Not here... she chanted internally, Not here...
Enough hours had passed as she trudged slowly through the woods, to the point her cloak and clothing were no longer wet from swimming, but now sodden with blood. Sharp bramble tugged at her incessantly through the thicket and scratched at her face and arms. Branches snagged her hair, twigs snapped noisily beneath her boots but progress was being made and it if the further she became, to more likely it was to change safely and undetected.
Walking every which way as long as it took her away from the cemetery, while continuously stalling the change, a tremor had dislocated both her shoulders, rendering her arms lifeless at her sides. Thus, the branches and the bramble clawed at her perpetually, unable to pry herself free from their spindly grasps. A trail of blood and a worn, arbitrary path followed her aimless traipse. Swimming across the lake had only throw off her scent momentarily, but enough time had past. A few times, she stopped and listened, listening to only silence. No one was coming.
The blood, black in the nightfall, painted her mouth, chin and ran down the length of her chest. Though it had slowed substantially, it was far from over and stained her chemise in dark saturated swaths. She licked her teeth clean and spat.
As she entered a suitable clearing, watching her step, she hadn't noticed the golden swell of light supplied by a wealthy fire, nor the group of men that surrounded. Their voices were muffled, but cheery from sloshing tankards and empty bottles of peppered vodka strewn about. A skewered boar roasted over the fire, the split skin blistering above the licking flames.
She stumbled out of the tree line and stopped.
Not here.
She turned around.
"Oi!" one of the men shouted, spotting her immediately. "Is that the witcher?"
I just need to get back into the treeline. Her legs trembled beneath her with barely the strength to take another step.
"Nay, ye twit. The witcher's a man." another replied. "That's just some drunken lass."
"'Ello, missy!" the first shouted in sing-song.
The treeline...
Laz grimaced as another tremor popped her bones. Unable to stand any longer, she sank weakly to the ground where tiny pebbles bit into her knees. Two shadows stretched across the earth as the men rose and approached her.
Not here.
"'Scuse me!" the first one sang again, heavily inebriated.
"Oooooh, she is well into her cups, Ike. Look how she can barely stand."
"Aye, she's all cut up, too." One noticed, closer now.
"A bit bloody, yeah?"
"Terribly. Prolly ran into a pack of boars."
"C'mere, lass." One of the men came to her side and hauled her up. "Let us take you to the fire and have a look at ya."
Her protest was a wet cough that bubbled around her mouth. With her head hung low, she was half-dragged, half-walked to the camp.
The crew was a medley bunch of tattoos, a variety of armor, and shields with the heraldic design crudely scratched out. Some were bald with fires light shining against their scalp. Others had dirty mops of red or brown hair, hideous scars across their faces, and teeth sneering and yellow.
Bandits and deserters.
Another jarring tremor tore through her.
Not here.
Once they reached the perimeter of the fire, the rest of the men noticed her.
"What do we 'ave here?"
"A lush!" cackled the man walking alongside her. "Got herself caught up in the wild."
"That's no lush, you idiot. She has consumption! Stop touching her!"
They immediately dropped her. The hard earth flew up and punched her in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Her cloak billowed and fluttered, coming to rest where she lay momentarily stunned.
Too weak to pick herself back up with the agony so deeply rooted in her appendages and with her shoulders inoperable, she lay there like an invalid, allowing the blood to spill from her lips into a black puddle. As it grew, she watched her fire dance upon the inky reflection.
"Looks like she's had it a bit rough."
"Death's prolly kissin' her now…" another said softly.
A refraction of the fire raced across an unsheathed dagger. The holder stood and flipped the blade into his palm, offering the hilt to one of the men behind her.
"Aye, put the bitch outta her misery, will ya? She's souring the mood."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Another exclaimed.
Someone grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her face out of the dirt.
Laz grimaced.
"I can clean her up, quite comely looking once the blood washes away. We could all have a turn?"
"She has consumption, you dolt."
"Should be good, long as he doesn't kiss her on the mouf."
"Aye, she does have the same hair color as that bastard witcher."
Someone unseen spat in anger. "Fuck the witcher."
"Yeah, fuck that mutant freak, and fuck 'er! Lets string up her, make her look nice and pretty for the duchess, eh?"
"No," Laz grimaced then howled when he gripped her shoulders, forcing her to her feet. They steered her towards a tent.
Now! Do it now!
Laz let go, releasing a throaty moan.
The stifling she had held up to that point dropped, but the pain did not crash into her as suspected. In fact, nothing happened. It was stunted, resonating back and forth through, sharp and anxious, with nowhere to go.
They shoved her again, but her legs hadn't the speed to catch up nor remain upright. She fell, landing on her knees with a jarring impact and slouching like a drunk. Her chin dropped into her chest, a viscous thread of bloody drool stretched from her lips, more blood poured from her nose. The pain screamed and resonated.
Screaming…
Screaming….!
But Laz didn't make a sound. The strength and ardor she sustained to keep from changing exhausted her to the point she was stuck.
She'd stalled it too long.
I'm bleeding internally. My bones are breaking. My heartbeat is slowing.
If I cannot change, I will die.
If she could feel anything more than agony, it would have been cold, dark fear. But alas, she could not decipher emotions beyond her breaking bones and taut skin.
Someone reached down and tossed the length of her cloak aside then yanked her trousers down, roughly exposing her backside, then pushed her again. Laz lurched forward, falling onto her stomach. She twisted her hips, but the man was quick to wrench her back into position.
She cried out a wet shriek.
A buckled jingled, her legs were roughly shoved apart.
There was hollow thunk, a long whizzing report which abruptly concluded with a short thud.
The jingling stopped. The man behind her fell over like a heap of grain.
Everyone in the campsite went unnaturally silent and still.
"To weapons!" a man bawled.
The campsite suddenly exploded in activity.
Dazed, she slid her gaze over, still fighting to bring her knees back together, meeting no resistance, she rolled onto her back and ineptly tugged at her pants. If she had to, she would run without them.
Still struggling to pull her pants up, a sharp pain struck her gut. She quickly pulled herself to her knees and heaved. Blood and dark pulp splashed onto the ground in a grisly red puddle.
A man with an unbuckled belt lay across the ground behind her, dead, with an arrow protruding from one of his eye sockets. A second man screamed and fell into the dirt several paces a way, more arrows stuck out from his back.
The bandits, spurred into action all at once, brandished swords, axes, and crossbows. The archers retreating across the campfire, racing from the tree line where the offensive arrows launched out of. Others raised their shields, edging closer towards the onslaught.
Amidst her own battle of concerns, Laz puked again What happened around her concern.
The world, in its colorful array and horrific sounds, dulled and muffled.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die.
Not here.
No, not here.
"Oh, bloody hell!" someone spat.
One of the archers planted a foot against his crossbow, notching an arrow, then stretching back the bow while several of the men ran towards the treeline. He blindly aimed and fired into the darkness. A man standing on the perimeter suddenly choked, twirled around like a dancer thrown in a single spin, then slumped onto the dirt. A deep red smile carved across his throat, a spew of blood rained.
A shadow traced the edges of the campsite, moving as swiftly as a wraith. Not even Laz could train her eyes on it. Beyond the chaos elicited from the shouting bandits, the stretching crossbows, hissing arrows and clashing steel, the assailant was unnaturally silent. A swordsman brave enough to abandon the light of the fire, disappeared into the darkness only to turn back screaming, it was cut short the moment an entire sword's length burst from his chest. The blade retracted, and a force shoved the wounded swordsman away with a tall boot, revealing the stalking shadow, the swordbearer; Geralt of Rivia.
The crescent moon flashed across the sword, an arrow bounced off the steel, careening through the air like a flung twig. A shield-bearer charged, swinging an ax down with a shout. More arrows sliced through the air, all furiously aimed at the white-haired man. The witcher, moving lithely and without hesitation, parried, throwing the man from his footing. The arrows fell tandemly in a row, lodging into the dirt inches from the witcher's heel. Stumbling, the shield gave away from its bearer and suddenly, the bandit lost an arm, and then a head. Before any of the appendages fell to the ground, Geralt was already on the other side of the camp, closing in.
The closer the witcher came to the fire, the more bodies fell, the more brutal each fatal blow became. The louder the screams rose.
The third wave of pain clawed up her spine razor sharp, sinking deep like an axe. Laz curled up, retching violently, while a bloodied man collapsed beside her, wailing and reaching for…. his legs were gone, only two bloody stumps remained. The blood from her retching, blood spurting from the cleaved limbs, slashed throats, and missing heads painted the campsite. The moon danced upon its blacken, glistening surfice. Embers rose from the fire, dancing with the stars. Cries were cut short. The archers were dispatched, unable to free their short swords in time before the witcher's blade fell upon them. Men choking on their own blood, gurgling and crying out eventually ran out of breath and then life.
Laz was…
Laz was dying, as well…
Horror resounded within and all around her. Never before had she fought a change. Like a harmonious rhythm, it was allowed to come and go uninterrupted, now it was utterly shattered.
How could she be so stupid? So reckless?
She fell onto her back, staring at the beautiful Toussaint night sky and its spray of stars, much like how she found Keira sprawled along Fyke Isle.
The visions were wrong; Geralt of Rivia had nothing to do with her demise. She would cut herself down. Perhaps this was a curse. If this was truly the work of Keira Metz, why would she allow such agony to befall her? Was this part of who she was? Laz would never know.
She did this to you…. Made you who you are.
Regis...
Your mother... a witch…
Regis...
Laz closed her eyes as the sky blurred with unshed tears, when she opened them, Geralt's scowling countenance awaited her. His menacing sword held down at his side glowed hot like forging iron. The fire's light glittered in his reptilian eyes, embodying their own hellish flame with scribed runes running the length of the sword. Everything about him was infernal. He leaned over.
"Are you going to make it?"
Laz swallowed and nodded faintly, shutting her eyes again. There was no way to tell definitively whether she would survive or perish like the many lackeys about the campsite.
The sword slid back into its scabbard.
Geralt knelt beside her and, after carefully pulling her trousers up and restoring her dignity, slipped his arms beneath her and scooped her up. Lifted from her own mess, if she had the strength and breath to protest, she would have hissed that he leave her be; to be in the arms of a witcher was to be in the arms of the enemy.
He stepped over the dismembered bandits strewn about and crossed towards the treeline. Well past it, and into the dark thicket, a chestnut mare awaited them.
Held in his arms and unable to stare at the face of her mother's killer, she watched the two pommels jut over a broad shoulder strapped in rough leather and sturdy belts. Laz imagined him at Fyke Isle for a moment. Which of the pommels did he hold when he struck Keira down? Or did he entertain his activity by a small hunting knife, prolonging the inevitable one small but devastating cut at a time?
Fate.
What a cruel and comical mistress. Laz felt like laughing and crying for if it hadn't been this witcher, this Geralt of Rivia, with hair white as the moon and venomous yellow eyes that had followed her for hours, remaining undetected, the bandits would have successfully compromised her.
This so called Gift nearly cost her her life.
This curs—
Shutting her eyes tightly, she didn't allow the thought to manifest into existence.
But why, why would he do such a thing when she attacked him? When she blindsided Regis' so shamelessly? Yes, it was clear the first day crossing paths with the witcher and his vampire friend. A recovering addict was mentioned. She knew she was about to end his abstinence, which gave Geralt every reason to run her off and hope she never returned. Instead, he went out and retrieved her.
He stuck a tall boot in the left stirrup, prepared his footing and lifted, sweeping his leg fluidly and alighting upon the saddle.
Successfully mounted, Geralt clicked his mare into a slow walk. Sitting in the dip of his lap, her legs draped across his firm thighs, while her feet bounced off the side in tandem with the horse's trot.
As an endless conveyor of tree tops drifted past, Laz asked. "Where are we going?"
"Not back to the cemetery," Geralt muttered stiffly.
He adjusted the reins with one hand and his hold across her upper back with the other.
"To Corvo Bianco."
Laz wasn't sure where that could be but it sounded familiar. Looking down, her thin chemise stuck to her figure began to dry, stiffening from so much blood. If he was off put by the gore she was slathered in, he made no indication, neither turning his head away to breathe air not fouled with the metallic tang, nor being wary on where to place his hands upon her twisted, clammy limbs and blood-soaked clothing.
"And Regis…?"
Geralt wouldn't say.
Several minutes passed, and the witcher interrupted it abruptly.
"What you did was not only stupid but very dangerous." he grumbled, "It's his choice not to consume blood. Do not take that away from him."
A vampire who refuses to drink blood. Not entirely what she expected, of course, but it did not interrupt her plans the least.
"I'm not taking anything from him," she lied. "And you're wrong about him being dangerous; Regis is good."
"He is good, even if you barely know him," he paused, scowling pensively. "And if not him, there's another... Just listen to me. Regis might be good, but his friends are not."
Did he mean another vampire?
Laz didn't want to press the issue, worried that her curiosity would elicit suspicion, even if she was eager to know more. She returned to her present dilemma; the witcher. Here, in Gerat's lap, of all places to be… How did her night end so comically backward? The days preceding were of lengthy planning and devising for the moment to either run off the witcher or tear him apart with her teeth. Instead, she was the one to have fled, and she was the one tearing herself apart.
And to be saved by the very being she adamantly despised only conjured a far greater conflict within.
If not for him.. her thoughts broke off.
Despite her efforts and feelings towards the witcher, disdain did not chew at her insides; she was grateful, albeit, never would she admit that.
Taking her silence for insolence, the wither continued.
"As I'm sure you know by orders of Duchess Anna Henrietta, I am to hunt down the thing butchering knights. Regis is helping me, and I can't have him distracted, especially by issues from the past."
"Why is that?"
"It's too dangerous. You could get hurt."
I'm already hurt, her eyes were still closed, ignoring how, despite the hard leather and cold mail, there was warming tingle that accompanied their contact. If this was his way to get her to trust him, to lower her guard so he could seep into her skin and poison her from the inside out, Laz would not allow it. She heard enough about witchers to know they were more than just snake eyes and two swords.
"Hey," he nudged her. "Try to stay awake."
"Why," she croaked, cracking her eyes open.
"You've lost a lot of blood and you're tired, I know but you can't sleep."
The mare chewed her bit, chuffing and plodding through the bracken and underbrush.
Begrudgingly, Laz obeyed and kept her eyes open towards the thin, smiling moon descending between the trees. Dawn was approaching.
"Did the bandits do this to you?" Geralt inquired, trying to keep her awake.
"I did this to myself."
She met the serpent's gaze, who stared at her for a moment, then looked ahead as the mare continued on. The indifference within his expression was clear as the night sky and just as endless. Being utterly and humiliatingly at the witcher's will and mercy, unable to wrench herself from his arms and flee, she was a hapless insect caught in a spider's web. Or perhaps she was a field mouse, caught by a python while it slowly constricted around her?
"That's one way of taking responsibility," he said, misinterpreting her response.
He adjusted the arm braced against her back more comfortably, but doing so brought her closer. A warmer tingle surged through her, vibrating her body pleasantly. As sleep pulled her down and away from the churring crickets and tree frogs, from the yellow eyes and the green motes that were drifting fireflies, Geralt said.
"What was her name?"
The shock of the question jarred her awake. Her mouth, which had been slick with blood for the better part of the night, suddenly went dry and her heart crawled weakly into her throat. The last place to discuss a vendetta was in the very arms of the one who caused it. The clear Toussaint night sky began to lighten near the horizon with columns of pinks and ruddy oranges stretching with the early blushes of dawn.
She ignored him.
"This person you claim I killed," he continued, undeterred. "Your mother, you said. Does she have a name?"
The was a number of reasons she wanted to remain quiet; firstly, her weakened state. Secondly, she hadn't the energy to be reminded and thus angry, not now.
With her head lulling back against her shoulders, she eyed the witcher beneath thick lashes and used the last of her strength to ask,
"Have you ever visited Midcopse?"
She feared his answer as soon as she uttered it.
"Many times."
"For monsters?"
"A few..."
A moment passed. It was getting harder to breathe. She was uncomfortable suddenly, and no longer could she feel the tingle, but she pressed on.
"What about witches?" her whisper trembled.
He looked down at her, withholding his answers, suffocating her with silence.
Please, say no. Please, please. Let me be wrong.
"Yes, one."
Laz closed her eyes, freeing a hot tear that disappeared in the pale hair around her temple. She tried to form the next question, but her chin trembled terribly and her throat threatened to close like a fist. Each breath was a struggle.
The witcher watched her while dawn lightened the sky behind them.
"Where is she now?" a cold chill slid down her spine. She felt like she might throw up again.
Geralt set his jaw, then sighed. "We came to a disagreement a while back. I tried reasoning with her but, she was stubborn and wouldn't listen. Are you feeling alright?"
Laz meant to say What happened to her? but her lips wouldn't work and her voice caught in her throat.
"Hey?" the witcher sounded far away.
A black oblivion closed rapidly upon her bringing with it a frigid touch. It poured into her limbs, weighing them down, numbing them. Paralyzed, she shut her eyes. She didn't want to fight to keep them open anymore. She was so tired and oh, gods, she missed Keira so much.
"Hey! Open your eyes! Wake up!"
Laz tried.
Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, revealing beneath the eerie white shot with blood vessels. She started to shiver, then she began to thrash violently in his arms. Pink froth foamed over her lips and spilled over as the tremor severely worsened. Her head bucked, her arms flailed. Both hands were curled into claws. He could barely hold onto her, abandoning the reins to hold down her legs.
The blood loss.
The clammy skin.
It was a hypovolemic shock.
Snatching the reins back and fighting to keep both of them in the saddle, Geralt spurred the chestnut mare into a thunderous gallop. They broke free from the tree line, revealing the undulating slopes of vineyards and Corvo Bianco amid early dawn.