Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, chapter 4
Title: The Witcher and the Widow
Category: Witcher/Wiedźmin, Andrzej Sapkowski
Chapter 4
Words: 4,763
Genre(s): Romance/Adventure
Rated: M
Actual smut in this chapter! Yay!
Full story with all chapters can be found here.
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.
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Category: Witcher/Wiedźmin, Andrzej Sapkowski
Chapter 4
Words: 4,763
Genre(s): Romance/Adventure
Rated: M
Actual smut in this chapter! Yay!
Full story with all chapters can be found here.
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.
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