Chapter 2

Rowan slept very little that night. A full moon lit the early spring night like curtained sunlight, and her guest remained in the shadow of danger for many hours. The druid established a routine out of keeping him awake. Geralt's musings were brief and usually nonsense, but now and then he had lucid moments. He often asked after Roach. Complained about various smells. Asked for water. Several times, he would stir from a moment close to sleep or dream in mid-sentence. He forgot Rowan's name only once, however. The druid was grateful for this. At least she'd made some kind of positive impression. She no longer felt as though Geralt were a potential threat to her safety.

When he asked for water, she would set whatever it was she was doing to occupy her hands and her mind down, and bring him a shallow bowl of cool water to sip. Tilting his head carefully with one hand, she would help him drink slowly. His white stubble-covered adam's apple would bob greedily, but exhaustion would always force him to stop before he could get his fill. Rowan would wait patiently with the bowl until he was ready to drink again. Each time, he seemed to take note of this and nod his thanks through that thick feverish haze. His will was very strong.

When morning finally broke, so did the fever. Relieved she could finally rest, Rowan folded up the extra towels, changed the poultices once more, and lay an ordinary blanket over her guest.

"I do believe the danger has passed. You should be safe to rest now," the druid reported as she removed the rag from Geralt's brow. He was asleep within moments.

Rowan collapsed onto her own bed, exhausted. She didn't even bother to climb under her blankets and furs. The fire and the deep snore of a Witcher sent her off into a deep and much-needed sleep.

When Rowan woke, it was late afternoon. She couldn't recall the last time she had slept so well. She rose and looked to assess her guest's condition. Rowan stopped.

Geralt was gone.

Frowning, she inspected the little cabin. On the floor before the hearth lay a neatly folded blanket, the furs stacked on top, but no Witcher. Regaining herself, the druid wiped the sleep from her eyes and stumbled over to the door of the cabin to look outside. The mare was gone too. Rowan sighed.

It was for the best, she supposed. After all, what was she really expecting? A purse full of gold? Any sort of reward? It was enough to know that lovely mare was taken care of. And it was some relief knowing she could return to her own life and routines. She wondered if it was worth trying to get even more sleep, but soon thought better of it. Rowan's stomach rumbled and she had plenty of chores to catch up on, having lost most of the day already. She set to work making a proper meal out of the fat grouse she'd shot the day before last.

It began with the sound of several pairs of boots tromping through dried leaves and the sour smell of warm ale and sweat. Rowan jerked awake as these things permeated her sleep. The moon shone high in the night sky and the cabin still smelled of the stew she'd made that evening. Panic struck the druid hard as her heartbeat overtook thought, deafening her ears and robbing her of sense. Scrambling out of bed, she dove for her bow, shaking and struggling to string the weapon in the dark.

"Here kitty, kittyyyy!" an ugly voice sifted in through the moss and latticed roots of the hovel. "We know that mutant dog-fucker was here. We'd just like to know where he went with our money, and we'll be on our way!"

Rowan was nearly breathless with panic. Her quiver still rested on the hearth mantle. She fumbled with the bow, nearly knocking over the pitcher of water that still sat on the floor, giving herself away. She didn't dare try to light a candle. The stench of beer-fuelled anger floated into her home. She swallowed hard, clenching her teeth.

The men; three, maybe four, were nearly stumbling over the entrance to the cabin by the time Rowan had notched an arrow. She could see the light of two torches waving as they moved. The druid trembled as she drew the weapon and aimed for the door. She jumped as an aggressive knock shook the hovel.

"We know you're in there, little one. Penny for your thoughts!" one of them taunted. The others laughed. Rowan set her jaw.

It only took two kicks for the door to swing ajar. Rowan didn't think. She loosed her bow at the first opening she saw. There was a girlish yelp from one of the men behind as her arrow lurched through the first's neck with a muted gurgle and gush of blood. Her victim fell forward down the two steps into her home with a great thud, his torch rolling away across the cork in a grim silence that followed. Rowan instantly worked to notch a second arrow with shaking hands.

"You'll pay for that you piss-blooded bitch!" one of the others shouted as the remaining three men stormed into the little hovel. Drunk, stinking, and angry, they grabbed her arms before she could fully draw her weapon a second time. Rowan yelped as two of them rammed her into the clay bricks of the hearth behind her. The breath was suddenly ripped from her lungs. She looked up, gasping futilely for air as one of the brutish men sniffed her neck.

"She may be half-elf, but she smells just like any cunt that needs a wedge driven into its pride!" he snarled. The other two laughed again. "What say you, lads? Fancy a quick dip of the wick in this little prize?"

Rowan snarled between her teeth and tried to knee her assailant as hard as she could with her remaining strength. He stumbled slightly, but the attack was less effective than she'd have liked. Before she could react, another one of the men had his hand around her neck, and pressed a knife to her cheek just beneath her eye.

"I like 'em with a bit of fight," he hissed through rotting teeth.

"Then maybe you should try me," a deep voice growled from the door. All three men spun to see who had spoken, their grins dropping instantly.

Geralt stood tall in his armour, a longsword in his right hand, and a look of tedium spread across his face.

Half a moment of incredulity passed through the drunken party before clumsy rage seized them. They turned on the Witcher with crude drive, releasing Rowan from the grip on her throat. She plunged to the floor and gasped for air, fumbling for her bow as she fought to catch her breath.

Geralt made quick work of the three men. His movements were brutal but sure, and deadly. The first, he ran through just below the sternum and followed up by planting the man's own dagger into the throat of the second, turning the blade so it exited the neck at a greater angle. The third (the one who'd been strangling Rowan), Geralt strode up to with a somber glare. The Witcher towered over him like death, and death he was.

"I ain't afraid of y—" the man was cut off as a sapling arrow slipped silently through his jaw. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped onto the floor.

Geralt turned just in time to see Rowan drop her bow and draw another ragged gasp for breath into her chest.

The Witcher sheathed his sword and hastily dropped to the druid's side. Without a word, he slipped one arm under her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her in one smooth motion. Placing her gently on the bed, he slipped away as Rowan continued to struggle for breath. A moment later, he appeared by her side again with the pitcher of water and the bowl. Holding her up, he carefully touched the bowl to her mouth. Rowan drank gratefully, coughing and gasping when she had to.

When she could prop herself up on one elbow, the druid nodded her thanks and Geralt withdrew. He spent a few moments casually inspecting the ale-infused corpses that now littered the floor of the tiny cabin while his saviour regained herself.

When she was ready, Rowan coughed a little, and spoke roughly.

"I thought you had left." she tried.

"I did," Geralt replied simply.

"But you came back," Rowan pressed. "Why?"

Geralt turned and looked at her briefly, then swiftly left the cabin. A moment or two later, he returned, a great buck deer slung over his shoulder. He lobbed the dead creature into his arms and let it fall onto the floor before the hearth. Rowan blinked.

"Thank you," Geralt grunted.