What Lies Beneath

by LJ LaRue

She was Laelithra, a small child marked by Destiny. By chance, unhappy or not, she crossed paths with the legendary witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Pursued by an evil organization, how will they survive? English.

11. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

The stagnant air enveloped him, permeating his flesh and clinging to his bones. It was the type of stillness that accompanied one when they were intensely focused on the task at hand. For the witcher, it was no different. Sweat dotted his brow, clustering in his thick eyebrows. A tree could have fallen behind him, and he would have ignored it in his focus.

He leaned forward, centering his golden gaze on the light green plant. It's long, slender leaves shot upright like tiny needles. They twisted, bending over each other in their attempt to get the witcher's attention. Each blade tumbled on itself. Some of the hoary fibers twisted in their endless silent dance. Others spiraled downward, touching their tips to the spongy ground.

Herbalism, more specifically plants and flora used in his witcher elixirs and medicines, was one thing Geralt knew well. He did not know any of his kind who did not know their lore as well. A witcher without his potions was a dead witcher. The facts were easy to understand, simple, and, unfortunately, true.

Even though the five year old girl was not a witcher, she understood that simple fact as well. Partly, it had to do with her father. Geralt did not know to what degree Viktor had taught the small child herbalism. There were times when she would reveal to Geralt that the elder witcher would force her to ingest tiny amounts of plants. She stated she felt very sick afterward, vomiting her small supper in the weeds. Laelithra thought she was a sickly child, but the witcher knew the real reason. The reason sank deeply into his gut, twisted like the stiletto he had given her, and made the long buried emotions cut him like tiny shards of broken glass.

Of course, there was really only one reason why the bastard would force that upon the small girl. Even though the evidence seemed to pile up against Viktor, the White Wolf had trouble believing one of his kin would do what the elder witcher did to the small child. Even though Viktor was unstable at Kaer Morhen, Geralt could not understand how he used his Child of Destiny as nothing better than a rat to experiment on. Was that all the young girl was to the elder witcher? She was an experiment. The old man would study her, documenting the changes to her immune system and the reactions her tiny body had to the process.

While they made elixirs, they were not alchemists. While they mutated boys, they were not scientists. A witcher did not preform experiments on a girl child, knowing what could happen. They were witchers. This too was a simple, easy fact to understand. Viktor had ceased being a witcher when he fed the first fern to the girl.

Then what was Viktor, he asked himself. The elder witcher was no better than any of the monsters that Geralt had slain. He was a creature of evil, and the witcher knew that deep down inside. Yet, how could he think that the old man had any plans other than to kill monsters for coin? It was what a witcher did.

Yet, it did not surprised Geralt. Many things about the Viktor were unorthodox. Other things did not fit. Geralt hated situations where the pieces did not meld right. It was like a prostitute with syphilis. Even though he could not contract it, he stayed away from situations like that as much as possible. He wanted to find Viktor and bring forth the truth from the aging witcher. Circumstance and time, like with most people, robbed him of the opportunity. It was unlikely that the young girl knew what the other witcher was planning. To her, Viktor was a father and was reacting as a father would. No one who cared about their child of destiny would think to subject them to the experiments he did. To think anything else was folly. The whole situation with Laelithra left a bitter taste in his mouth, like the morning after a night of spent drinking.

Geralt narrowed his eyes as his hand brushed the leaves of the plant. His mouth curled into a sneer. White teeth sparkled as his thin lips pulled away from the gums. He looked down at the the flora, and his nostrils flared. Ivory heat was buried in his cold gaze. As much as his skin could through his lack of pigment, his cheeks flushed.

In the back of his mind, he knew he had to tell the other witchers about what he found. There was no other way around it. Even though he tried to deny it, the pain dulled his thoughts and made the truth startlingly clear. Someone, possibly Viktor, was creating their own version of mutants. There were three things that proved his theory: Laelithra, the assassin, and her brother. The boy and the teenage assassin were fully mutated. What was the purpose of this cult, and what was the other witcher up to?

He knew that the reasons behind mutating others could not be good because Viktor had stolen the mutagens and the formulae. The elder witcher worked in secret, allowing his kinsmen to think that he had died in the massacre. If Geralt did not come across Laelithra, he would never have known the truth about Viktor and his plans. What were his plans? His mind screamed at him, the thoughts threatening to consume him.

Of course, the plans and the thoughts were moot. It was still early summer, and the heat seemed to crush down on him. The only one who would be in Kaer Morhen during the Working Season would be the old man. Vesemir rarely left the witchers' settlement those days. Geralt did not know the reason. Perhaps, the elder witcher was tired of the world. Coen, Eskel, and Lambert were traveling the countryside, making their own coin in preparation for the winter coming.

Geralt knew the urgency of telling the other witchers about the organization of vampires and young boys. They even needed to hear about the little girl. Yet, he had no intention of bringing the girl to Kaer Morhen. In fact, he was going to make sure she had as much of a normal life as possible. He did not know how much of the ferns, mosses, and mushrooms that she had ingested during her time with Viktor. Could she have any semblance of a normal life?

It was a disputable point, nagging at him like an overweight harlot after his coins. At the earliest, he would not be able to return to Kaer Morhen until September or early October. Much could happen in a few months. In the mean time, he would press the tiny girl for details about Viktor and his herbal meals. Geralt of Rivia would find out the purpose behind this cult and the renegade witcher. He was determined.

All of that would matter if they would survive. The witcher never fooled himself in regards to Laelithra's and his own injuries. They both were in bad shape. Geralt had a clue what the assassin had done to the small girl, but he pushed it out of his mind. She could hardly walk, forcing the White Wolf to carry her. He limped, taking on the extra weight of the girl. Of course, he knew the situation was bad. While it was not the worst he had been in, it came close. In the back of his mind, he could not ignore that the dire need of medicine and rest that his body desperately craved did not exist. The White Wolf pushed himself forward, denying himself the sweet succor of rest.

A hiss escaped from his lungs, forcing its way up through his body, and bursting from within his lips. The low throbbing pain conspired with the doubts in his mind, bringing them to the fore. It twisted, crawling beneath his skin. Once more, the urgent need to meditate came over him. His mind slowed as a hint of agony overcame him. It was sharp, sudden, and brought on by the doubts floating through his thoughts.

Immediately, he stood and moved onto a small aloe plant. Squatting over the foliage, the witcher inhaled deeply. The smell was not as strong. Its tiny leaves twisted and jetted upwards towards the sky like a child wishing to be cradled. With the other herbs he found, it would be enough to treat Laelithra's wounds. He knew the importance of treating the blood loss. In the back of his mind, he knew that the dirty conditions of the Arcani's lair increased the risk of infection, spreading it through her system like a rotting, festering wild fire. Once it entered her, it would be impossible to control.

For one of the first (and certainly, not the last) times, he realized the weakness that Laelithra pulled forth from him. It seethed within him, bubbling in the slippery oils of concern and distress. She could die from her wounds. The realization burrowed deep within him. As the feelings clung to him closely, he blinked slowly. Because he was stubborn like an ox, he refused to let the girl perish while she was in his care. Through his sheer willpower alone, she would survive. Geralt was as sure of that simple fact as he was sure of his swordsmanship. Yes, Geralt of Rivia would make sure of it. There would be no dispute on that matter. None at all.

With his outstretched hands, he snapped off several blades from the bottom of the plant. The sound bit in the air around him, sharp and crisp like the heavy, stone lid of a sarcophagus grating and screeching endlessly against the stark quietness of the night. He knew the seriousness of getting the herbs to Laelithra. As he created many of his own elixirs, Geralt understood what plants would be fatal to the small girl. She could not use the herbs that he used for most of his witchers' medicines. If her wounds did not kill her, the potions would. Aside from that, he had few herbs left in his pack. Most of it was stored in his small, elixir chest, and the assassin had seen to throwing that into the river along with most of his belongings. Much of the things that were stored on the Roach were irreplaceable. He felt a twinge of anger deep inside of him, spiraling up his body as if he was a lightning rod.

Each blade bled slightly, oozing a thick, clear liquid where the stem broke from the plant. It was this gel that he was after. If he had removed the leaves higher than he did, the plant would not have produced enough of the gelatinous liquid for Laelithra's wounds. Taking each leaf, he placed them in the pouch resting against his stomach.

With the Aloe Vera, mint, and other herbs he had collected, there might be enough for himself and the small girl. Relief washed over his body, becoming a boon in a turbulent sea of doubt and worry. He would see to the child first, however. Instead of being a slave to pain, Geralt was the master of his body. The witcher would drive himself forward for the safety of Laelithra if there was not enough plants for him to use for himself. There would be enough to treat her wounds and prevent any infection. Immediately, he stood.

Suddenly, his golden eyes caught a blurred, white movement. His gaze darted instantly to the source. Nothing escaped the attention of a witcher. The dark of the forest made no difference. For a moment, he wondered if it was the cat, returning to harass the man more.

A small animal darted across the narrow gap between the massive trunks of two trees to his left. The pine needles rustled with its movement, sending a dust of tree debris and dirt into the air. It attempted to cloud his vision, tricking him into thinking that something bigger than what was there wished for his blood. In fact, the forest, itself, felt strange and foreboding. Not all was as it seemed, and Geralt felt slow and sluggish. At once, he knew it was not just his wounds.

While it troubled him, he had more pressing concerns than the forest. The witcher bent down and retrieved a small dagger from the inside of his boot. This was smaller than the dagger he had given to Laelithra. Dappled light filtering through the canopy sparkled along the blade. Worn leather wrapped around the hilt like ratty clothing. With cat-like reflexes, he flung the dagger across the distance between the animal and himself.

The dagger screamed through the air, hurtling like a bird of prey towards the witcher's target. It picked up speed, howling with the urgency flowing through the witcher. With a dull thud and a sudden, shrill shriek, Geralt knew his aim was true. Every creature (animal, human, and even monster) made a death cry right before they died. It was during this time that their lives flashed before their eyes, allowing them to make peace with their impending death. Then, darkness took over. Judging by the abrupt ending of the shriek, the end came a few seconds after the dagger had stricken it.

Geralt turned and limped confidently across the distance of the gap. He knew what he would find, and he had no qualms about allowing fate to grant him food. The little girl and he both needed meat to overcome the blood loss.

A rabbit lay dead. Its body was pinned against the trunk of one of the trees. Raw, red meat contrasted the dagger piercing it through its chest. Blood trickled down the white fur of the creature, dripping in thin spots on the grassy floor. He always associated the sound of the crimson liquid dripping to the spout in a human made well.

Squatting again, he gripped the handle of the dagger. At first, the weapon did not want to be dislodged from the animal and tree. It would not give as Geralt wiggled it back and forth and up and down. Finally, he pulled hard on the hilt of the dagger. With a thin spray of blood, it released the creature into Geralt's waiting hands.

Once more, he stood. He clutched the rabbit around the neck and made his way back to where he had left the small child.

…...

The journey back to Laelithra was uneventful. Nothing snaked out of the mat of discarded needles. No beasts leaped out to greet him, not surprising him. Creatures were probably hidden within the surrounding forest, seeking respite from the oppressive environment. In fact, the hot, decaying air around him suffocated him, wrapping thick tendrils around his neck and squeezing the breath out of him before he could even draw it.

Geralt took long, measured strides as the fine, white hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. There was a sudden, urgent need in his stride. A part of him loathed leaving Laelithra like he did. Yet, it was something different. He felt as if his thoughts and emotions were rebelling against him. They resembled the gnarled, rotten branches of wood, twisting into unrecognizable shadows. Eclipsing his very thoughts, a mind-numbing calmness overtook him.

Even in such a wide space as was between the massive trunks of ancient trees, the sun was powerless to pierce the canopy of woven branches high above. It enveloped the forest and the witcher in a primeval darkness. A groaning wind seemed to come from all sides of the witcher, wailing its discontent of being invaded by the foreign man and child.

Something was alive in that forest, forcing the calmness and rage to intertwine within the witcher. It was an amorphous being because it was unable to be seen or heard. Yet, the ethereal presence could be felt. Immediately, the flesh on his forearms shuddered up in a wave of tiny bumps. Yes, it could be felt. The calmness washed over him like warm water from the bathhouse, slithering up his chest, and over his head. In the back of his mind, he could feel a savage malice come over him. The undertone of malevolence flowing through his mind was akin to a very old feeling in Geralt. While he felt a similar hatred in several of the creatures he had forged a macabre bond with, he had rarely felt that sort of hatred in his surroundings.

However, it was a normal forest overgrown with pines. There was nothing wrong with the crushing air. Geralt was injured, and most likely he was delirious. In his long life, he had witnessed many things that a magician could do. One could change an entire house seamlessly into a rolling field beneath blue skies. A sorceress could remove her clothing with just a snap of her fingers. One most certainly could not enchant an entire forest, bending and twisting it into their own vision. He was sure of that.

But.

Thirty-six years ago, a collection of knights had come across the remains of nine elvish youngsters, male and female. All of them were ripped open from sternum to pelvis. Arms and legs were pulled from the sockets randomly, showing the round ivory bone in the torso of the man or woman. Several heads rolled on the grassy blanket. One of the heads was nailed to the trunk of a tree with two nine inch iron spikes driven through the its eyes. The ghastly white grimace greeted the venturing party, welcoming them to that particular part of the forest. All of their eyes, fingers, and round, pointed ears were removed, taken as trophies from the grisly scene. Also, one of the heads, a female, was unaccounted for.

Because only the elvish young were fertile, the event was one more nail into the coffin. Yet, humanity did not care. The elvish young were only there to cause trouble in the first place. Were they going to burn their crops? Steal the human's own children? Elves were always up to no good. As the knights gathered the bodies, they formed a circle. Thick, black smoke rose high through the canopy for many days following. Life in the neighboring village went on because none of their kinsmen were caught up in the gruesome killings. After all, they were just elves. Four days after the burning of the corpses, the alderman's daughter went outside to play in the overgrown garden by their home. Crows littered the ground and pecked at the eyeballs and fingers strewn around the garden like seeds. Rising from the ground like a thin, bony scarecrow, a woman's head was fastened to a long pole in the center of the rotting garden. Blood matted the blonde hair, turning the light strains to crimson. The round, pointed ears peeking through the gnarly strands of hair were unmistakable.

But.

Five years later, a group of very young children of the same village wandered into the woods. On that side of the immense forest, there were few pine trees. They wished to play Knights and Elves, thinking that the woods would give the elvish children an advantage and their game would be more lifelike. Like most young, they thought they were invincible. Nothing horrible ever happened to children. Four went into the land overlooked by ancient, immense trees. None came out. Presently, their bodies were never found. It was said that their ghosts lure unsuspecting travelers to their death, dooming them, for eternity, to walk beneath the ever watchful ancient trees of the forest.

But.

The disappearance of family members and children were higher here more than any other region in the world. Perhaps, the vanishings were even higher here than in Vizima. Children were the ones most likely to disappear. As with any other human villages, the townspeople tended to blame other creatures for their mistakes. When a man was unfaithful to his wife, a succubus seduced him. If a parent caused the death of a child, it was said a night hag had taken them away. Humanity could not take responsibility for their own actions.

There was something quite different in the town bordering this forest than any others. Yes, children went missing. While there was no doubt that a parent was responsible for some of the deaths, something seemed to pull the strings of the forest and control the actions of several residents. For every benevolent man, there was a darker father. Some of the missing children were murdered. Some, not all. The town, itself, was a boon for a witcher looking for work. On some occasions, the town would post a notice on sheepskin, nailing it to a large post in the middle of a cross-roads. A witcher could always make a few extra coin for the winter.

Yet, something had drastically changed in the town last season when the White Wolf ventured there looking for work. His medallion had been vibrating violently. In fact, it had almost leaped from his chest. The Roach refused to approach the town; Geralt was forced into coercing the beast forward with a quick sign. As he got closer to the town, the mare refused to go further, sign or no. He was positive that there would be coins to earn. When he walked into town, he was met with confusion. Despite the Roach refusing to venture into this town, the medallion leaping about wildly on its chain, and his surety for work, the townspeople met him with rocks. There was work to be had, but they threw stones at him. Geralt could still feel the stinging of the small projectiles as they bounced off of his jerkin, stung his neck, and cut a tiny sliver of flesh.

There was something off about the forest. Geralt knew it. However, it had nothing to do with sorceresses enchanting the forest. It was merely some sort of monster praying on the village. It made sense to the witcher for the creature to take children because children were weaker than adults. They made easier kills.

Geralt narrowed his eyes as he entered the clearing where he had left the girl. As he surveyed the scene, his heart leaped into his throat and made his breath catch. A chill penetrated him, prickling his skin like a thousand tiny knives. Suddenly, the tales of children disappearing and dying felt all too factual to the witcher. Too real.

Laelithra lay on her side, curled up on the mat of browned pine needles that covered the ground like a thick carpet. Several small, twisted branches poked her at bare stomach, coming mere inches from the wound the vampire had caused. A blanket of white gold swept across her face, hiding her eyes, and caressing her cheek.

Suddenly, his breath rushed out of his lungs in a thick burst of air. He had been around enough death to be able to recognize when someone had passed on. Everything he went through for her was for naught. Geralt knew that now. A low grumble forced its way past the lump in his throat, coming out in a grinding, quiet squeak.

As if he was in a dream, he strode towards the tiny corpse of the young girl. Everything he knew about Laelithra came rushing back to him. She was the only one who never treated him like he was different. To Laelithra, he was not a mutant, a vagabond, or brigand. He was simply Geralt.

The knowledge that he had failed her hit Geralt hard. Many others depended on him. Why was this one girl, whom he did not know more than a few months, so important to him? Her death cut him deeply, twisting inside of him like an assassin's blade. He pushed the emotions down. They burned as he swallowed them like many goblets of a particularly aged rye. Of course, the feelings were as much a hindrance to him as a good drink was, also. Laelithra's welfare, often, got in the way, forcing him to act in ways that were unbecoming of the witcher.

He scowled, drawing his thin lips downwards. His nostrils flared with each breath he took. The tufts of air burst forth from his snarling lips rapidly. Like amber ore, his eyes glittered in the darkened forest, glinting against the blackness. Immediately, he felt the dread creeping up his body, oozing and bubbling over his flesh. Like tiny rocks, his nipples hardened, brushing roughly against the cloth of his undershirt.

Geralt approached the prone child, slowly. He placed the rabbit on a rock beside a tree. It was not the safest place for the carcass, but the man was in an unfamiliar state. His body felt cold and numb like he was a being returning to life after a millennium of fathomless sleep. The witcher could not think or react. In fact, he could not tear his gaze from the prone girl. As if her body was a siren, it called to him. It was too late for the Laelithra.

As he moved forward, he slowly pulled on the fingers of his right glove. He would have to find some way to bury her, the witcher thought. Yet, it pained him to think of such things. Death was a constant for Geralt. It was for any witcher. Chaos followed behind them like the wake of a storm. Yet, it bothered him to think of the little girl's fate.

Squatting over the small child, he took in the side of her pale, colorless face. Painfully, Geralt remembered how the cherub would be so full of life when he would explain something she could never fathom. If he had arrived sooner, she would not have been endangered for too long. The Arcani had treated the girl like an animal, keeping her chained and amusing themselves with her. His eyes flamed with rage. They would pay for everything they had done to her. He would make sure of it, himself.

Reaching down, he brushed her hair off of her face, revealing her closed eyes. The flesh felt slightly cool to his touch. She must have just passed on, he thought to himself. Her cooling flesh was not the only thing that alerted the witcher of the small girl's condition. Even though his touch sent shivers through the skin of people, penetrating deep with them, the little child remained still. Laelithra's lips chafed, and tiny pieces of skin flaked off.

Then, he saw it. Irritation replaced the other feeling that was coursing in his veins. Her chest rose and fell slightly. It would have been unnoticeable to any eyes but his. Nothing could escape his attention. This was no different.

Geralt furrowed his brow, gazing at her prostrate form. He took his strong hands and wrapped it around her exposed shoulder like a vise, shaking her roughly. He did not care that he woke her because he had told her to not fall asleep. She was hurting, and he understood that. At the same time, he knew the dangers of her falling asleep. Coupled with that, she had made him feel things that he was uncomfortable with; concern and fear. "I told you not to sleep," he said, coldly.

Her eyes snapped open, looking wildly into the golden glare of the witcher. At the same time, she brandished the dagger before her. Her lips moved into a wrinkled O, and she opened and closed it like a fish gasping for air. For a brief moment, she took on a look of the woman she would become. Brave and frightened, an unusual mixed.

He had forgotten how they must have woken her up. For a moment, he crouched there with his hand on her shoulder, looking down into her wild, bestial gaze. Geralt did not mean for his grip to be so tight nor did he mean his voice to be as harsh as it sounded. The witcher was concerned for her, he told himself. That was all. "It's dangerous to go to sleep right now. You might not wake up," he continued, gruffly.

She stared back at him. Her eyes widened with the fear of his words. The Arcani had done much damage to the girl, and he was not sure that she would ever recover from it. It was then that he noticed the cream-skin shining through the dirt face, evidence of fresh tears.

As if she had burned him, he released his grasp on her. The image of Laelithra looking up at him, locked in her private torture, ate at him. Every single emotion in the damned forest seemed to be amplified to him. He felt like everything he had experienced with Laelithra was placed into a mortar, ground into a paste, spread on his flesh, and stung as it was absorbed into him. It was not her fault, though. Deep within his clouding mind, he knew that.

Immediately, he pulled a small mortar and pestle out of the pouch on his baldric, along with the leaves of aloe and other plants that he had harvested on his way there. He put the leaves into the mortar and started mashing them into a fine paste.

With his back to her, he murmured, quietly, "Sorry about shaking you. I was worried for you, that's all." A part of him hoped that she had not heard him. It was unlike him to admit what he was thinking. Yet, there was something bringing forth his aggressiveness and his worry. It attempted to cloud his reason, but he would not give in. They would have to reach the other side if Laelithra was to survive. He knew that.

…...

Geralt could feel her searing gaze boring into his back. The little girl's breath came out rapidly. She was scared, and the witcher could understand and sympathize. After all, Laelithra had just gone through something that normal girls her age did not. Those children did not have a witcher as a father, forcing her to travel with him. It was why it was unusual for her to be so fearful right then. That's why it struck the White Wolf. Because it was not something he witnessed in her before; it was strange. Unfamiliarity made the witcher uneasy.

He started to press the pestle down into the bowl, grinding the various leaves inside. Pungent scents were released in the air and mixed with the sweet scent of the mint. It permeated everything that surrounded the witcher and Laelithra. The oils of the plants started to seep forth, releasing more of their distinctive, floral scents into the air.

A buzzing sound slithered over and crawled into his body like a maggot. It gently pulsed between his ears, expanding and contracting similar to a diseased bird. The rotten, enhanced emotions consumed him as it ate at the edges of his reason.

Immediately, the small child rose to her feet. Geralt knew that the pain must have been unbearable for her. Laelithra was different . She understood; she knew him. The simple fact that she knew Geralt of Rivia (both the man and the witcher) and didn't judge him was what mattered to the man. It bothered him, also. While it would explain their relationship many years lately, the White Wolf wondered how she could be so trusting and innocent seeing the things Viktor must had shown to her.

Behind him, he could hear the metal clang of his dagger; the weapon slipped from Laelithra's grasp. Instantly, he felt a twinge of annoyance at the blatant disregard for his possessions. It sank deep inside of him, pulling at his inner most thoughts. As the irritation pulsed in his veins, the humming sound in his body seemed to increase. Being vexed by the small child was something he was not used to. It felt alien to him like the foreign, moribund wind.

As Laelithra sat down heavily beside him, tiny tufts of needles and dirt heaved into the air, coating his leather trousers. She inhaled sharply, grasping at the congealing wound on her stomach. While blood did not flow freely from it, she grunted meekly once. Once more, he felt the stunning response at her ability to withstand pain. It was not a howl of confused hurt that he expected a girl of her age to make. Instead, it was a sharp intake of air, slicing through the thick tomb-like landscape. Along with this thought, he was reminded of Viktor again. The witcher steeled his resolve in finding her a normal life. Yet, he could not quiet that voice in the back of his mind. What did he, a witcher, know about a normal life? By design and not by choice, he was an outcast, subjected to disdain that even the worst diseased leper was not privy to. Who would take a child from a witcher? As far as townsfolk knew a witcher abducted children; his kind did not give children away freely. Geralt understood the way humanity was. He did not have to be a seer to prophesize how humans would reject the young girl, yet the fact that he believed the girl deserved a chance to be normal nagged in the back of the White Wolf's mind like a troublesome housewife.

Once more, he questioned himself on what a witcher knew was normal? For Geralt, this was normal. As with anything in the natural world, there was always something quicker and stronger than something else. This hierarchy applied even to the White Wolf, himself. For a witcher, normality was teeth and fangs in a creature's lair.

What did it mean for a girl? Of course, the witcher understood the generalizations about women. He was the White Wolf, a legendary lover, after all. Did that qualify him to evaluate what would be usual in a life of a very young peasant girl? He reflected on the situation, somberly. Laelithra would be feeding chickens and washing dishes. In a year or two, she would be learning how to become a good housewife and mother.

For a moment, Geralt tried to imagine the young, fierce girl like that. Her foster mother would teach her how to weave cloth. From what Viktor had shown her about sewing, she would shine in that department. Was the elder witcher teaching her to become a normal housewife? In the next thought, the witcher dismissed that. Viktor was probably training her in the tasks of a woman to make his life easier. In fact, Geralt knew this like it was a piece of monster lore. The elder witcher would not send away a girl he had started to give the herbs to. No, he had something special planned for the girl. As the White Wolf considered the possibilities, a shiver shot up his spine like a blade of ice.

Quickly, he shot a gaze at the young girl beside him. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking as prim and proper as some of the ladies in waiting he had seen at various royal events that he hated to attend. Witchers did not belong in politics as rulers did not belong in witcher's work. Like any other witcherling, she watched him intensely. Her eyes gleamed with curiosity, and the look in them questioned his every action.

She remained in silence. It was a common bond between both of them. They could enjoy the quietness together, seemingly happy not speaking a word. When one was with someone that they liked to be around, they did not need to communicate all of the time. Most women that he knew would nag at him like a harpy. They liked how he was until he bedded them. Then, they wished to change him into something he was not. Geralt could only be himself. Even as a small child, Laelithra seemed to instinctively understand that.

Occasionally, he would add some of the alcohol out of a small flask that he had stowed in the pack on his chest to the thickening mash of aloe gel, mint, and various other herbs. He would grunt as he pushed the pestle into the bowl, crushing the paste. The mixture stuck to the sides and bottom of the container.

Still, they sat in the continuing silence as it surrounded the space around them, comforting the two in an embrace that only they could understand. When he glanced at the girl again, he noticed the fresh tracks left by tears running down the her cheeks. He could not begin to understand what Viktor had done to her by lying about her brother. For all Geralt knew, the tears were because of the pain of the captivity. There were some occasions where he could not read women at all. It pulled at the strings of a heart he refused for so long. It cut him to see the girl crying, and he did not know why. Like flesh had been ripped inside of him and the wound refused to heal, the situation with Laelithra confused him.

The buzzing between his ears grew louder again, honing the confusion he felt deep within his soul. Geralt shook his head side to side in attempt to clear the confounding feeling deep within him. He felt as if he was slowly sinking into a sea of something he did not fully understand. Underneath it all, he felt a sharp need to get out of the forest. It ate at his subconscious like any monster gorging itself on his flesh. Yet, he was unsure if a witcher could even slay the cause of those emotions. The cold, hard truth was he neither had any idea who was behind the shifting magic in the forest, nor did he believe there was a danger.

Once he was satisfied with the texture of the mixture in the mortar, he ran his fingers down the length of the pestle, scrapping the paste into the bowl. Some stuck to him, coating his flesh green like moss clinging to the bark of a tree. Immediately, he return the long, thick pestle to his pack. "Lift your frock," he barked. The command came out harsher than he intended.

She shrunk beside him, trying to escape the witcher. Her lips set in a thin, grim line. Despite her fear, she grasped the hem of her dirty, soiled dress. For a brief moment, she looked uncomfortably up at Geralt. He could read the terror in her eyes, and he did not need to guess what had placed it there. Nightmares of the little girl being assaulted would stick with him until a monster took him. Again, he did not understand the pull this child had on him. As much as he tried to escape her, something was pulling him back to her. It was a mystery that the witcher probably would never solve.

The concern for Laelithra hit his chest, smashing into his heart like a battering ram. He did not care for her. Geralt tried to cling onto that selfish notion, but it was a futile effort. A sigh escaped his body, causing his chest to heave. What was he going to do with her? Again, he thought of the upcoming winter. She could not go to Kaer Morhen. If she was his or one of the others', she could go. However, she was not. Laelithra belonged to Viktor, the renegade witcher who stole their formulae. The other witchers needed to know the circumstances of the female child, but she needed a normal life as well. Geralt stood at a cross-roads, and he did not know which way he would go.

Her eyes widened in fright. The cult had caused that fear from abusing her in the darkness. He would see to their destruction. She should have been learning the duties of how to be a proper wife to a man: how to milk cows and bake bread. Laelithra should have had a normal childhood. Viktor saw that destroyed. Instead of learning how to do those normal activities, she followed after a witcher and learned their life. Geralt could not deny that he, himself, played a small role in it. He should have left her at the temple, but he could not refuse her anything even then. It was a strange emotion to experience for the man. As he thought of the feeling, he felt like he was quickly sinking into something that he had no reason to be involved in. There would be no help for Geralt.

"I won't hurt you, Laelithra," he stated, softer than before. It was imperative that she allowed him to put the salve on her. It would disinfect her wounds. He did not go so far benaeth the earth to allow her to die from an infection from the wounds that the monsters left on her. Once more, he was reminded of how much she should have had a normal life.

She still refused to lift her garments.

Geralt felt irritation pulsing in his mind, thumping with the effects of the elixir wearing off. If she was not going to listen to him, then they would both die. His rescue would have been for nothing. Frustration and anger simmered inside of him, threatening to boil over like a pot of water. Never in his long life had he felt like he was out of control. He was a witcher; he did not have emotions. He clenched his teeth, breathing the stagnant air in deeply.

Both Geralt and Laelithra were at an impasse. He would not give up on cleaning her wounds; she would not show him her injuries. There were a million reasons why she would not. First, he had to spread that paste on all of her injuries. Some of her wounds were too embarrassing for her to admit. The cult brutalized her, but Geralt had seen to it that they were punished for their crimes against the small girl. For the ones that escaped, he would hunt them down to the edge of the world if he had to. Even if he had to pick them off one by one, he swore to himself that the Arcani would learn to fear the name of the White Wolf, the legendary witcher of Rivia.

The reason why he cared evaded him much in the way he dodged creatures. She had hopes and dreams. In her sleep, she dreamed of her future life. It was not a lifestyle fit for what she was taught. He knew what she dreamed and hoped for. Although many times she would awaken from nightmares, the young girl held other dreams. It was in these dreams that his hopes for her having a normal life was supported.

She cringed away from him. His plans on placing her with a normal family seemed to evaporate before him like embers dying in the campfire. Tightening her fingers around the hem of her dress, her knuckles whitened as if she was a wraith. It was a fitting comparison, he thought. Laelithra was a ghost of her former self.

It was his fault that she was taken. If he was there, he could have fended off the assassin. The blame ate at his mind, breaking down his hard exterior. For a brief moment, he was awed by the unusual sensation. Because he was not use to having those types of feelings, he was sure that something or someone had bewitched him. Perhaps, it was that bruxa.

Despite his doubts, Geralt had to put the small girl at ease. He needed to cleanse her wounds and bring comfort to her aching body. The witcher could not carry her. Even though his body healed faster than a human's, he was reaching the thin line between life and death. Geralt would push himself further. In fact, he would face down death if he needed to save her. Shaking his head, he wondered why she was so important to him. Why was it that he could not separate himself from her? Resolve hardened in his body as if he was made of the same rare metal that his swords were. He would see that she lived a normal life. Viktor would not achieve what he sought to.

His lips turned upwards. He looked younger when he smiled, but that gesture was rarely witnessed. The sorceress made him smile a few times. Geralt did so to humor her, defusing situations. It was rare that his feelings were true. When he smiled, most would cringe. Revulsion was such a common occurrence that he did not think much of it. Because he was an outcast most of his life, he was acclimated to the disdain that his profession brought. Laelithra was different. "Take off your clothing," he commanded again, more softer than before.

Laelithra sighed deeply. A smile fluttered over her ashen countenance. She had lost much blood at the hands of the Arcani. Tugging on her frock, she slid it over her narrow hips. Dark bruises lined the soft flesh, circling the skin in blackening rings. Her cheeks reddened from embarrassment.

"Laelithra," he stated, gently, "I need you to undress completely." Geralt felt like he was talking to the Roach. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could calm Laelithra with a sign. She would be cooperative and do whatever he wished. Gazing at the oozing wounds on her thighs, he felt a heat overcome him. It disgusted him, stabbing inside of him like a razor-sharp blade. Looking at her injuries twisted the emotions inside of him, tightening the noose that Laelithra had on him. He had to see to her wounds. There was no way around it. She raised the dirty, blood-stained dress over the rest of her body, placing the cover of her shame on the pile of needles beside of her. Dark lacerations dotted her small frame. They would become dusky bruises later in the day. A deep open wound ran diagonally on her pale stomach.

No, he could not influence her in any way. She would find out, and she would be angry about it. Her temper would not help her healing. Laelithra needed to recover from her wounds if they were to survive. Geralt shook his head, causing his ivory hair to tumble against his shoulders like snow. He was resigned to the fact that he would not make it out of this forest. The witcher needed his strength to bring her to the edges of civilization. There was one problem. Witchers were met with open arms as long as they were needed. If there were no creatures to slay, they were met with rocks. Who would want to raise a child that was raised by a witcher? Even if he was able to place her with a human family, he did not know if she would be able to adjust. Viktor had sealed her fate with herbs and mushrooms.

She swayed from blood loss as she squared her legs. Her matted hair stuck to her face, framing her in a halo of gore. Geralt knew it would not be long before she collapsed. The girl needed the nourishment of a meal. He needed it as well, but he would starve himself to save her. Laelithra needed him.

"This will be cold," Geralt explained, "and it will tingle." He wanted to warn her of the effects of the paste. Laelithra was unlike any female he had known. She was unafraid of anything that they encountered in their travels, and she did not make too much of a fuss when he had to apply medicines to her body to help heal her wounds. With his hand, he turned her around gently. Geralt had to take a softer approach with the child, and he was unsure how he was going to do that. The paternal emotions did not suit a witcher well. He found it strange to be feeling the way he did about Laelithra.

The girl bent over rigidly and presented her buttocks to him. Blood stuck on her flesh, giving her flesh a crimson patina. As she moved, chunks of it flaked off and landed on the ground. She clenched her teeth together. Tears clung to her thick eyelashes like a line of miniature diamonds. Again, Geralt did not know how to react. He had never dealt with someone who had such a dual personality as Laelithra. Laelithra was strong one minute; the next, she was emotional. Because he knew she had been through much at the hands of the strange cult, he could understand her shame. Rage sizzled through him as if his body was made of water and the anger was searing lightning. He swore that that the Arcani would pay for their mistreatment of the child.

Geralt placed his hand and fingertips on her, spreading the paste on her skin. It amazed him how a simple act could change the witcher. He surmised Laelithra could change the hearts of any man, including ones like himself. His lips turned downwards as he scowled fiercely. The dense paste spread from his hand, clinging to her.

As he spread the medicine on her, her knees shook against him. Tears traced down her cheeks, allowing him to witness the private horror of the child. An uncomfortable silence grew between the two as if they had found out about the loss of a good friend. The stillness enveloped them. In her misery, Laelithra cried silently. Teardrops splashed on the springy ground, wetting the forest's debris.

Geralt turned his attention from Laelithra, becoming trapped within his own thoughts. She was unlike any child or woman that he knew. The fact clung to his soul like a fattening leech. Laelithra and the truth charged and overturned everything in his life like twin rampaging tornadoes. He was unsure what to do with her, but he understood that she could not continue to travel with him. It placed her in danger. Once more, he reflected on the thought that she could not come with him to winter at Witcher's Settlement.

"It's cold," she whimpered. Eerie stillness seemed to drown her voice out as if she was speaking to him from a long distance. She placed her tiny hands on her knees. Laelithra clenched her hands into fist, squeezing the soft, young flesh. Her flesh burned him as if she was in the center of an inferno. He should not care about her. The child should be no different than any other boy or girl orphaned from the war; however, she was. "This stuff smells yucky!"

"It is important that you keep this on," the witcher demanded of her. Because their situation was dire, Geralt or Laelithra could perish. Every bodily fluid was important to their survival. She could not waste her energy on tears. Crying about their situation helped no one. "It will make the pain stop and keep you from getting an infection."

Gripping her shoulders, he pulled back and forced her to stand again. The irritation grew in him as the minutes dragged on. He wanted to leave this forest behind him. Geralt swore he could hear voices moaning in the wind, urging him to ease the girl's torment the only way he knew how. Of course, he would never hurt Laelithra. His strength of will alone was strong enough to stave off the unnatural encouragement. Despite his iron resolve, the suggestions swirled around his mind with its sick implications. Perhaps, the rumors of the forest were true, he thought. It unnerved him. Narrowing his brows, his gold eyes flashed with fury. The witcher hated not to be in control of his own actions.

Anger, embarrassment, and hatred swirled deep within her gaze, waxing and waning with every moment that passed. The ferocity of her gaze reminded Geralt of the strength the child possessed. He was reminded of the delicate balance the little girl possessed. As if she was being blown about by a wind, she swayed on her feet.

Geralt dipped his fingers into the bowl and gathered the green mucilage onto his fingertips. It stuck to him, encasing his flesh in a gelatinous sarcophagus. As he placed the mixture on the wounds to her stomach, she sucked in her breath. Laelithra trembled against his touch, shaking as if she was a leaf fallen from a tree in autumn.

Laelithra closed her eyes. A sigh erupted from between her dry, blood and dirt-stained lips. Something about her perplexed him as she wobbled against him. Because her hair was caked with blood and soil, it stuck to her stubbornly. Her frock lay on the ground next to them. It was as stiff as her hair, and it would provide little protection.

"Most of my possessions were on Roach," he explained, bitterly. In her condition, he knew that she would not survive the night without some form of protection from the elements. He did not trust the forest. "I have nothing to offer you, with the exception of my extra tunic."

She did not answer him. Instead, she placed her arms around her tiny body. A shiver jolted through her, shaking her before his eyes. He could see the misery shining in her dark gaze. There were several causes of her torment, but he could not know how close she was to his horse. The tears shimmered, threatening to overspill once more.

Geralt turned from her, ignoring the affliction in his heart. He was uncomfortable once more. Like most every other man, he hated to be present when a woman or girl cried. The witcher had slain numerous beasts, facing several without hesitation or fear. Yet, this girl brought feelings of hopelessness out in him.

With difficulty, he stood and went to one of his saddle bags. Pain assaulted him, twisting around him like a snake. He reached inside, feeling around blindly for a hint of fabric. Despite his calm facade, his insides burned with concern. His mind raced as he tried to bury the vulnerability that Laelithra instilled inside of him deep within his stomach. It refused to be entombed in his body. Geralt's heart threatened to burst out of his chest.

His fingers curled around the coarse fabric of the tunic. Even though he never talked about those times or he held a calming facade over his pale countenance, the rage of his predicament clouded his mind. It was as if a foreign being had possessed the witcher. He swallowed the unusual rage inside of him. Witchers did not have feelings, he thought, sardonically. With regret, he glanced at the girl. Geralt understood one thing. He would never be the same.

Laelithra stared at him weakly. The color drained from her cheeks, making her resemble the ones that tormented her. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, nervously. He knew she had lost blood at the hands of the vampire cult. Instead of banishing the image of her torture from his thoughts, he would use it. Geralt would take it within himself, letting it fester, and bring an entire sect to its knees. They would learn the White Wolf's name, and they would fear it.

He walked over to her with precise steps. The confidence rolled off of him, coming from his intense training. Geralt had one thing in mind. When he gave her his word to protect her from the cult, he failed. Pain ricocheted up his side, mixing with the incompetence of letting Laelithra be taken from him. Burning anger erupted inside of him as if he was a volcano threatening to erupt. Pulling his lips into a thin line, he snarled. Reaching out, he handed her the shirt.

She did not back away from him. In fact, she did not move. The young girl was an enigma to him. He did not understand the devotion or loyalty that she held for him. Geralt was a mutant, someone that humanity despised but needed. Everyone used him for something, everyone but Laelithra. Because of Viktor's interference, she trusted Geralt. Her affections did not come with pretty baubles or unselfish deeds. Laelithra was loyal to him because she liked him. It was a strange thing to him.

He lifted his hands, and the bottom of the frock swung back and forth. The cloth was torn in several places as most of his shirts were. Geralt was frugal with his money, and he did not see the use of replacing the article until it was unable to be worn. Despite that, he could not help but think of how Laelithra affected him. It was imperative to him that she survived her ordeal. If he died, he would perish protecting her.

As her head popped through the hole at the top, she swayed against him. She had lost much blood at the hands of Jhaer, and he was doubtful that either of them would live. He felt weaker by the moment as he struggled to remained focused. She probably wished to sleep like he did. His body screamed for it. It gnawed on the edges of his mind, blunting his resolve.

"Don't move too much," he warned her, coolly. It would not be too hard, his thoughts reminded him, bitterly. She could barely stand as it was. He understood that it would have only been a matter of time before she collapsed before him. "Don't wipe it off either."

Once more, Laelithra did not answer him. She stared at him, drawing her eyebrows together. Geralt could feel the burning concern inside of her. He knew that the girl had a strong resistance. Laelithra was able to cope with tragic situations more than others her own age. Viktor had seen to it.

"I've got to get the fire back up so we can cook the rabbit," Geralt growled. He turned his back to her in another attempt to swallow the impossible emotions that she was making him feel. It was too soon for the witcher to feel anything for her. She was no different than any other child. Somehow, the thought did not banish his demons when it came to her. The witcher would not allow her to die on him, and he knew that to prevent that she needed to eat. Laelithra was losing her strength. Anger rushed over him in a sudden bolt of heat. "Clean and skin it while I see to this, please."

"No," she protested. Her words were barely a whisper among the rustling needles as she moved forward.

"Do it," he commanded her, simply.

She shook her head side to side again quickly. Her face paled at her movements as if she was going to vomit. Laelithra needed to eat to regain strength. Laelithra would never eat the rabbit raw. What could cause her to say no.

Geralt was confused at her refusal. As long as he knew Laelithra, she did not shy away from things. While he was gutting some creature for proof of his contract, she was right there with him. However, he could not deny that the ordeal at the hands of the cult had changed the child. Before she was confident and rarely reduced to tears; she was emotional presently.

"You are hurt, Geralt," she stated. The conviction in her voice matched his own. Stubbornness versus bullheadedness. Geralt would win every time. He knew he was hurt, and she knew he was hurt. Irritation at the obvious nature of her assertion settled hard in his gut. "There is more of that to put on your own wounds."

The frustration traveled up his spine. He clenched his teeth together. Gazing over at her through lowered lashes, he sighed.

She placed her tiny fists on her hips, gazing confidently at him. In the future, the determination would cause him to admire the young woman. Laelithra would become every bit his rival in many aspects of his life. Presently, it bit him like a million mosquitoes piercing his flesh. "I am not doing anything until you take care of yourself," she dictated. Perhaps, she was feeling better.

Geralt strode to the fire, ignoring her outburst. If he did not get the fire going or if she did not clean the rabbit, they both were going to die. He would not let her perish in a forsaken place such as that. It annoyed him that she would not listen or that she could not see the danger in her defiance. There were times when he forgot that she was still a small child.

He knelt down, picking up small twigs and branches from the debris of pine needles. Already, he'd gotten a small blaze going, and he was slowly adding fuel to it to make a fitting fire for cooking. His body protested the action, making him shut his eyes tightly. Would this be the end of him? Geralt knew he was too confident when he fought the lackey of Jhaer. The boy was just a fledgling, and the witcher had more experience. Yet, the assassin had gotten the better of Geralt.

"You're hurt."

Feeling annoyed with Laelithra's insistence, he forced out a sigh. It rumbled around their campsite, circling between the two. "You are wasting time by not doing as I say," he said, not hiding the unusual discomfort in his voice. He continued to pile fresh wood, branches, and twigs onto his growing fire. The anxiety rose within him. His mind roared that it did not want to spend the night there. Too many times had the rumors come to his thoughts. "I want to get this rabbit cooked so we can get moving before dark. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like spending the night in this forest. Something isn't right here."

He could hear her exhale sharply. She could feel the intense pressure flickering between the two. It was a dead air, bewitching their thoughts and actions. Instead of fetching the animal, she scooped up a glob of paste from the mortar and pawed at the shredded hem of Geralt's shirt. The garment tore some more, filling the forest air with its ripping sound.

Geralt sighed in annoyance. "If it will get you to clean the damn rabbit," he growled aggressively, "I'll let you put that on me. I'd be more worried about eating if I were you."

"You are hurt, Geralt," she insisted again. Her tiny hands gripped the bottom of his shirt, curling around the material. She clung to it as if she thought he would rip her away from him. If he was honest with himself, it was exactly what he was thinking of doing. Her concern made him feel trapped, as if he was being constricted by a large, plump snake.

How was supposed to reply to something like that? Geralt did not have the slightest idea. He knew he was injured. If they were attacked again, it was a very real possibility that they both would perish. With each agonizing breath, he drew closer to the end. It would not be too awful, the witcher mused. After all, he had came to terms with how he was going to die many years ago.

"If you do not help yourself, how can you keep me safe?"

She was right, he thought, bitterly. A spark of annoyance surfaced inside of him, coating the witcher in a

grim cocoon. It left a flimsy coating on his soul. Geralt did not plan to give up, lay down, and die. He was more concerned with the welfare of the child than he was for himself. Of course, he would never admit to her that he simply forgot.

Once more, they found themselves in the comforting silence. It spread out before them, wrapping both the witcher and girl in its usual, warm blanket. Laelithra understood that he needed time to understand what transpired between the two. There was a pull that he could not explain, and it intrigued him. After all, it was why it was important to him that she lived a normal life. However, Viktor had demolished any chances of that. He understood that she needed time to come to terms with what had happened to her. Geralt could not slay the demons within her. It was something that she would have to conquer on her own.

Laelithra raised his shirt and lifted it over his head, exposing his scarred stomach and chest. Green paste smeared on his shirt. Various wounds dotted his body, cross-crossing the raised and puckered flesh. Blood congealed on the fresh injuries. It gave his lacerations, contusions, and scrapes a reddish-ebony sheen. Because of the severity of his scarred skin, he hated to be seen in any state of undress in public. However, the girl was different. She had seen to his wounds numerous times. He knew the reason she never judged him. Laelithra had taken care of Viktor's wounds too.

Dropping her arm, she felt him unlatch the pack he always carried with him. There was a time when he would have push her hand away. He carried the leaves of various toxic plants. Even to touch one, a human could be rendered unconscious. She was not human, he reminded himself. Viktor had begun his experiments on the girl. Geralt did not know how the herbs would affect her, but there was a reason that there were no female witchers. Laelithra was not a witcher, either. The child did not undergo the rest of the mutations. Luckily, Viktor had died before he could try them. Lifting a small vial filled with clear liquid, she went to work. Geralt wondered how she knew exactly where the alcohol was.

As she poured some of the liquid on the large wound to his stomach, he hissed in pain. The wound thudded greatly, mixing with the rhythm of his heart. He killed many monsters, and he was used to pain. It still did not mean that he did not feel pain. Geralt felt the agony of consuming elixirs, the torture of his flesh being sundered, and the torment of his injuries after a battle.

Taking his discarded clothes, she raised it to the wound and swiped at it. Her touch was gentle, and it mystified him. He wondered at the reason that Laelithra cared for him. Was it a sense of obligation? Geralt saved her from starvation on the road. Perhaps, she thought that she owed him. Deep in his mind, he knew the reason. She wished him to be something that he could not.

He heard her gasp at the severity of the wound. It must have been bad, he thought. Laelithra was accustomed to seeing him in various conditions of healing. As he looked at her, he could see the tears sparkle in her eyes. Geralt knew that she would not cry over him. She was worried about what would happen if he died before he got them help. The situation was dire, and it weighed on her. It could not be anything else, he lied to himself. He was a mutant, nothing more. Why couldn't Laelithra see that, why did she obsess about him, and why did she care? Suspecting he would never know the answer, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

She moved next to him. The pine needles and cones crunched as if they were moldy, rotten bones. He tried to take comfort in the fact that she was moving because Laelithra was so tired. There was something familiar about their relationship, an intimate flow to their movements. It alarmed him how relaxed he could be with the girl. To Geralt, it was not supposed to be natural. Geralt was not supposed to get along with the girl so easily. As he had found out in the past, fate had strange things planned for the witcher. Anxiety settle within his heart, eating away at his conscious thoughts.

Tingling assaulted his abdomen. Despite the lack of a breeze, he shivered against her touch. Geralt had never stopped to realize how badly he was injured. All of his thoughts were consumed with getting to Laelithra, rescuing her, and providing protection for her. As the searing pain dulled, a peacefulness came over the witcher. Much of his sour disposition came from his injuries. With the pain dulled, he could think clearly. Still, the uneasiness of the forest came over him. "Clean and skin the rabbit," he growled. "I don't want to be here come nightfall. Damn it."

…...

The fire burned strongly, casting its golden glow into the lasting darkness. Around them, he could sense animals scurrying back and forth. An unknown beast slithered and hissed its warning to the two trespassers. Geralt felt the hoary hairs on his arms stand on end. Doom hung heavily in the air. By daylight, it circled the edges of their minds and bore thoughts that neither would remember to having. It was amplified in the eternal blackness of night. They were imprison in a tomb, and neither knew the way out.

The child leaned her body against him. As he wrapped his injured arm around her shoulder, he breathed in deeply. It was strange how attached to Laelithra he was. There were times in his life that he developed a bond with others. However, it did not happen as fast as it did with this girl. She gazed into the fire, observing the dancing flames. Laelithra did not speak to him.

Rabbit flesh sizzled, filling the air with its savory scent. Smoke reached out with wispy tendrils, wrapping them in its uncomfortable embrace. With each breath, he pulled more of that savory, pine-scented fumes into his lungs. He coughed, and mucus rose to his mouth. It spread in his dry mouth as if it was slime left behind by a snail. Geralt sat up straight, becoming alert to every noise. Whether he was mortally injured or not, nothing would get past him. A promise and his word kept his senses sharp. Leaning forward, he grasped the long stick impaled through the animal.

Laelithra shifted against him. An airy sigh escaped her body. He disturbed her, and he waited for the eventual verbal onslaught. Girl children and women tended to reveal their disappointments when their father or man did something that they did not like. Geralt, himself, was the target of feminine disdain more than once. Despite his preparations, Laelithra did not attack him with words that could kill. She whined against him before resting against his side again. The more he traveled with her, the more he realized how different she was from others. Those thoughts made for a turbulent mind.

He turned the stick, rotating the rabbit hanging above the fire. The flesh of the beast was blackened, but he understood that it was as cooked as much as needed for their survival. Geralt stood, causing the girl to fall to their pine bedding. Frustration rose in him again. They could be walking and leaving the forest behind him if she would have cared for herself more than him. Why did she care? Only a few truly cared for a witcher; the rest cared if they wished something of him. Yet, Laelithra only required meager things.

"If witchers do not harm people," she said, disturbing him from his thoughts, "why did he hurt me?"

Taking the hare off of the fire, he turned around and gazed down at Laelithra. "He was not a witcher," Geralt told her, harshly. He did not understand the significance of these mutated boys. Why was a vampire transforming young boys? Geralt needed to know what roll Viktor played in this. Rage circled his heart, stabbing deep within him like a thin blade.

"He looked like a witcher. What do you mean?"

Geralt breathed out a long sigh, trying to think of the best way to explain the situation to the small child. She was advanced for her age. Often, he had forgotten that she was as young as she was. He understood that it was because of the herbs that her father had forced her to ingest. However, there were some concepts that she could not comprehend. This was one of them.

She did not move from the position she fell in. It worried Geralt because she would die. All of his caring for her would be a waste. He would not let her die. Geralt would not fail her.

Finally, he looked her squarely in her dark eyes, and she bravely met his gaze. Many months ago, he had learned that she was very courageous. While many of her age would run the other way, she took care of him. Only once had she shied away from his menacing eyes. It was when he first met her, and it was only for a few seconds. It was more evidence of who her father was. A coldness snaked through his body, coiling in the pit of his stomach. Geralt was uncomfortable with the way this was going. "No," he answered. "He may have been changed like a witcher, mutated, but he was no witcher. He didn't fight like a witcher, wasn't trained by witchers. He bent his knee to that abomination. That is something a witcher would never do. The one who held you was a monster, not because of what he was, but because of what he did. His actions made him a monster. The very existence of those monsters is an insult to witchers."

She continued to gaze up at him. It did not pass Geralt's awareness that she did not lift herself up. The girl did not show any signs of strength. Laelithra did not look away from him. He knew she never would. It was a strange relationship. Geralt understood their symbiotic relationship. She relied on him for both her physical protection and her emotional growth. That knowledge unnerved the witcher. "I don't know what you mean," she replied, honestly. "I learned that a monster is a monster. There is no difference."

"You still have a lot to learn," Geralt sighed. Viktor held the same philosophy when he was teaching at Kaer Morhen. It unnerved Geralt, and he felt like he wanted to teach the girl better. Once more, he had to admit the similarities between Viktor and the one who taught her. She would have thoughts a normal girl would have. Even if she was accepted into the human society, she would always be an outcast. The herbs she ingested would see to that. "Everything is not so black and white in the real world. Some would say I am a monster because of what I am and what I do. Do you think I am a monster?"

"No," she responded in a small voice. Laelithra was tired, and it laced her tone. He wondered how much longer before she would give in to what her body wished of her. She was one of the strongest children he had known, but her strength was ebbing.

A corner of Geralt's mouth darted upward in his ugly smile. While most shrunk away from him, the girl beamed. What did it matter to him what she thought of him? He did not know, and it was added to the questions that plagued him where Laelithra was concerned. She had wormed her way into his life.

Laelithra grinned at him, beaming under his approval. She sat up, straining to keep herself upright. Crossing his legs beneath him, he sat back down next to Laelithra with the rabbit in his hands. He looked her in the eyes to convey the seriousness of the lesson he was about to teach her. "The monsters you learned about may be monsters, that much is true," he said, "but not all monsters are evil. Not all humans are innocent and good, either. Some humans are no more than monsters by their actions." Upon seeing confusion in her youthful eyes, he explained further. "Judging which is which is something you will learn in time and experience."

She gazed hungrily at the meat in his hand. He could hear her stomach rumble as if small earthquakes were going off inside her body. A small line of drool appeared on the corner of her mouth, flowed down her face, and dripped off in a thin line on her chin.

Ripping a piece of flesh from the thigh of the cooked beast, Geralt held it up inspecting how cooked the animal was. Black, crispy skin outlined the pink meat. He squeezed the piece of rabbit, and tiny crimson droplets appeared on the flesh. The witcher held it out to her.

Quickly, she grasped it from him. The starvation and hunger reduced her to nothing more than an animal, a creature with its baser instincts in mind. She shoved the entire piece in her mouth and chewed it with her mouth open. He could see the bits of flesh and blood being mashed around with her tongue. It appalled him to see the child eat like that, but he surmised it was because they did not feed her. They just bled her for their own amusement, he reminded himself.

Geralt picked off a piece of the rabbit and put it up to his lips. The savory scent sent his stomach reeling with hunger. How long had it been since he had eaten? He could feel the effects take over his mind as the influences of the witcher medicine wore off some time before.

"How many years did it take you to learn?" she queried, quickly. Much of the words mixed together in her effect to get them out swifter than an elf could draw a bow. He had forgotten how inquisitive she was. It had to be her nature, and he was cursed with her.

"Do you have nothing but questions?" Geralt grumbled gruffly.

"How else am I suppose to learn?"

Geralt shook his head slowly. He couldn't help but be surprised at the resilience shown by the little girl. The witcher supposed that it was the product of the life she had lived to that point. Laelithra had anything but a normal child's life. She didn't play games and get fat from candy like so many children. Instead, she trained hard and was fed a diet of herbs, mushrooms, and grasses. The hardship of her life bred the very resilience within her that was the reason she was alive.

"Answer my questions, pweeease," she asked, sweetly.

"It's a hard lesson to learn," Geralt began, thoughtfully. "Most never do, and they always judge everything at a glance. Of course, most don't have the time to learn such a lesson. I may not look it, but I've lived longer than most humans could ever hope to. I first started to learn it my first season away from Kaer Morhen, and I am still learning it to this day. You are smart. I'm sure you'll learn it one day, too."

Laelithra pursed her lips as she looked at him. Greasy juice flowed down her chin, shining in the waning light. She lifted her arm and swiped it across her face. The fatty liquid was gone form her face. Instead, it lined her arm. Again, he was struck by the notion that she was not a normal little girl. Every single movement and mannerism screamed about her training. How would he find someone to take her in, to get her away from the life that Viktor had wanted her to lead?

He stilled, stopping his train of thought. Was that why he felt responsible for her? Viktor was a member of the Wolf School. If what she said was true, she was the other witcher's destiny. Did he think he was burdened with the child because Viktor was a member of his clan? It had to be, he thought. There could be no other reason why he instantly bonded with her.

"You aren't a monster!" she snarled, ripping the thoughts from him. Her tiny teeth clashed together in rage. She gazed up at him like someone worshiping a hero. He knew her feelings before her outburst. It was all too prevalent in their travels before she was abducted. The emotion was dangerous for her to have. Geralt was far from a good person. "You can't be. They..They're dummies! They deserve to be eaten."

"No," Geralt countered instantly. He knew she did not mean the things that she said. She was merely defending the witcher from the cruelty of the world. In a way, it flattered his battle-weary soul. Geralt could not break out of the teacher's role with her. "They are ignorant. Ignorance is not the fault of the ignorant, nor do they deserve to be eaten for it. Yes, they are wrong about me being a monster, but I am not one of them."

She gazed at him, stricken, as if he had raised his hand and slapped her. A gasp sounded from her, blasting around their make-to campsite.

"I don't wish to be accepted by them, nor do I wish to join their ranks. It is my duty to protect them from the true evils of the world: the monsters that kill the innocent. My price is coin, not acceptance. Once I finish a job, they have no use for me, nor I for them. That is the way it is, and I am happy with that," he continued. Geralt thought back to his first summer away from Kaer Morhen, when he was so hungry to be accepted, to be showered with gratitude for his acts of bravery and honor. Those expectations were dashed quickly, and he learned just as quickly that acceptance was something that a witcher would never earn. His kind were not knights.

Laelithra leaned against him again, taking comfort in the man that was as important as her father to her. When did he arrive at that position, he wondered. Because she needed him so much, it scared him. Geralt was used to rescuing others. It was what he did. After his job, he could leave. Yet, he could not shake the child. She came back to him.

They both ate the rabbit silently. The only sound came from the smacking of their lips and the rumble of their stomachs. Both needed the beast to survive. Geralt was worried about Laelithra. Her condition weighed on his mind. He wondered if she would ever be her joyful self again.

Reaching over to him, she handed Geralt the bones. Bits of the flesh hung off of it. Even though she tried, it was flesh that she could not eat. "It was good," she complimented him, smiling.

Geralt took one of the leg bones that she handed him and gazed at it. He picked off the bits of gnawed flesh with his fingers. It was important that she ate every single piece of meat. The flesh would help her fight off the fever that would soon follow.

She grasped his outstretched food and placed it to her lips. The meat was precious to them. Because of their situation, it could have been a beast carved at a king's table.

With seemingly no effort, he snapped the bone in half. The crack reverberated around the forest, alerting all to their position. He did not care. Geralt was sure that he could best any animal that they came across. Even though he was injured, he was still a witcher. His body healed faster than a normal human's. Besides, Laelithra's survival meant more to him. "You aren't quite done with this," he said.

Laelithra continued to chew, savoring the last bit of meat that he handed to her. Swallowing, she gazed over at him confused.

"Suck the marrow out," Geralt commanded. "You need the nutrients, especially in your state."

Her dark eyes rounded with a look of horror. He had asked her to do things, but Geralt had never really demanded it of her. The witcher did not have to. Geralt had his rules for her safety, and she followed. Yet, he felt that she was going to disobey him in this situation. She turned her nose up and shook her head. "I'm full," she insisted.

"That doesn't matter," Geralt continued, extending the shattered bone to her. "You need this, and I'm sure you've eaten things a lot worse than this. You're going to eat it." His voice never raised once, always keeping a metallic monotony.

Shaking her head again, she shifted away from him. There were two ways that he could approach her refusal to eat. He could be charming when he wanted to be, if he had time to be. The simple fact was that the child was living on borrowed time. Each minute she refused to do what he asked was a step closer to death for her. It was something that Geralt sought to avoid. He did not tromp through a vampire-infested cave to lose her from her bullheadedness.

Geralt moved closer to her. She was going to suck out the marrow on both of the bones. He could break it and scoop out the marrow, but it wasted, precious energy. The energy he did have had to be save if anything happened to them. They were still close to the Arcani lair, and he needed to be observant of everything. He leaned over and draped his good arm around her shoulder.

With his other hand, he pushed the bone to her again. He was determined to get her to eat the marrow. She needed it, and he was not going to take her explanations as an answer. Laelithra was going to eat it one way or another.

"I'm full, Geralt," she countered. She pushed against his hand again. Her thin lips set in a grimace. Never taking her gaze off of the piece of broken animal bone, she leered at both him and the object of her disdain. Geralt knew she was not as satisfied as she let on. Laelithra was being a child. While it refreshed him to think that she could be placed with a normal family, she needed to eat. "Besides, you need the nut-nutrients more. You are hurt badder than I am."

"I am a witcher," Geralt said, calmly. "You are a human child. Your wounds are far worse because you are weaker." He patted the pouch attached to one of his baldric straps. As he gazed in her eyes, he tried to convey the seriousness of their exchange. She had to realize that his healing metabolism was different than humans. Surely, she would know if Viktor was who he said he was. For the first time in a while, he felt a sliver of hope spring inside of him. "Besides, he didn't get to all of my herbs. I can make a salve that would poison you but help heal me. This is the only thing that can help you, now eat it."

Geralt thrust the bone toward Laelithra again, not letting her gain an inch in her wiggling. It was clear that there would be no chance for escape from the iron grip of the witcher holding her in place.

Resignedly, Laelithra turned towards the bone, still grimacing at the thought of what she was about to eat. "Fine," she said as she raised her hand and pinched her nose. Laelithra was ready to acquiesce to Geralt's demand.

Once more, he pushed the bone towards her. His grip tightened around her body, holding her in place. There would be no denying him. Nothing she could say would change his mind. She needed it, and she was going to eat it. "Suck the marrow out," he demanded of her, calmly. Geralt nudged her towards his other hand.

Laelithra leaned forward, pinched her nose tighter, and put her lips along the bone. Her eyes narrowed in disgust as if the object of her disdain was the most nauseating thing in the world. He found her refusal wearing on himself. It was an unusual feeling for him.

"Eat it."

Taking a breath, she held it. She lifted her other arm and covered her eyes. After a moment of stalling, she sucked in a great puff of air. The marrow slid along the length of the bone and popped inside of her mouth. Laelithra coughed violently, ripping her mouth off of it.

Geralt ignored her coughing. He was not being inconsiderate of her condition. In fact, he knew the worst was not passed. Laelithra could die before he could do anything about it. It was why it was so important for him to get her to eat. Flicking his wrist, he tossed the hollow leg bone to the side.

"I don't want to eat anything like that again," she hissed, weakly. Of course, Laelithra was stubborn. If she liked the marrow, she would never admit it to him.

Reaching down in his lap, he picked up the other part of the leg. It had less flesh hanging off of it than the other. He turned the bone to her and gazed at her. "Now," he said, "this one."

Laelithra turned her head away quickly, resolutely refusing to eat the proffered food. "No," she protested. "Isn't one enough?" Her voice came out in a weak whine, reminding Geralt that she was still a little girl despite everything. Still, she was in grave danger, and he wasn't going to go through the same song and dance that he had with the first half of the leg bone.

"You didn't eat one," Geralt stated blatantly. "You had half of one. Now eat." He pressed the bone against her pursed lips, and Laelithra finally gave in, opening her mouth. With a grimace, she slurped the marrow into her mouth and tried to swallow it quickly as she gagged. She threw the bone with disgust and looked up at Geralt.

"No more?" she pleaded. Geralt nodded.

"No more," he said, reassuring the child. "That's enough for now. Try to get some rest."