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"Lookie what we got here, Cap'n," said a particularly rough example of Redanian manhood, "a Black spy and his witch!"
"Oiye, what'll we do wi' em?" snarled another, with an ugly leer on his face, licking his chops as he looked the wounded woman over.
"Stand aside, you lot." The order was barked loudly, sure and cultured. A man bearing the colors of a Redanian officer came forward. "Who are you and what are you doing here, crossing the Pontar illegally? Speak quickly before I let my men have at you."
"I'm a witcher, fulfilling my contract. Taking this woman back to her family. She's injured and I needed to get her across before nightfall." Arek kept his voice impassive, yet allowed a hint of deadly promise to spike in his eyes.
The captain stalked to the horse where Micah was tied and noticed the prominent lump on her head and bruises along her pale features. "Contract? Who is she and what happened?"
"Her father hired me in Talgar. She had been in Vizima visiting her mother's aunt when Nilfgaard attacked. I was hired to retrieve her." The witcher continued to spin his lie with a straight face. "We were moving up the Pontar, avoiding troops, deserters and squirrels when a bog hag attacked her horse. She was trampled in the melee before I could kill the monster. I needed to ford the river as I didn't relish the idea of camping with an injured woman in the swamp." He subtly shifted his weight and moved his left foot a half step behind his right. His hands were held up as if he were offering supplication to the soldiers, bristling around him with hostility and twitchy sword arms. His breathing slowed and his stance appeared relaxed.
The Captain pried up one of the girl's lids and looked at her eye. She tried to pull away, mumbling irritably, and batted at his hand. "We have a camp not far from here, witcher, and a barber-surgeon. Come, let us make the girl comfortable and see what he can do."
An hour later, Arek had Micah tucked into a cot inside a bivouac tent, and was busy discussing the merits, or lack thereof, to bleeding as a treatment for concussion. It was loud, with violent and frequent gesticulations on the part of the barber surgeon. Arek stood his ground, growling that the only thing that had ever come about from leeching an injured party was the demise of that party from blood loss not long after. The barber-surgeon tromped away after a while and sat near the fire, freely imbibing a flask of vodka, and sulking about know it all witchers.
"How you feeling, love?" Arek asked, kneeling down next to the cot when the saw-bones had stormed out. Gently he pushed strands of hair out of her face.
"My head aches. I hurt all over. I feel nauseated and I just want to sleep," She muttered somewhat more coherently, color seeping back into her features. In addition to the head injury, she had some other significant bruising. The witcher figured they were extremely lucky she had no broken bones or internal bleeding on top of everything else.
"We'll rest the night here. I think I can wrangle some sort of writ of passage out of the captain so we can move freely about on this side of the Pontar." He sat back on his heels, thinking. "If I can also get another horse, we should make it to Novigrad by tomorrow evening." In an undertone for her ears alone he added, "We won't have to contend tonight with any witch hunters who might recognize us and put two and two together."
"How do you plan on doing this wrangling?" she asked, struggling to keep her eyes open as she took his hand in hers. He only grinned and stroked her cheek.
"Don't worry about that. Just rest and gather your strength." Gently kissing the lump on her head, he added, "We'll stay at an inn tomorrow night." Then tucking her in, he walked out of the tent.
He was as good as his word. It helped that soldiers the world over loved a good game of poker dice almost as much as they appreciated good hooch, both of which he was deeply versed in. When all was said and done, he had a very pleasant buzz, another two hundred oren in his pouch, a new horse - including tack and saddle, and a writ of passage from the legion commander who had come by the camp and joined in the game. Arek had made sure to wake Micah about once an hour and was glad to see she was coming around and only a little worse for wear after the encounter with the hag.
She awoke in the crepuscular light of predawn to the rabid snores of the company. The witcher was next to her, on the ground, wrapped snugly in his bed roll. She watched him for some time, noting how his hair and beard could do with a trim, and how sleep had softened his face's stern lines into boyish innocence. His skin, though swarthy, was not dark, as if becoming a witcher had leached the color like faded cloth. Tracing the scar bisecting his face, she caressed him lightly, trailing across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. His eyes drifted open lazily as her wandering fingers smoothed over his lips. He gently captured her hand in his own and pressed a kiss into her palm, noting that she looked better this morning, if still a little bruised and beaten.
"I'm beginning to think, you like touching my face." His rough purr was quiet.
"Yours is a fascinating face." She smiled sleepily into his eyes. "Did you win?"
He smirked, sitting up and running a hand through his beard. "I always win," he answered cheekily. "How do you feel?"
"I have a headache, but I think I'll live." She pushed herself up, the blanket pooling on her lap as she rested her feet on the ground. "If we want to make Novigrad before sunset, we better get going."
Arek chuckled at her, then as he pulled her to her feet. His voice took on a serious tone and he bracketed her face between his hands. "You tell me if you start feeling sick. We'll find an inn and to hell with making Novigrad today." She nodded and he brushed his lips over her forehead before striding out of the tent to get the horses ready.
They made good time on the road and stood their horses outside the ramparts of Novigrad just as the sun started to kiss the earth in the west. It was the largest city in the north, harboring thirty thousand souls of all descriptions, and it stank like the open sewer it was. Overlying the bouquet of human waste were notes of cabbage, the spice of unwashed bodies and an elemental essence of sheep, goats and horses. The redolent tide washed upon her olfactory senses as they waited in line to be admitted to the city, making Micah gag and retch with tears streaming down her face. With a tortured moan, she pressed her face into her mount's mane and attempted to fill her nostrils with the clean smell of horse sweat and leather.
Micah had done well earlier in the day, with only mild pain to bother her, but as they rode into the afternoon the dull throbbing in her head had slowly turned into a thumping migraine and nausea had been riding her for the last several hours. She had successfully hidden her distress from Arek until they were standing at the Portside gate. At her first whiff of Novigrad, she had slumped over her horse and struggled not to retch.
"Oiye! What's the matter wi' her!" Said one of the guards, marching up to the couple, glaring at Micah suspiciously. He hissed in a whisper to the witcher, "Take 'er away if she's sick. We don't need the Catriona here!"
"She fell off her horse yesterday," said the witcher nonchalantly, his eyes narrowing on the woman. "Got a nasty bump on her head. That's all that's wrong with her." Micah looked up toward the guard at Arek's words, giving the man a good view of the goose-egg glossing purple and red just beneath her hairline.
"Well, s'pose that would make anyone sick. Ye got papers? No one allowed in wi'out 'em." The guard was less aggressive, but neither was he willing to speed their progress.
The big man pulled out the writ he had been given by the Redanian officer. The document seemed to mollify the guard, and he motioned them through the drawbridge into the city. The witcher yanked Micah's reins from her limp grasp as he slid from his horse.
"You were supposed to tell me if you weren't feeling well." He gritted through his teeth as he led both horses through the crowded streets.
Keeping her face pressed into her dappled palfrey's mane, Micah mumbled at him. "I'm fine. Not going to hold us up for the sake of a stupid headache. We're here now and that's all that matters. I just need some fresh air, a hot bath and a good rest."
Arek could hear her swallowing convulsively, trying not to puke. "Damn stubborn woman. I can see how fine you are." His boots chipped sparks off the cobbled street as he steered them toward the docks.
The sea breeze cleared away the stench somewhat and she was able to raise her head and take great, gulping breaths to beat back her queasy stomach. Dismounting the horse was more an act of falling into Arek's outstretched arms than it was stepping out of the saddle, and she clung to him as the world spun alarmingly. The witcher felt the small tremors that shook through her and expelled a foul curse, leading her to a wooden pillar near the stables for her to slump against. He got the horses settled in two nearby stalls with fresh hay and a trough full of water, then, shouldering their saddlebags and her rucksack, he moved to pick her up too.
"I can walk on my own." Micah huffed, and started to wobble off toward the inn.
"The hell you can!" Arek swore, scooping her small frame into his arms as his angry strides carried them to the door of the inn.
"Put me down, dammit! I don't need you carting me around!" She protested and beat feebly at his shoulders.
"Shut up." Was all he said as he carried her into the smoky interior of the Golden Sturgeon. Micah's arms came around him and she pressed her face into his throat as the smells of rancid ale and cabbage assaulted her. She moaned as the nausea returned.
The innkeep bustled up, looking into Arek's face with a sour expression. He wasn't fond of witchers, he didn't know anyone who was, but the woman … he didn't need someone carrying disease.
"Only gots one room left tonight. She sick?" Asked the skinny man, peering at Micah where she lay in Arek's arms.
"She'll be fine by morning. Nothing a night of rest won't cure." Arek was getting tired of the question and he fought hard to keep his voice and expression emotionless.
"No fisstech in the rooms an' ye pay for any damages ye cause. Be needin' food or anythin' else?" The innkeep produced a key from a jangling ring at his belt.
"Yeah, a maid, food, and a hot bath for the girl." Arek followed the man up a set of stairs. After awkwardly accepting the key from the other man, he stepped into the small room.
"A maid, ye say. What kind'a establishment do ye take this for?"
"I need someone to help her bathe." Arek's patience was wearing thin and he spoke sharply. "To preserve her dignity, I'd rather not do it myself." Noting the innkeep's doubt he added in a calmer tone, "I'll pay for the extra trouble."
The innkeep relented with a sigh, absentmindedly patting the coin purse at his side. "A'ight, I'll send Abby up. She'll 'elp out yer lass, but there better not be any funny business," he warned, shaking a boney finger at the witcher.
"Most appreciated."
"Hah." The innkeep left, leaving the weary pair alone.
Arek set Micah down on the bed and their baggage at its foot. Reigning in his temper, the big man began pacing, pausing to look at her, then shaking his head and pacing some more. She looked pitiful and he cursed himself for not insisting they stop earlier.
"I'm sorry," she breathed in a thready voice. "I was doing fine until we got to the city. I could smell ... everything … all of a sudden." She glanced up sheepishly, huddling into a ball of misery, rubbing her temples with her fingers.
"You didn't just suddenly start feeling ill." His eyes narrowed, not quite ready to let her off the hook. "You've been sick all day and didn't see fit to tell me." The man continued to grouse at her, though he kept his voice low, not liking her pallor. "If you had told me a lot sooner, we would have stopped."
"Arek, stop fretting. I'm ok. Really. You're acting like a mother hen. A night of rest is really all I need." Micah threaded her fingers through her hair, ignoring how her hand shook.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "There are things I have to take care of. I'll wait for whoever they send to get here with the bath before I go."
She nodded feebly. "Go do what you need to do. I can manage on my own." Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to her knees, which she had drawn up and wrapped her arms around.
Abby appeared then, leading a kitchen boy dragging a copper tub and two others with buckets of steaming water. Arek gave the barmaid brief instructions, before turning his attention back to his companion. "As long as we're traveling together, don't keep things from me, do you understand?" He spoke harshly, scowling when Micah flinched. When she nodded her understanding he continued, "It's my job to keep us both alive and I can't do that if you go getting ass stubborn." He spun on his heel then, his steps beating an angry staccato as he trampled down the stairs and out of the inn.
The witcher stood for a moment in the cool of the evening, letting the sea air leach the ire out of him. He tried to make sense of his emotions, at a loss to explain how he could have formed such a strong attachment to a willful woman he barely knew. He decided it had to be enforced company coupled with his prior injuries. He needed to get her out of his system with a visit to Crippled Kate's. Maybe if he took the edge off with a prostitute or two, he could think more clearly.
A short time later, Arek found the captain of an independent merchant trader, striking a deal to sail with the tide at the second morning bell two days hence; passage for two humans and their mounts to Pont Vanis. Already feeling more in control of himself, the big man headed for the center of the city, flipping a coin over the backs of his fingers, then tossing it in the air and catching it as he walked. The trinket was nothing he could trade for goods or services, it was a token for the Elven Baths, marked so his contact would meet with him. Once he had conducted business and gotten himself cleaned up, he would visit the brothel.
Hours later, Arek silently entered their room in the Sturgeon. It was nearing midnight and he found the little woman sprawled on her belly atop the coverlet, wrapped loosely in a towel and fast asleep. Her hair was jumbled about her and still a little damp from a thorough scrubbing. He lost himself for a moment in the heady perfume of lilacs combined with something that was uniquely Micah's scent. Stepping to the bed, the witcher stood looking down at her, trying to understand this hold she had on him.
He had gone to the bordello, anticipating a few hours of vigorous sex with any one of the many willing girls there. He had perused Madam's stables and found not a single mount to his liking. He had even gone so far as to hire one strumpet who bore a remote resemblance to Micah, but ended up spending an hour sipping wine and just talking with her, oddly feeling no desire to bed her. Now, looking down on this slim woman who made him crazy, he felt his need rise as he watched her deep, slow breaths. He couldn't rationalize it at all. She had never done anything remotely seductive to spur him on, yet he felt like a fly caught in a spiderweb. Ever since their first, desperate kiss.
The big man silently stripped himself of his armor, laying his weapons across the back of a chair carefully. When he stood in nothing but his leather britches, he sat at the edge of the bed and trailed his hand through Micah's hair, careful not to awaken her. He had never touched it like this, unbound and curling around her body. She wasn't up to any kind of physical loving yet, he thought, but he didn't know if he could keep his hands to himself if he shared the bed with her tonight. Not with her so enticingly close and conveniently undressed.
He shook his head at his own thoughts. Witchers didn't form attachments. They moved from place to place and took whatever pleasures they were offered or could purchase. When their contract was done, they rode to the next place and repeated the process.
Bitterness suffused his deep sigh as he stood and pulled the coverlet over Micah's sleeping form. He spread his bedroll on the floor next to the bed and settled down; using every meditation trick he knew to corral his desire and actually rest. A new sheaf of papers had been secreted into the hidden pocket of his satchel and a pouch of gold crowns provided a comforting weight at his belt. He let his eyes drift shut and his body relax into sleep, with a final thought flickering across his consciousness, 'At least I completed my contract.'
Arek awoke in the morning feeling every splinter from the rough wooden floor poking through his bedroll. Micah was still asleep and he spent several minutes just listening to her steady breathing. When she got up, he'd catch a more comfortable nap on the bed. They wouldn't be leaving till after midnight anyway.
As he lay there, he considered what he wanted. Arek had been on the Path most of his life, the days blurring one into another. He had outlived all his brother Manticores, and had stopped going to Kaer Mardyakhor thirty or forty years ago to winter elsewhere when it just got too damn depressing to watch castle walls crumble into ruins with nobody there to maintain them.
Though he wanted, needed, the warmth of human companionship from time to time, there was no one he currently counted as a friend. All of those had died of old age long ago, or on the witcher's Path. Micah was the first person in a very long time to assault the walls of his solitude. He shook his head. Entanglements meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant death on the Path. Determining to regain his objectivity, Arek stood and pulled on his clothing, armor and weapons, careful not to awaken the sleeping woman. He stretched and went in search of breakfast.