Chapter 7

Rowan trembled with the sudden shift from flames to frost. The inn blazed with intensity and the druid could still hear the sounds of wood beams and floorboards creaking and shattering as the integrity of the whole building began to give way to the fires inside. Gasping, Rowan untangled herself from the Witcher who held her away from the heat. Geralt, meanwhile, was panting in short grunts, still in remiss from whatever poison he'd taken. His injuries were now catching up with him, and he worked to breathe through the pain. His arms were red and blistered up to the elbow and the side of his head above the ear oozed with a substantial abrasion.

Rowan started as a belch of fire exploded from the east side of the inn. She fell back down into the grass, rolling a little as she did. Cursing, the druid jumped into action. Grabbing the hilt of the great weapon with both hands, she shoved Geralt's silver sword back into its sheath on his back and wormed her way under his left arm. Standing as tall as she could manage, the druid dragged them both slowly toward the treeline as the flames continued to roar just behind. Geralt breathy grunts made Rowan flinch with each step as they made their way to the trees. But soon the Witcher was able to keep pace and took back most of his own weight.

It wasn't long before their own heavy breathing and the leaves crunching beneath their feet made up the only sounds of the night. Retreating as quickly as possible into the forest, Witcher and druid hobbled together away from the devilish light behind with determination. Rowan couldn't be sure how long they rushed like this, their breath disappearing in pale puffs against the black of the night. The cold clung to their damp skin, both chilling and easing the pair.

It wasn't until the light of the fire had disappeared, reduced to a bright speck in the distance, that Geralt paused, leaning more heavily against Rowan, and dropped to the ground to take stock. Rowan collapsed as well, relieved and still shaking.

"Are you alright?" Geralt managed after a moment. Rowan turned to him, almost incredulous.

"I'm fine," she huffed. "You're the one who isn't."

"I'll be fine," he grunted, reaching for the pouch on his belt. He groped around for another vile of black liquid. Dropping it once, he grabbed at it again and worked to uncork the thing. His white hair had escaped the leather binding at the back of his head. Blood shone brightly in the full moon's light against the pale shade. Rowan plucked the vile from his clumsy hands. Resting on her knees, she uncorked it carefully and held it close to Geralt's lips. He nodded and tipped the liquid into his mouth. Rowan didn't let go, however, ensuring the whole dose ended up where it should.

The Witcher gasped as she withdrew with the empty vile and the potion began to do its work. Moving to all fours, Geralt growled out a number of colourful curses before he collapsed onto one hip and caught his breath. Already, the blistering on his arms was receding, the colour returning to a healthier one. Rowan's heart instantly quieted. The cold began to set in once more.

"I'll make a fire," she offered, rising to find some dry wood and starters. Geralt didn't protest.

It was over an hour before Rowan had a proper fire crackling. She dug out a rounded pit, set large stones into the soil along the edges and worked at the bits and pieces of dry kindling until a small tendril of smoke drifted across her brow. She fed the seed of heat a delicate lattice of dead moss until a tiny tongue of flame flickered out, hungry for the small twigs and dried leaves she cradled at the ready. She blew gently on the flame until it grew to a healthy handful before placing it gently in the cross work of sticks and timber she had collected in the pit. Working away at a practical task was all Rowan could do to keep a dam of grief and anger from bursting violently behind her eyes.

Geralt was silent. More so than normal. He watched the druid work. He admired her skills, but it would never show on his face. When Rowan was happy with the fire's strength, she rose and sat on the other side, warming her hands and feet. She didn't look at the Witcher or bother to speak for a long time. She stared into the yellow flames and let her mind wander, process the events of the evening, even ponder the irony of it-how fire could be so life-giving, so comforting, yet so violent; life-taking. She thought about her home. Her mother. Beth. The foreign comfort she'd found at the inn. The way Beth had stopped her from...well, the way Beth didn't mind her ears. And told her so.

Long minutes passed. Perhaps an hour or more. At some point, Geralt drank another potion. He poured some of the liquid over a small bit of cloth and dabbed at the scrape on his head, tossing the bit of fabric aside afterward. Rowan was finally warm again.

"Did you know?" the druid spoke low at last. The night was quiet and very still. Geralt didn't look away from the fire. He closed his eyes and nodded after a moment. Rowan fought back the sting of fresh tears and let her head sink.

"Was it the same one that destroyed the Elderwood?" she asked, tempering her voice. This time Geralt looked at her. He waited for the druid to meet his eyes.

"Yes," he murmured.

A heavy tear spilled down Rowan's cheek, but she didn't break from his gaze. Her expression was vacant, but far away.

"I'm sorry," the Witcher offered her in the heavy silence. "I was tracking it before I found the Mòrag. I should've known it would follow me-my scent, after I was injured."

Rowan nodded after a moment. She slowly drew her knees to her chin and buried her face in the crook of her arms. Some small part of her had guessed at this for some time, but it was both a gift and a bitter misery to have her suspicions confirmed.

The druid grasped her own elbows, clutching at the hardy fabric of the nightcoat, and sobbed into her knees for a few long moments. She didn't care anymore.

The trees stirred overhead with a gentle wind. The fire crackled and flickered softly. The night loomed overhead, deeply dark, tranquil, and calmly indifferent. Rowan wiped her nose and unfurled herself to tend to the fire. Half blind with her tears, the druid added some more logs and shifted the timber about in an attempt to quell herself. It wasn't until her eyes adjusted once more that she realized Geralt was no longer sitting across the fire pit. He stood beside her, watching with a furrowed brow as she worked.

Slowly, he knelt at her side, sank down on his heels, and gathered Rowan into his arms.

For the second time that evening, Rowan melted into the Witcher's embrace. Once again, his stubbled chin and throat grazed her skin, his white hair brushed across her face, and his arms enveloped her as if she would fall through the earth if he let go. His wolf pendant, cold against her cheek, suffered a few more quiet tears before the embrace ended.

"Forgive me, Rowan." Geralt murmured. He brushed some of the druid's smoke-drowned hair from her face letting his fingers pass over her scarred ear. At this, Rowan finally let herself look up and meet his eyes. Once again, she saw fear in his face. Imagine that. Geralt stroked the scar with his thumb for a moment.

That was it. It was a gesture that both broke and rekindled her like plunging into the river at first light. It had been what felt like lifetimes, but she knew this feeling, and she would follow it. Without another word, Rowan leaned in and pressed her mouth to his.

Part of her was amused at his surprise, but it wasn't long before the Witcher was returning the kiss with a tenderness that almost startled Rowan. Geralt's kiss was long and deep. He was gentle now, barely brushing his tongue against her lip, coaxing her mouth open as his fingertips felt along her jaw. Down her throat, his touch traveled. Down and across her collarbone to the seam of the nightcoat and dress his hands explored, stopping only to ask her with his eyes. Rowan placed her hands over his own and pulled the edge of both garments off her shoulders.

Though the druid was no stranger to spending time nude in the woods, it had been ages since she was witnessed as such by anything but birds or deer. Her time as a hermit made her both bold, yet shy in this way. Bold with long swims in the lake or sunning in the clearing of the Elderwood, yet still wary exposing her skin to anything but the trees. Perhaps it had stemmed from her ears. She had always preferred to be as covered as possible around others, especially humans. Something about Geralt, however, embolden her; almost inspired her to cast hesitation aside. Perhaps it was his own disregard for convention, formality, even other humans. Rowan supposed they were alike in that way.

She wanted-needed to share the earth with him, skin to skin. Commit herself to this feeling. To him.

Geralt rose to his knees, pulling Rowan with him, and leaned into the kiss intently. His hands began to roam across her exposed shoulders, her back, her waist. Rowan ran her own hands up to his chest and began unfastening the length of clasps on his tunic. Geralt almost instantly began untucking the garment from his trousers and lifted it over his head. Once it was removed, both Witcher and druid returned to their kiss with a new degree of fervor. Rowan was already somewhat familiar with Geralt's form after having treated his wounds for so long in her home; his scars, his firm body, his dangerous strength. Geralt, however, was meeting Rowan in this way for the first time.

Her green eyes shone with the confident intention and assurance of her long years, yet revealed an almost girlish reserve of wild yearning in the full moon's waning light. Her soft skin moved gracefully flush, golden, and warm in the fire's glow. He reveled in the smell of Rowan's active desire. Her feminine odors ignited an animalistic urge deep within him. The scent of her sweat, her heat her damp sex, all began to overwhelm him. Without thinking, Geralt grabbed Rowan's hips and hoisted her up into his lap. The druid responded by wrapping her legs around him and grasping his jaw to deepen their kiss.

Her tongue challenged his, and they engaged in sweet battle until they were both sparse for breath. Her breasts pressed to his chest and her hips rocked against his pelvis now, tightening his breath and his trousers. In a sudden moment of impulse, Rowan took Geralt's hands and leaned back in a dramatic arch; an invitation to explore her further. Rowan knew it to be typical of a druid to "display", a carnal yet natural gesture, but it provoked Geralt's already feral plight perfectly. Releasing a low growl, the Witcher let his hands glide from Rowan's neck down between her breasts, over her navel, and hook into where the remainder of her clothing rested, bunched across her pelvis.

So, so sorry to pause here, my lovely readers! I had to pause for a few days (more seizures all in a row and all that fun stuff).

I promise there's more to come very soon! Thank you all so much for your patience and support!