oak trees."



I nodded, I knew the place. It was where the village had buried its dead for generations past, though no grave markers remained. I tapped my lip thoughtfully.



"And you're sure it's safe there now?"



"I believe so."



"Mm." I tucked the needle back into my sewing kit and stood up, dusting my hands off. He looked up at me suspiciously, but I avoided his eyes. I folded his jerkin up neatly, rents halfway mended, and placed it onto the table. Then I got out my boots, slipping them on and tying the laces. I took my shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders, draping a loose cowl to pull up over my head to protect from the rain. It wasn't until I stepped to the back door to get the axe that he spoke up.



"No."



I froze with my hand on the latch. "No?"



"I can't allow you to go out there. It's too dangerous."



"But you said the cemetaurs were dead?"



"Cemetaurs are not all you have to fear out in the woods, little widow." His voice was low and ominous and chills ran down my spine. I shook myself.



"I'll be careful. I have my axe," I said lightly as reached out and retrieved it. I patted it, trying to belie my fear. His stare saw through the lie, however.



"Lynnéa…" he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. I stared at him. "Stubborn woman," he muttered under his breath. "Fine. But you run, and run fast, if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Anything at all. You run straight here. Don't stop. Don't look back. Don't stay to fight. Understand?"



"I understand."



His face was stony, eyes molten in the stormlight. I shivered. "I understand, Geralt. I'll run. I promise." And I turned and slipped out the door, closing it before I gave myself the chance to change my mind.



I set off through the fields to the road, berating myself in my mind. Fool woman, I thought as I negotiated clods and brambles. You're going to get yourself killed one of these days…



Though, I realised as I looked about at the deserted landscape, it was the perfect time for someone to be skulking about, trying not to be noticed by their neighbours. The clouds were dark and low overhead, and a cold, heavy rain pelted down, obscuring visibility. There was absolutely no-one to be seen. Nobody else was stupid enough to be running around in this weather.



I fastened my shawl securely around my head, shivering as the cold rain blew into my face. Clutching the handle of my axe for comfort, I trudged off down the road.



The path through the woods was dark and shrouded, gloomy and desolate. The wind gusted through the trees as I approached the clearing, making them creak and sway. Every time a branch whipped against another I jumped, fearing I was about to be set upon by ghouls or bandits. I paused at the edge of the trees, looking ahead intently. Nothing moved. The body of the horse lay in the centre of the clearing, neck pitifully askew, chewed and dismembered: surrounded by four hacked bodies, grey and revolting, with gaping maws and powerful limbs. Cemetaurs. I shuddered and closed my eyes.



I shivered in the cold, picked up my resolve and stepped into the open, gripping my axe. I scanned all around me as I hesitantly approached the horse's body, my heart in my throat. Nothing moved, save the wind-wracked trees. Rain gusted into my face as I reached the carcass and the wind blew my shawl back. I let it be: I was already hopelessly soaked. I stooped down to examine the body.



There was a subtle whiff of putrefaction in the air, kept small by the chill and the gusting wind, for which I was grateful. I could see the marks of powerful teeth in the remaining flesh and shuddered. The horse's barrel was shredded, ribs cracked and splintered. The remnants of a saddle lay under the body, but there were no bags to be seen. I crouched down to examine the saddle, wondering if there was anything important about it, any clues as to my witcher's doings.



The saddle was plain, made for long distance riding. The leather was of good quality, evident even after exposure to the elements for two days. There were no maker's marks on the saddle flaps or cantle. Gingerly I reached down and lifted the skirt – nothing underneath. I sat back on my haunches and looked around.



An oddly angular shape under the tangled, fanned tail caught my eye. I leant over and brushed the coarse hair back. Underneath was a rigid pouch of some sort, square in shape, with a toggle closing it. I flipped the toggle and peered inside and my herbwife's heart soared – inside were bundles of leaves, pressed flowers, odd little stoppered vials of liquid that churned murkily in the gloom, strange teeth, twisted roots still holding clumps of earth, and the bark of trees. I laughed gleefully to myself, then sobered quickly, looking around. Nothing stirred.



The pouch was attached to a broad leather strap that appeared to have been sliced through. At one end was a looped affair containing a single glass potion bottle. I wondered what was in it.



I fingered the cut edges of the leather gravely, shivering as cold fingers of water wormed their way down my spine. Though the horse had definitely been set upon by something that used teeth and claws, this looked more like it had been cut than torn. Either Geralt had been set upon by more than just monsters, or someone had been here after the fight.



I swallowed, and swiftly bundled the pouch and its strap up in my shawl, securing it around my waist. I searched the rest of the clearing quickly, but there was nothing else there. I gave the cemetaur bodies a glance over, but couldn't bring myself to actually touch them. They certainly looked like they had been slashed with a sword. Gaping wounds rent their bellies and throats. One had been beheaded. I wondered at the power necessary to behead monsters such as these…



I shook myself like a wet dog. Time to go; there was nothing else to be seen here. I gathered my skirts and stepped over the bodies, heading back to the road at a careful pace, trying not to slip. As I reached the far edge of the circle of trees a crunching noise made me pause. Slowly, I turned around, my eyes wide and staring. There, in the clearing behind me, a large figure hunched over the corpse of the horse. Powerful limbs had pulled the rib bones apart and it was crunching on them, splintering the bones with its wicked teeth. I watched in horrified fascination as its long, thin tongue darted up along the bone, collecting marrow. It smacked its lips in obvious enjoyment and reached down to tear another from the body below it.



Its skin was ruddy compared to the bodies of the fallen monsters around it, and it was smaller and less powerfully built. I recognised it instantly.



"Graveir," I breathed in dread.



It looked up at that, ears twitching as horrid fluids dripped from its maw. It scanned the clearing and I shrank back into the shadow of the trees, sure it would see me. If it did, it did not come after me, but rather turned back to its feast. I supposed a horse and four cemetaurs were a better meal than one wet, scrawny woman.



I backed out of the clearing slowly, feeling my way behind me, unwilling to take my eyes off the monster for even a moment. When I reached the road, I hitched up my skirts to my knees and ran, as fast as I'd ever run before, as fast as if the Wild Hunt itself were behind me. The wind wailed behind me, urging me on. I shied at every shadow I passed, sure I was about to be overcome by monsters. The twigs that clutched at my hair as I passed were the claws of beasts, the sods I tripped over were their hands trying to pull me down. The rain was heavy in my face, blinding me, and flashes of lighting and rumbles of thunder made me cringe and duck. By the time I reached the outskirts of the village I was sobbing, my heart felt like it would burst, and I had a stitch that dragged me to the side as I ran. But I kept going until I reached my back door, bursting it open and slamming it shut behind me. I leaned back against the door and panted, my eyes closed, recovering.



Gradually my breathing eased and I opened my eyes. Geralt was still sitting at the table, looking at me with a raised brow. He had one of my father's books in his hands. I said nothing. After all, I'd just gone through his satchel of herbs, back in the clearing.



I dropped my axe and walked over to him, dripping. Untying my shawl, I dumped it on the table, avoiding the precious book. "Here," I said between sobbing, hitching breaths. "This was all I could find."



All of a sudden I realised that I was shockingly cold, and wet through, and I'd just seen a monster and run several miles in uncertain light and a storm. My legs gave way and I sat down hard on the floor, knocking myself breathless.



Geralt started up in concern and laid his hand on my cheek. "Lynnéa, you're frozen. Quickly, get those wet things off."





I fumbled at the laces of my dress, my hands made clumsy from the cold. The more I tried, the more tangled they got, until I started crying from the frustration of it all. I tugged at them futilely until his hand covered mine, halting me.

"Stop, Lynnéa. Let me."



And he knelt before me, his long fingers picking over the knots until he had them undone. I watched him work at the laces, watched his strong, scarred fingers deftly untangling them as my teeth chattered and my nose dripped and I shivered with cold, and remembered the head of the cemetaur that had been neatly separated from its body. His hand had done that. The same hand that had worked through the water-soaked knots in my stays. That now gently tugged at my dress to pull it up over my head. I stared up at him in horror.



His lips thinned as he looked down at me. "I knew this was a bad idea," he muttered. "Come on, Lynnéa. Lift your arms up."



Mutely, I did as he bade, my eyes fixed on him. He pulled the sopping dress up over my head and threw it into the corner. It made a dull splat as it hit the floor, and I shuddered, my feverish thoughts imagining the sound of bodies impacting with grassy ground, rent and bereft of life.

He pulled at the hem of my shift, lifting it up over my body. My wet skin twitched as it met the air. I looked down curiously – my pale skin was blue with the cold, nearly purple. While a distant part of me knew that was a bad sign, it was buried under the cacophony of impressions that whirled about me now, all centred on the witcher in front of me, who was patiently divesting me of my soaked clothing.



Once he had the shift off he threw it on top of my dress and I winced at the sodden thud. Laboriously, he got himself to his feet and went to my armoire, pulling out a thick soft piece of cloth I'd been saving for a winter dress. He coaxed me up to my feet, pulling when I wouldn't move. When I was finally standing, he wrapped the cloth around me, pulling me into his chest while he rubbed my arms and back briskly. I shuddered, pressed in close against him. I was cold, cold as the grave, and all I could see was death…



Gradually warmth started seeping back into my limbs and my shuddering lessened. With his arms around me he reached up and started wringing the water out of my hair, then ran his fingers through the tangles, working his way up from the ends. My hair was something I'd always considered my one glory, a long wealth of locks reaching down my back, burnished brown when dry. I'd always loved having it touched, and even now that was the case. His fingers were soothing and I slowly relaxed as he ran them through the length of my hair over and over again. I sighed and closed my eyes, resting my head against his chest.



"Now would you like to tell me what that was all about?"



Geralt's voice was a deep rumble that I felt more than heard, as powerful as the thunder that still boomed through the sky outside. Far from being ominous, though, it was comforting. I sighed.



"Graveir," I said softly. "In the clearing. Saw me."



His hands stilled their motions briefly and his arms tightened around me. "And you ran?"



I nodded fervently against his chest. "Good girl," he said.



I felt vaguely insulted. Girl? I was no girl! I was a woman, wed for ten years, to a husband now dead. I opened my mouth to protest but then his hands were on my shoulders. He drew me back, looking fiercely down at me with his golden eyes, and shook me. My head bobbed on my neck, my teeth clashed shut and I gaped up at him, feeling rather like the rabbit caught in the hawk's stare.



"Don't you dare do that again, Lynnéa. I warned you! I told you it was dangerous!" And he shook me again.



"You're no witcher to be taking on monsters. Foolish woman!" And again.



I wholeheartedly agreed with him. I was foolish. I hoped to never see another monster again. But I was getting a bit sick of the shaking. I opened my mouth to protest but he swooped down and fastened his lips to mine, cutting off the words before I could say them.



My legs, already shaky, weakened further and I sagged in his embrace. His mouth was terribly warm against my chill lips and he plundered me ruthlessly. I whimpered as he clutched me to him and sucked on my tongue. My hands spread across his chest, approving of the sheer breadth of him, tracing the ridges of muscle across his pectorals. His mouth on mine was feverish, desperate. I wondered at that, briefly, in the quiet corner of my mind that sat back and watched what was happening; then gave myself over to his kiss.



He reached down and scooped me up easily, despite my wordless protests, and carried me over to the bed. Instead of laying me down on it, however, he turned around and sank down on the mattress himself, holding me close with his mouth fastened to mine. I sprawled in his lap with my hands wandering across his torso, my back curved as he pressed me to him.



The blanket around me had fallen open as we moved, and his warm hand snaked its way under it. I gasped as his fingers found my taut nipple and plucked it, and he chuckled. His kiss deepened and I responded ardently, clasping him to me, while his skillful fingers played. His lips were firm over mine, his tongue strong and forceful. The rough stubble of his chin rubbed against me as we kissed and I shivered at his undeniable maleness. My hand found its way into his hair and I tangled my fingers through it, pulling gently. He groaned slightly and I smiled.



He moved his mouth from mine and kissed down my neck, his tongue trailing exquisitely over my throat. I shuddered as he sucked on my collarbone and felt his lips curve against me. He moved his mouth lower but stopped and hissed as the stitches in his back caught. Swiftly he shifted, leaving me lying on my back under him, blinking in bewilderment. His eyes were molten embers as he looked down at me, and then he lowered his mouth to my breast and I moaned.



Softly, he suckled on my hard peak until it ached and I squirmed beneath him. I ran my hands through his hair, delighting in the sensuous feel against my fingers. He flicked his tongue over my nipple and then his warm mouth left it, standing proudly in the cool air. I murmured incoherently until he took the other one into his mouth, nibbling and pulling at it with his teeth. My back arched and I hissed with pleasure and pressed him into me.



He smiled up at me, eyes knowing and decadent, and I groaned. His hand left my hip and wandered lower, teasingly, making my hips twitch. His fingers brushed over the tuft of hair between my legs and I shuddered. He kept his eyes fastened on mine as he rubbed the folds of my sex gently; rubbed until I rubbed myself back against him, and then he slowly slid a finger into my slick wetness, brushing over my nub.



I bit my lip and closed my eyes as he stroked, shivering as he pressed against me. My eyes slid open and I looked down at him. His gaze was still fixed on me and I moaned at the sheer carnality in them. He bit at my nipple with his sharp teeth, fingers still working busily, and I panted and squirmed. "Geralt," I breathed, afraid he'd stop again, afraid he'd leave me bereft and shaking and alone. He paused and my hips bucked in protest. "Don't stop…"



He merely blinked; golden eyes intent, pupils narrowed and fixed on me. His fingers circled and I writhed in time, my pants growing faster.



His mouth left my breast and he shifted himself up and over me, his hips rubbing into mine. I could feel his hard maleness through the fabric of his trousers, hot and strong. I reached down and fumbled with the fastenings, pulling the fabric down and freeing him. He shifted his hips, kicking them off, and then he was between my legs, which had automatically wrapped around him.



He paused then, maddeningly. I could feel the heat emanating from him; feel him nudging against my sex. I twitched my hips, wanting him inside me, but he held back. His golden eyes held mine and I looked into them desperately. "Geralt, I'm a widow, not a virgin, for the love of Melitele…"

He smirked a little, insufferable male, and then ever so slowly entered me. My mouth opened and I whined as he filled me. An excruciating pleasure that shook my entire body gripped me and I thrashed in its throes. All the while he held himself over me, impaling me. Eventually my heart slowed and I focused on him again, blushing. He lowered his mouth to mine and claimed it as he thrust the rest of the way into me, muffling my shriek.



He set up a steady, demanding rhythm, pounding into me while I rocked under him, meeting him thrust for thrust. I brought my knees up and gripped his buttocks, feeling the muscles bunch and release under my fingers, digging my nails in. He groaned into my mouth and I clawed at him again. His breathing grew ragged and sweat dripped from his face onto mine. I arched upwards and licked it from his cheeks, my tongue scraping on his stubble, and he shuddered, sending delicious tremors down his body and into mine. His fingers clenched on my shoulders and his thrusts grew faster and more insistent. He buried his face into my shoulder and then convulsed with a hoarse cry, shaking against me. I felt the hot spurt of his seed inside me, the warmth burning in the pit of my belly and spreading to suffuse through me. I clutched him to me, stroking his tangled hair softly, as our breathing subsided and he relaxed.



I turned my head and kissed his forehead and he rumbled wordlessly.



"Witcher," I whispered, as his golden eyes closed and he settled comfortably against me.



"Widow," he responded in his inimitable voice.



And I smiled and dozed off with my witcher still buried inside me.

Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, chapter 3
07:03 Mar 04 2011
Times Read: 736

My heart pounded loud enough to rival the pounding at the door.



"Whore! Open up! Open this door!"



I snarled, rage searing incandescently through me, and sprang to the door, flinging it open with such force that it slammed against the wall and almost bounced shut again. The voices ceased abruptly.



"I am not a whore!" I hissed, and the men on my doorstep stepped back uncertainly at my vehemence.



There were two of them, the baker and the wizened old lecher from the stalls, and the reek of cheap alcohol wafted from them in nauseating waves. They glanced at each other, then laughed and advanced on me, pushing me back into the room.



"Sure ya are, witch," slurred the baker, as he reached out with a dirty hand and groped at my breast. I slapped him away, repulsed, and his eyes narrowed. "Bitch!" he shouted, spraying spittle into my face. "Whore! On yer back, where you belong, bitch!" And he swung his arm back and punched me squarely on the jaw.



Pain exploded in my face, my head rang and I found myself on all fours, stunned. The men laughed and swaggered into my house, the baker already pawing at the stays on his trousers. I shrank back, tears in my eyes, but was stopped by a warm bulk behind me. There was a cold slithering, a steely ringing and I looked up at Geralt looming protectively over me, feet solidly planted. The glistening tip of the larger of his two swords pointed unerringly at the baker's throat.



"I suggest you leave the lady be," he rumbled calmly.



The baker stopped short, looking at this new threat. He sneered. "And who might you be, whitey?"



The point of the sword scribed shining, menacing circles through the air, scant inches from the baker's scrawny throat. He swallowed nervously.



"Who I am isn't important. What is important is the fact that you are threatening this lady here." Geralt's voice lowered with menace. "I can't allow that."



The baker took a step back, eyeing the blade warily. "She's naught but a whore. She's nothing to you. Let us have our fun, and then you can have yours." He grabbed his groin suggestively.



I clenched my teeth in anger and got to my feet, balling my fists. "Call me a whore again and I'll slit your throat myself."



He spat at me, leering, and I felt the liquid trickle down my cheek. My stomach turned with revulsion, but before I could do anything Geralt stepped forward, implacable and unyielding as a winter storm, the sword steady in his hand. "Leave. Now."



For a moment the tableau held, then they took one last look at his grim face and fled, trailing their stench and epithets behind them.



I stalked to the door and slammed it shut, swearing. Geralt remained on his feet, but as I turned he sagged and the sword dropped from his fingers, clashing against the stones of the floor. I rushed over and he collapsed onto me. I grunted with his weight, put my arms around him, and steered him over to the bed.



I felt a hot, sticky wetness against my fingers and swore: he'd obviously torn the stitches open.



Turning him around, I laid him face down on the bed and inspected the damage, breathing a quick sigh of relief. Only one of his stitches had torn out, and it was right at the end of the largest gash, close to his spine. It shouldn't be too hard to repair. I fetched a cloth and started cleaning up the blood.



He stirred and turned his head on the mattress to look up at me. "Are you all right?" His gravelly voice reflected only concern.



I smiled through my aching jaw. "I'm fine. Thank you, Geralt."



He raised a hand awkwardly and touched cool fingers to the burning heat on my face. He brushed my cheek gently, and I remembered the spittle that still clung there. My stomach turned. If he hadn't been there…



He cupped my jaw briefly and then his hand dropped and he closed his eyes. "You're welcome."



I fought the absurd urge to pick his hand up again and nestle my face into it; instead busying myself with cleaning up his back. I fetched my sewing kit and threaded the needle again. "This will only hurt for a moment," I promised. He grunted.



Quickly I repaired the offending stitch, wiping down his skin with warm water since I was out of tincture. I smeared some of my new batch of salve over the wounds and watched in satisfaction as he relaxed under my fingers. His breathing slowed and he slipped into sleep again, so I stood up and went about preparing something for dinner.



Angrily, I chopped mutton and vegetables, tossing it all into a pot with some water and flour, and hanging it over the fire. By nightfall it would be cooked, and we could eat something other than bread and meat. I replayed the intrusion in my head over and over. How dared they come here? How dared they force their way into my house, and try to force me? I shuddered as the thought kept repeating in my mind like an unwelcome echo: if Geralt hadn't been here…



The afternoon passed slowly. Geralt slept fitfully, and my heart kept stuttering at every noise from outside. As darkness fell my nerves got the better of me, so I brewed a relaxing tea and sat before the fire, sipping it. The warmth soothed my aching head and I eventually relaxed, stretching out on the hearth and basking like a cat in the heat.



I woke with a start to darkness, the fire mere embers before me, and swore under my breath. My stomach grumbled noisily as I worked to build the fire back up again. Then I lit lanterns to brighten the room and checked on the stew, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw it wasn't burnt.



Geralt was still asleep. I bit my lip, then walked over and grasped his shoulder, shaking lightly. He was awake instantly, eyes flashing open and muscles tensing. I recoiled and he relaxed, cat's eyes lowering in the dimness. I knelt beside him.



"Geralt, you need to eat. Let's sit you up."



He nodded and braced himself as I levered him up. He hissed as the new stitch pulled and I held my breath, hoping it wouldn't tear. Eventually he nodded and I stood, pulling him back with me. I led him over to the chair and he sat in it stiffly, leaning forward.



His stomach rumbled loudly as I dished out some stew and I giggled. I placed the plate before him, then sliced some bread and gave him that. He nodded his thanks and then fell to, wolfing it down like he was starving. Well, and he probably was.



While he ate I ladled some out for myself and sat next to him. For a while we sat in companionable silence, the only extra noises the crackle of the fire and the bubble from the pot. When his bowl was empty I gave him more, without prompting, and he smiled briefly at me before devouring it.



I refilled my mug of tea and sat back watching him while I cradled it. Eventually he slowed down and then stopped, patting his stomach which had rounded nicely over the band of his – my husband's – trousers. I caught my gaze wandering lower and jerked it away, hoping he hadn't seen. No such luck, of course, those cat eyes of his seemingly never missed a thing, and he smirked just a little. I blushed and studied the depths of my mug intently.



"They'll be back," he said.



I jerked my head up. "What?"



He regarded me closely. "Those men. They'll be back. Oh, it won't be today, or tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. But they'll be back, and they'll bring their friends, and you may not escape so easily next time, Lynnéa."



I shivered as his deep voice spoke my name, and then the import of his words sank in. I blinked, staring at him. "But… what will I do?"



He shrugged one shoulder lithely. "I'd suggest you leave before they get a chance to raise up a mob. You don't want to be around when the peasantry gets riled up." A shadow crossed over his face and he turned to look at the fire again.



My throat tightened and I felt tears form in my eyes. "But… my house…"



He sighed heavily. "Which is more important to you, m'lady, your house or your life?"



I sniffed. "My life, of course. It's just…" I looked around at my hut; as familiar and contemptible as it was, it was still my home and contained a decade of memories. My husband had made the chair Geralt was sitting in, working over it through the long winter nights. We'd spent mornings cocooned in the warmth of our bed, making love 'til our limbs ached. We'd sorrowed together over each babe that died unborn, lived and laughed and argued and cried here together. He'd died here, wasting away in the summer heat. I'd held his hand as he faded and then I'd buried him out beyond the back door.



But he was gone, and no longer cared about the house, and I had no wish to follow him to the afterlife. I shook myself. "You're right, of course," I murmured, and heaved a sigh. I wiped my eyes. "Well, we can't leave tonight. You're in no condition for a trek, and we'd need to prepare."



His shining eyes were on me. "We'd?"



I blinked and snapped at him tartly. "Surely you don't expect to run off on your own while you're still healing? Witcher you might be, but you're not immortal."



He threw back his head and laughed, a deep rumbling roll of mirth like distant thunder. I watched him laugh, admiring the strong cords of his throat, the muscles that connected to his shoulders, his bare chest with the smattering of hair across it… I swallowed and looked away as his hilarity ceased and he regarded me amusedly.



"Ah, m'lady, I admire a strong woman."



"Yes well." I cleared my throat. "This strong woman is tired, and would like to clean up and have a bath and get to bed." I stared at him expectantly, but he made not the slightest move. I raised an eyebrow and he sat there, looking at me blandly.



I rolled my eyes and got up, picking up dishes and clearing away the remnants of dinner. He folded his arms – carefully – and watched. I grumbled as I pulled the tub out and started filling it again, testing the water. I topped it up with hot water from the fire and turned to face him, hands on my hips. "At least do me the courtesy of turning away!" I demanded.



He smirked and turned in the chair gingerly until he was facing the opposite wall.



Since that was probably the only concession he was going to give, I turned and pulled my dress off, tossing it over the chair, quickly followed by my shift. I bent and dripped some of my soap into the water, stirring with my hand until the scent of ginatia rose and swirled about me.



Geralt sniffed. "Do you make that yourself?"



I looked at him in surprise. He was still facing the other direction, so I relaxed and stepped into the warm water.



"Yes," I replied shortly, splashing water up on my chest and arms.



He shifted in his chair. "You could sell that soap, in a town, you know."



I stopped and looked at him. "Do you think so?"



"I know so. I know the ladies of the town would clamour for it."



I snorted. "I'll just bet you know that," I muttered under my breath. There was a muffled noise from across the room and I looked over at him suspiciously, but he remained facing the wall. I washed my shoulders slowly, thinking.



"I'd need to get set up in a town, a shop or a stall. I'd need a house," I mused. "Connections. Vendors. Hmm."



There was silence for a few minutes as I thought.



"Or you could apprentice yourself to a medic. Or a witch."



I dropped my cloth with a splash. "What?"



"A medic. Or a witch."



"Geralt, be serious. No medic would take me on as an apprentice. And as to a witch…" I shook my head in disbelief.



He shifted in his chair again and his voice sounded almost reluctant. "I… know a healer. She could probably take you on, at least to determine your knowledge. And…" he shifted again uncomfortably "…I know a witch, or two."



I grunted, jealousy raising its ugly head inside me again, and concentrated on retrieving my cloth and deliberately wiping down my arms.



He cleared his throat. "I can help you."



I turned and looked at him. "Help me?"



"If you'd like."



"Geralt, you have already done enough for me. I don't want to put you out."



He turned and met my eyes steadily. "You saved my life, m'lady. I'm not putting myself out."



I stared at him, transfixed, my wet hair plastered to my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I had options. And now… he was offering to help me achieve them? I would be a fool not to accept. "Then… thank you Geralt. I would be grateful for your help."



He smiled at that briefly, his eyes lighting, and then they travelled slowly down from my face. I flushed but remained still, letting his gaze roam across me as I sat in my bathtub. My breathing quickened and my breasts heaved under his scrutiny. His smile widened as he devoured me with his gaze, growing more predatory, and I watched his face defiantly. Finally he raised them to my face again and our eyes met.



"You have beautiful eyes, m'lady."



I raised my brow. "Funny, you weren't looking at my eyes just then, witcher."



His lips twitched and he inclined his head. "Can I help it if I was distracted by your other… assets?"



I barked a short laugh. "No, I guess not. It's entirely my fault then."



"No, m'lady. Never," he breathed huskily. His eyes held my own effortlessly. I fell into them for an age, feeling like I was swimming in a depthless amber ocean. I hung suspended in a golden void, hearing the gentle susurrus of his breath around me, enfolding me. Then he blinked, and the spell evaporated. I flustered, trying futilely to cover myself, and he smiled and shifted in his seat.



I held my breath, hoping he'd come over to me… but instead he turned away again, facing the wall.



I swallowed my disappointment and hurried through the rest of my bath. Somehow it was no longer as enticing as it had been. I stood up, letting the water sluice from me, and stepped out, drying myself on a cloth. I slipped into a clean shift and cleared my throat. "I'm done."



"Good. I'm tired."



Me too, I thought, but I said nothing. I banked the fire and went over to Geralt, offering him my arm. He grasped it and stood up slowly, pulling on me only slightly. I walked him back over to the bed and helped him down.



"I'll put some more salve on your cuts," I said, and leaned over to get it. He made no noise as I rubbed the cream into his back. The wounds looked much better; even the new stitch was less red than earlier. "You heal quickly," I commented.



He shrugged. "I'm a witcher."



I turned him over slightly and checked the cuts on his face, smoothing more salve into them. The gash on his forehead had nearly completely closed. He watched me as I worked, his breathing deep and even. I sat back and wiped my fingers clean. "All done," I said lightly. "Get some sleep."



I went to stand up and he reached out and grasped my hand. "Thank you, Lynnéa," he said softly. And he brought it up to his lips and kissed it.



I shivered at the sensation, his soft warm lips on my knuckles. I tried to pull back, but his grip was firm. He looked up at me and turned my hand over, exposing the soft inside of my wrist. His thumb caressed my skin, and I flushed, remembering his hand on my breast this morning. He kissed the palm of my hand once, twice; the third time the tip of his tongue flicked against me and I caught my breath. He blinked languidly, golden eyes aglow, and brushed his lips up over my inner wrist. His lips parted and he sucked gently. I gasped. The lines around his eyes crinkled and he circled his tongue over the delicate skin. My eyes closed in a flood of sensuality and I swayed a little where I sat. He rumbled approvingly and tugged gently on my arm, pulling me closer.



I swayed forward, eyes still closed, leaning further and further down until I could feel his warm breath on my face. My lips parted and he chuckled softly, and then his lips were on mine, and oh! The fire where they touched! He burned with an inner heat. He claimed my mouth expertly, running his tongue across the inside of my lips, sucking in my breath, delving beyond my teeth. I was powerless before his onslaught, lost in a wave of unfamiliar sensation. I hadn't felt a man's lips on me in over a year…



His teeth nibbled at my lower lip gently and I whimpered helplessly. His hand left my wrist and cupped my face, thumb brushing over my cheek and fingers tangling in my damp hair. My nerves were on fire, relearning sensations I'd all but forgotten. "Geralt," I whispered, and immediately wished I hadn't as he pulled away and took a deep breath.



"I'm sorry," he said huskily. "I'm in no condition for this. I shouldn't have…" He stroked my cheek and then let his hand fall, leaving me bereft. He avoided my gaze. "Later, Lynnéa."



I took a deep breath and composed myself. "Of course."



Ruthlessly I quashed both the disappointment and desire that welled within me. I got up and blew out the lanterns, then paused, torn. Should I get into my bed, next to him? Should I sleep on the floor? I chewed on my lip in frustration and paced the floor.



Geralt suffered this in silence until finally he grew annoyed with my hesitation. "Come to bed, Lynnéa. Get some sleep. Just stop shuffling around, for the power's sake."



I steeled myself and clambered into the bed beside him, and pulled up the covers. Settling down on my side, facing the wall; I lay stiffly, keeping a careful distance between us. He sighed and reached around me, pulling me back into the warmth of his chest. "Sleep," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating through me.



And much to my surprise, I did.