7: Strangers

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
― Edna St. Vincent Millay


It hurt.

The pain radiated from Niellen's bones. Everything was taut, as if contracting, growing smaller, but he understood that the pain was manifest because he was doing the opposite: expanding. It was a slow, gradual process and he would drag himself, writhe on the ground, as if poisoned, as if mortally wounded. The agony rendered him breathless as his face contorted and his shoulders rolled forward. His breaths grew shallower and soon morphed into heavy pants, interrupted by grunts and low growls. His fur emerged—most of it on his head and muzzle— black and silvery over the back of his arms and legs. His tongue grazed the smooth, sharp fangs, and his fists unclenched into long, clawed hands.

He shed his clothes, all left scattered over dry leaves on the forest ground before he transformed: he hadn't been able to hunt and stock his lair, as he had always done, since Hanna's disappearance. It was reckless of him to trust the beast to fend for itself, especially since the bond between them had become so tenuous, but he was unraveling, slowly puzzling at why he needed to take so many precautions since Hanna was gone. He hoped to awaken in the cave beneath his forest shack so he would not have to wander the forest at dawn, shivering, damp, and naked, searching for his belongings. The one thing he never removed, though, was the medallion of Melitele Hanna had given him.

Hanna couldn't have known, didn't know, and he wouldn't ever tell her, but he prized the medallion for reasons she couldn't fathom, for the inadvertent comfort it provided. It wasn't just because Melitele was the Great Mother, patroness and protector of the forest. It was because the goddess was Maiden, Mother, and Crone. If anyone else could understand the strange harmony of incorporating opposites, it was the goddess with three avataras.

That night, as the familiar pain wracked his body, as his shape morphed, he surrendered fully. The moonlight curse seared his flesh, made his darkening eyes burn and tear as it coursed sharply through his veins.

But even that well-worn agony did not suffice, could not quell the hollow in his chest.


The werewolf stood on his powerful hind legs, seeking to discern movement and sound, his black, leathery nose sniffing the air.

The beast was at last free and in control, but for reasons he did not grasp, his first act that night was a melancholy howl at the cold stars.

The sound cut through the quietude of the woods.


Geralt turned, pausing as he heard the eerie howling deeper into the forest. He instinctively reached for the pommel of his silver blade, but took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from the beckoning woods and back towards the winding trail that lead back to the village. Night had fallen over the rooftops and grey smoke unfurled towards the sky. He wanted to check on Roach and settle in for the night. And he was counting on sleeping well that night. Right after he stopped in at Niellen's house.

Just as he crossed the village gate, another howl carried back to him faintly. From his elevated vantage point he could peer over parts of the forest and he glanced towards the approximate direction the little shack in the woods sat. He was assailed by a pang of worry.

I hope Hanna comes out of this unhurt…Hell: I hope she comes out of this alive.


Once the Witcher left, Hanna had to admit her courage had waned a bit. Her mind was clearer than it had been in days, probably because of the medicine he'd given her. Her cuts, though, were still fresh, brilliantly red against her flesh. She could see her pulse against the skin of her neck as she examined the wound.

She recalled the violence of the attack and for a moment thought that perhaps it was just as the Witcher had said: a foolish decision. What did she know about monsters and creatures and other such things? Who was she to contradict a Master Witcher? Her folk had believed in the mischief and blessings of bucca, brownies, lutin. She knew better than to wander along the riverbed in its most desolate stretches. Her life had circled around such warnings and precautions precisely to avoid such encounters.

She would have up until the night after the full moon.

"Four nights," the Witcher had explained. Four nights to prove that Niellen could remember—to prove that he could control the animal inside him.

She braced herself as the air grew colder. The shack had surprised her with its simple comforts. Niellen had stacked firewood—enough for several cold nights—along one of the cottage walls. The makeshift bed was warm—she had folded the blankets neatly at the foot of the bed. A broom leaned against one of the walls at the entrance, and she had occupied herself with sweeping the floorboards earlier. The repetitive motion of sweeping had reminded her of the first time she crossed the threshold into their home. She would never forget stepping into the small, gloomy cottage, chairs stacked over each other in a corner, a thick layer of dust covering…everything.

"What!" she had scolded him playfully when he had returned after her first day alone at the cottage. She had scoured all the rooms, dumping the grey water from the bucket she'd been rinsing her cleaning rags in all day. "You wanted a wife or a maid?"

She remembered warmly how he had shut the door behind them and then approached her, seizing the broom from her hand and guiding her back up against the door. He'd pushed his hips into hers provocatively while his hands hoisted up the hem of her dress, his fingers grazing her legs and lingering temptingly over her bared thighs.

"If I were your master, I'd be a rascal at that, for I would want to have my way with you all the time," he'd whispered roguishly in her ear before kissing her neck.

"Shame on you then, for I'd still demand my wages even if nothing ever got done," she'd teased back.

She glanced around the room right then, catching vestiges of that veiled existence he led: how he occupied himself during the days, his tools scattered over the table, the bear skins left to properly dry. She wondered what he thought of in the solace of that small shack. She did not want to think about what happened in the darkness of that cave as she shooed away the unpleasant memories of the damp ground, the cold radiating from the rock as she hid on that first night. She stared at the trapdoor, locked since the night she'd arrived.

You must open it.

She fought a fearful lethargy.

Open it.

Hanna approached it and sat down on the floor, gingerly, indecisively brushing her fingertips over the latches.


The moon shone behind clouds, illuminating the night sky as if behind a smoky frieze. The werewolf rushed through the woods, headed for the place where he could rest safely, remain concealed. He paid little heed to the matters of Niellen's everyday human life, but the threat of a Witcher roaming his forest was urgent enough to cross that widening chasm between them. He ran with unnatural speed, his hunger sated after he'd hunted. He'd brought down a large stag, let the forest wolves aid him in the hunt, lest the carcass he'd despoiled reveal too much. He'd found it strange that Niellen hadn't hunted earlier so that he would have something to eat that night, so he wouldn't have to expose himself needlessly to the Witcher's unwanted scrutiny.

He sensed something amiss even before he crested the top of the trail leading up the hillock. He found the shack brightly lit—a fire burned from the hearth, the shuttered windows betraying blazing light between the closed shutters. He dropped down into a crouch and approached the shack warily, a snarl uncovering his glistening teeth.

He paced about the entrance, inhaling deeply.

Who dared? he wondered, growing agitated and angry at the invasion of his and Niellen's sanctuary.

He inhaled again.

The familiar odor of spice and smoke, burnt wood. It was a warm, heady scent he sometimes caught on himself.

His eyes narrowed.

She.

How the woman had gained entrance he did not know. Those were problems that had spilled in from the daytime. He had no time to piece together how it had come to pass. Her presence was a threat…to him as much as herself. He circled the shack a few times, a persistent thought dogging him: gain entrance, chase her away.

She does not belong.

He recalled the slender arms braced around his neck, a face buried in his chest, her soft breath as she whispered his name.

She does not belong, he thought again darkly. She had uttered his name, but she might as well have been summoning a ghost.

She does not know me, he snarled again.


Hanna shot up, startled from the light slumber she had fallen into, her hand splayed flatly over the trapdoor. She had heard it—a dull thud against the front door. The latch shot up to no avail— the crossbar was snugly lodged across the door. A louder, stronger thud resounded throughout the shack, followed by a low growl. After a few seconds of silence, a new onslaught against the door began, and she could feel all her hard-earned courage, all the bravado she had attempted to round up during her conversation with the Witcher earlier, drain away.

A loud roar and a hard blow to the shack's front wall shook the entire room. Hanna huddled in a corner, her head resting over her drawn up knees, her eyes wide, her heart thumping wildly. Her hand flew up to her neck, where she shielded and rubbed the wrapped up wound.

A brief silence followed as she held still. It was short lived though, as she could hear the unleashed anger against the locked entrance to the cave behind the shack. The roars took on a ferocious, guttural tone and she was able to discern angry curses as he thrashed.

"Open the door," he roared at last. "This is my lair," he warned her.

She wanted to say something, to demonstrate courage, to believe that there was a vestige of Niellen in that manifestation of fury.

Instead, she remained huddled on the ground, unable to move, too frightened.

He will kill me, she fretted.

When at last he stopped trying to gain entrance to both the shack and the cave below, she shakily drew a deep breath. Another infernal sound, though, filled her with dread: she could make out the loud sniffing coming from outside—as if his snout were pressed against the walls, seeking an opening.

At one point, she heard a low rumble—a disconcerting sound.

It was laughter.

"I smell your fear," he announced in that deep, raspy voice. "Are you determined to be my prey?" he mocked. "You are in my lair," he chuckled cruelly. "When I return tomorrow, you best be gone," he warned her.


Although the rays of sunshine the following morning had the effect of chasing away the intensity of the terror she had experienced the night before, when she finally awoke from her agitated sleep, she found herself curled up before the ashen hearth, a poker firmly ensconced in her hands.

She had not succeeded.

The first night had passed.