It began with the sound of the lake giving way to a great wind. Rowan had been trudging back to her small cottage when she heard it. The days hunt in tow over her shoulder, (2 rabbits and a fat grouse) and the soft light of the late afternoon sun warming the huntress's limbs. The winter had been mild that year, but long. Frost still claimed the topsoil regularly, so small game still held the majority of Rowan's attention from woods to kitchen until she could reinvigorate her gardens. The bow slung across her back even felt the wind shift as she heard the troubled water. Fearing bandits or reavers, Rowan quickened her pace, inwardly resolving to abstain from a fire that evening.
Half-elf by birth and druid by clan, Rowan lived alone but peacefully within the confines of her beloved Elderwood. Decades of war and politics had taught her that, painfully, her own company and only that was best. She loved the Elderwood, and worked hard to protect its beautiful ecosystem. The delicate mosses, the humid mushrooms, the fragrant herbs, and the rare blossoms. The forest sat 22 leagues from the nearest town or port. It was strange to think bandits would bother to fish or bathe so far from other, more civilized woods. Although the occasional ambitious hunting party would grace the woods from time to time in summer, it was odd to think anyone would have an interest in the Elderwood in early spring. Caution and silence in her steps, Rowan moved as one of the forest. A young doe, watchful and mute. Her home was not far now.
Soon, a breath of relief escaped her lips as the clearing came into view. Surrounded by evergreens and a sea of soft ferns her cabin sat. Rowan had spent many months building her home. Laid into the earth and between the thick roots of a great sycamore tree, it waited patiently. The roof was interlaced with moss and clay tiles to offer both shelter and a sustainable water filtration system. Subtle bark coverings along with sun baked clay bricks from the river formed a smart smoke vent for her small wood stove. And hidden planks of strong latticed birch grasped openings in the roots where the druid could let the sun into her home from different angles as the day progressed. Thatched vines and reeds insulated the space, and there was hardly ever a need to lock the door, although Rowan knew a few simple spells in a pinch.
Inside, cork floors provided both give and warmth to Rowan's naked feet. A wide bed of furs and woven blankets greeted her invitingly. The druid's sleep had suffered ever since mid-winter. She had considered venturing to the nearest town for a simple remedy from the local mage, but the three-day journey wasn't practical at this time of year. Besides, it was a trip she preferred to only embark on once or twice a year at most. Although her pointed ears had been crudely cut away as a child, she still preferred the company of the animals of the Elderwood compared to the humans of the province. It was a quiet life and had been so for the last two decades, but it was all she wanted after living through so much war. Peace and balance. The two great loves of those who've lived long enough to long for them. Far more than the fleeting pursuit of purpose so many pure-blooded humans desperately sought.
There it was again. Even so far as her home, she could hear the lake protesting. Splashes and waves swelled on the wind. Something was wrong. This couldn't simply be the noises of men or dogs at play. Rowan placed her day's bounty on the floor of her small kitchen and hastily washed her hands. She moved to hang her bow on its place across the south wall, but hesitated. After a moment of contemplation and a passing whisper of regret, the druid wilted, sighed, and slung the bow back over her shoulders. Before leaving, however, she resolved to at least skin and salt her catch. The meat would still take days to cure. Better to start now. There was still plenty of light. But as she worked, a knot grew firm in her stomach. The slashing sounds continued persistently and unnervingly loud for at least a quarter-hour before they finally ceased. Rowan continued to wrack her brain for what it could possibly be, her nerves still tight.
When she finished her work, she rolled the skins out to dry. She would have to spread them out on the sunning rock in the morning, but for now, they could sit inside safely.
Donning a pair of leather boots she hardly ever wore and another layer of furs (evening would soon arrive cool and damp), Rowan once again strapped the quiver of sapling arrows to her back and slipped her bow over shoulder. Even if her investigation turned up nothing, she would still sleep better (if at all) knowing it was nothing.
The lake was a 15 minute walk from her home, but it felt much longer as the cherry-bright sun slowly began to fade to the cooler tones of evening. Rowan traversed the brush and woods with long strides and the quick but calculated pace of the doe. Large, hazel eyes caught every flit or quiver from the trees. Soon, however, a strange scent caught her off guard.
Mingled with the earthy smell of disturbed bog, lake mud, and torn roots, came the scent of the sweat and strife of men and something else completely foreign to the druid. Though the lake was now still, Rowan could see through the last of the trees, her heart began to pound as though the smell had struck her sideways. What on earth could have transpired here? She took her bow in hand and strung it as a precaution.
Rowan inched toward the shore, eyes darting wildly for some hint of an explanation. Then, she saw it. Black as night, shining like grease, and gasping its last breaths. The gruesome nearly dead corpse of a Mòrag lay sprawled along the far shore. Its flesh had been torn in many places. The gashes leaked dark blood into the water and gave off a putrid smell. Mystery solved. After a moment, the thing lay still and (though naturally blind) its eyes rolled up into its skull with death. Rowan had no idea such a beast had even plagued this lake, or at least, the creature had certainly never bothered her. Mòrags tended to keep to themselves unless disturbed during their hibernation period. Rowan inwardly hoped it had not been some poor young boy looking to play "Witcher". It so often was.
Witcher.
Suddenly the foreign scent made sense. Rowan's nerves tightened and she clutched at her bow tightly. She had only met one Witcher in her time. A lifetime ago, before the Cleansing. He had been the worst sort. Brutal, racist, and heartless. A glorified assassin who'd served a king even worse in moral standing for the opportunity to profit from the war. Although the vast number of stories about these monster-hunters weren't anything to be relied upon, Rowan has sense enough to listen to her instincts. A half-elf druid was not something to be tolerated by most men. A Witcher, quite possibly less so.
Watching her own breathing, Rowan began to withdraw. If she were careful to stay downwind, she thought, perhaps she could make it back to the cabin without her own scent being carried too far. She had no desire to…
Rowan paused, her eyes caught by something in the woods to the right of the shoreline. Just beyond the treeline, Rowan barely made out the shape of a brown mare. The creature, bridle looped around a tree, stirred and shuffled anxiously. There was no rider to be found. The druid suddenly couldn't stomach the thought of leaving the animal to starve should her rider not return. Rowan crouched in the ferns longer than she'd have liked as she debated the dilemma before her. If the rider-the Witcher-was still close, she could be endangering herself if she emerged to approach the animal. However, if the rider was long dead…
Rowan toyed with the notion of waiting; remaining in her hiding place until full dark. Perhaps if no one came along before then, she would be safe to help the mare. But a glint on the water further up the shoreline made Rowan inwardly jump. The horse continued to fidget and fret, tugging at her reins to get closer to the shape. No doubt her dead rider.
Rowan sighed with relief. Placing her bow on her back once more, she rose and cautiously made her way to the shoreline. The mare was distressed, but did not spook when she spotted the small druid approach. Carefully, Rowan let the creature take in her own scent and began to speak a few elvish phrases to calm her. Still, the mare was anxious. She stroked the animal's nose a few times and began to untie the bridle from its knot, when she suddenly understood the reason for the horse's odd behaviour. Rowan froze.
The body in the water was still alive.
Why had she not heard the heartbeat? She did not notice her hand, still warm on the neck of the mare beside her. Trying to check her own breathing, the druid watched, frozen in place, as one gloved hand emerged from the gently lapping tide of the lake. It faltered and tried repeatedly to grasp at the sandy mud. The man was slowly drowning, too injured to pull his own weight from the water. Rowan startled again as the mare whinnied in a frantic tone. Both disturbed yet moved by the animal's distress for her master, Rowan once again weighed her options. Her frown depening, she grasped her bow and stepped around the horse to approach the figure struggling slowly in the water.
Lowering herself, Rowan slowly reached for the man's shoulder. He was stuck in the heavy silt mud. With all her strength, Rowan grasped at the ebony shoulder plate with both hands and pulled. With a great suction sound, Rowan was nearly thrown back on her ass as the silt gave way and the rest of the man burst from the water, rolling onto his back with a gravelly gasp. The druid's heart raced as she notched an arrow into her bow and waited. Her chest rose and fell heatedly as she watched the creature she presumed to be a Witcher, try to catch his own breath.
Minutes passed coloured with the sound of heavy breath and the softly lapping of the shoreline. The mare appeared to have calmed down. Rowan still held her bow fully drawn. She considered simply taking her leave, but her druid heart still hurt for the animal should her master not survive. He was clearly badly wounded. A mouthful of blood spurt from his mouth with a cough and a grunt.
"Valen," a gravel voice struggled. Rowan's lips parted in awe. Elvish. The elvish word for...help. The man hadn't even yet opened his eyes.
"...valen. Haan ovin." the muddy shape murmured, barely audible. Help. I'll pay.
Rowan could hardly believe her scarred ears. It was only after a few more muted noises of pain from the man and her own fleeting moment of rash reflection, that the druid began to breathe properly once more and lower her weapon. Blinking with incredulity, Rowan steeled herself and stepped closer to the figure still lying helplessly in the lake water. Slowly, she knelt and removed the weapons strapped to the black armour. Two swords and a dagger. Tossing them far away up the shoreline, she assessed the wounds inflicted on the man's frame. A deep gash ran from his throat over his collarbone and down his chest. Likely the work of the Mòrag's claws. A few more gashes made themselves prominent in the reddening water. One along his ribs and two more across his legs. His face was pale, but it was difficult to tell how much blood he had already lost amidst the water. Under all the mud, a mass of tangled white hair floated in the shallow lake water. Witcher was right. Rowan sighed, hesitating once more over her options.
The mare whined again. Rowan looked to the beast and smiled weakly.
"Roach," the Witcher murmured, his voice weak and filled with pain. "...valen."
Rowan sighed heavily and shook her head. Perhaps destiny was once more breathing life into her long years.
"Hold fast. I'll get him to you," Rowan spoke softly in elven to the mare. Looking back to the mess in front of her, she startled slightly as two yellow eyes, heavy and weak (possibly with poison from the lake creature), tried to open. The effort was great, but soon they slipped closed again. The lips parted as if trying to speak once more, but failed.
"Be still," Rowan offered, once again in elven. The amber eyes remained closed.
It took the slender elf almost 20 minutes to drag the Witcher's water-logged body from the lake and place him on the mare. Luckily, there were still one or two perks to being a half-blood. A solid way with horses being one of them. Despite not having lived or worked with them for some time now, Rowan was still able to easily persuade the mare to kneel for her. After rolling that ox of a man onto the animal's back, Rowan proceeded to lead the creature and her burden back to the hidden path.
It was almost fully dark by the time the odd party reached the clearing again. After hauling the man from horse to cabin door, the druid paused to look after the mare. She removed the heavy saddle, tied the bridle to the closest oak, and brought the animal fresh water as well as a healthy handful of grains and apple peelings. When the mare seemed at ease, Rowan turned once more to her main problem.
The man was completely unconscious, but his condition was clearly getting worse. The druid could smell a fever deepening and iron from the progress of his wounds. It would be prudent to get him inside and close to a fire even before dressing them.
Rowan quickly made use of the mare's bridle and harness, securing them under the Witcher's shoulders and dragging him inside. She instantly knew she would regret the smell that would surely permeate her home, but there wasn't much to be done about it now. Once the man was lying stretched out on the floor of the cabin, Rowan made a fire and secured her modest home for nightfall. Once the fire took full form, she rushed to gather the proper herbs and medicines from her cabinet. Every few minutes she would hear a deep but subdued murmur or two from her delirious guest. She made the poultices first, soaking bandages in distilled willow bark, elder-root, and echinacea. The fever, however, would have to be sweat out.
Working quickly, the druid deftly removed the armour, boots, tunic, and shirt, tossing them all into a sodden, stinking pile by the door. She cleaned the wounds as best she could with clean water first. After wrapping the man's exposed feet in hot towels from the fire, she dampened a clean rag with what was left of last year's wormwood alcohol and pressed it to the slash across the Witcher's neck. Yellow eyes shot open and a grunt of pain escaped the man's throat. When his body jerked in response, Rowan was ready.
"Be still now," she spoke firmly in common, one elbow on his chest. "You've lost a lot of blood and you're fighting a poison fever."
"Mm...fuck," was the man's response.
"Indeed," Rowan replied, somewhat relieved. "Hard part is almost over."
With that, the druid poured the rest of the wormwood onto the other two rags and applied them quickly. More gravelly cries were quickly followed by more cursing until the pain left the Witcher gasping for breath. Rowan worked even more quickly now, ringing out the poultice bandages and wrapping them carefully around each gash. She finished by wrapping dry, clean bandages over the medicated ones, then laying more hot towels over her guest's body. The Witcher was still fighting to catch his breath by the time Rowan made her way over to his head with the final towel. This one she dampened with a little warm water and placed over his brow.
"What's your name?" the druid asked. While she hoped to distract her guest from the pain, she would not ignore the need to further assess this Witcher's character. Indebted or not, he could still be a threat to this strange half-elf. She rolled part of a fur blanket and placed it under his neck and head. His deadweight was unbelievable. There was no response.
"Hey," Rowan tried. "Tell me your name."
"Mm…" was the lethargic response between heavy breaths. "...the warmth."
The little cottage was a bit of an oven at this point. Rowan was also sweating heavily.
"I'm afraid it has to stay that way for now. You've got to sweat it out," the druid explained to dead ears.
At that, the Witcher had strength enough only to turn his head to one side and vomit blood and bile onto the fur rug next to them.
"Fantastic." Rowan groaned. Such wonderful company.
After rolling up the rug and dragging it outside to be cleaned later, Rowan took up a few of her evening chores while her guest prespired in and out of a feverish sleep by the fireplace. The incoherent one-sided dialogue continued in short bursts now and then, and Rowan found herself curious despite her better judgement. She changed the towels twice and tried to offer her guest fresh water, but each time was met with an incoherent rejection.
Long after midnight, Rowan decided there was not much more to be done until the fever broke, so she resolved to sleep under the stars outside and escape the smell as much as anything else. Gathering her furs and quilts, she placed a pitcher of water-should the Witcher come round-beside his head and left the cabin for the company of the mare and the Elderwood. Rowan always slept better outside anyway.
Dawn woke Rowan with a soft, golden dampness. Shivering out of her sleep, the druid rose and shook out her furs. The mare grunted gently in greeting. Rowan smiled and looked over her shoulder to her cabin.
"What have we got ourselves into, eh?" she asked the animal. The mare responded by lowering her head to graze at the sweetfern.
Inside, the smell was a bit better. The fire had died down to glowing coals and the Witcher still lay pale and plastered in bandages on the furs before the fireplace. Some of the towels had been clumsily discarded. He breathed far more evenly than the night before. It was time to change the wound dressings.
After a few bites of cured venison, Rowan set to work making another batch of willow and echinacea for the poultices. When they were soaking, she roused the fire once more and began unwrapping the old bandages.
Upon reflection, she probably shouldn't have been so surprised at how much the wounds had already healed, her guest being a Witcher and all that, but they still needed a lot of work. And the poison was still heavily set in his veins.
Morning afforded far better light, and Rowan was a little taken aback as she worked. This man was not what she expected from a Witcher. He was clearly a formidable warrior, but a gentle nature rested in his sleeping face. Grey stubble ran along a strong jaw and his white hair softened his features in a curious way. There was no guessing his age.
Rowan shook her head, scolding herself for her girlish indulgences. She had clearly been removed from others for too long. A Witcher was still a Witcher. And she would do well to send him away as soon as he was capable of taking care of that poor mare outside.
"Geralt,"
Rowan startled as she rolled the old bandage away from the Witcher's side. He struggled to speak again.
"Geralt is my name,"
Rowan paused to regain her voice before answering.
"Pleased to meet you, Geralt. I'm Rowan. You've been in a bad way," the druid replied steadily.
"Mm," Geralt grunted.
"The Mòrag poison is still working its way toward your heart, though there's less of it now. If it weren't for the massive blood loss, you'd be at the bottom of my lake. You'll have to keep sweating it out," Rowan explained. There was no reply.
Minutes passed as the druid exchanged old poultice for fresh. The spicy smell of the fresh willow bark extract was a mighty relief after so much Mòrag gunge.
"My horse," Geralt suddenly growled after a moment. Two amber eyes shot open with a desperate grimace.
"The brown mare?" Rowan offered. "She's just outside eating up all my sweetfern. If it weren't for her, you'd probably be dead. She's lovely."
The Witcher turned his head, looking at Rowan for the first time. His yellow eyes were still heavy, bright with fever, but more expressive in the morning light.
"Thank you..." he breathed low and steady. Rowan couldn't think of anything else to do but nod in acknowledgment. "...I'll be on my way now." he finished and tried to sit up.
"Will you now?" Rowan scoffed. Geralt instantly fell back onto the furs with a pained grunt and a string of curses.
"I told you, you have to sweat that poison out or it'll be your end. Not to mention your wounds." Rowan gently scolded. Her guest growled in frustration. Who knew Witchers could be so childish?
Geralt appeared to accept his fate with another brooding sigh, and Rowan set back to work.
And so the day progressed. Rowan made it her business to check on Geralt every hour or so in between her own routines. She prepared the animal skins and meat from the day before for tanning and curing. Chopped more firewood. Tended the herbs. And of course, she saw to the beautiful mare. Rowan liked to think she and the animal were hitting it off quite nicely. The druid took some time to brush out the dust from the mare's underlayer of hair, scrape the mud and stones from the crevices between the nail of her hooves, and bring her fresh water and grain. Geralt's fever remained low for most of the day, until shortly after the sun disappeared over the far western horizon. Evening saw things take a slight turn for the worse and Rowan began to fear for what would happen should her guest fall into a deeper sleep.
"Geralt? Geralt, you should stay awake until the fever breaks tonight. Sleep isn't safe right now." Rowan tried as she knelt. The Witcher half opened one eye.
"Hmm," he replied in his usual way. "Break the backbone by press. Pressing...Both hands..."
"What?" Rowan frowned as she rang out the rag for his brow.
"The backbone," Geralt replied lazily. "The chicken."
Lovely. He was delusional again.
Rowan sighed and sat back on her heels. She decided to try cold water for his brow and chest for a while. Perhaps that would be enough to keep him conscious.
It seemed to work. Geralt gave a start as the cold cloth kissed his head and neck. His amber eyes were more brown than yellow in the dimmer light of evening.
"Sorry," the druid flinched. "You should stay awake."
"You nag like a good mother," he mumbled.
"I'll take that as a complement under the circumstances."
"It is."
The sound of the fire and the water being rung from more rags filled the little cabin for long minutes. Rowan knew she had to keep Geralt talking.
"Does she have a name?" the druid asked.
"Who?" the Witcher replied after a moment. His eyes remained closed.
"Your lovely mare."
"Roach."
The druid exhaled a short laugh as she worked. Definitely not what she was expecting, but this pleased her for whatever reason.
"That's an odd name for a horse. But I'm in no position to judge. My first horse's name was Mousse—The food, not the animal." Rowan chuckled softly. Geralt opened his eyes a little. The druid pretended not to notice how they studied her.
"It's fennel oil," Rowan said after a moment to break the thick silence. Geralt blinked. "You can smell it, yes? It helps me sleep." she explained.
"Does it work?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. But my mother used to use it on me. I suppose nostalgia is as good as anything."
"Where's your mother now?"
"She was killed shortly after the Cleansing," Rowan said matter-of-factly.
"Mm...I'm sorry," Geralt offered with a breathy sigh.
"It was a long time ago."
"Was she an elf, or your father?"
Rowan blinked. He would've smelled it on her, of course, but she was still surprised when there was no contempt in his voice. Even so, she proceeded carefully.
"My father,"
"Where's he?"
"You ask a lot of questions," Rowan commented dryly.
"You're the one who said I should stay awake."
There was a brief pause. Rowan absently brushed a lock of unruly white hair from the spot under the used rag as she moved to change it.
"I buried my father nearly 30 years ago at the edge of this forest. He was a talented gardener. A true green thumb. He fertilizes the flowers there now. He would've laughed at that," Rowan smiled.
"Hm," Geralt replied. Silence once again dominated the little cabin.
"Hey," Rowan urged after a few more moments. "Stay with me."
"I'll be fine."
"You won't. You'll slip into a fit and your mind won't be the same in the morning, if you survive the fever. Trust me."
The Witcher sighed.
"Fine. I'll take first watch. Under the second bridge." Geralt muttered.
There it was, the fever-talk again. Rowan supposed it was better than nothing.
"Okay fine. But what will you do if you see unicorns armed with eels?" she jested, rolling her eyes.
"High ground and powdered goat bladder," the Witcher mumbled incoherently. Rowan had to stop herself from scoffing. She wondered if any of that were even close to accurate. Unlikely, seeing as how unicorns weren't real.
"I see. And what shall we do when the king comes calling with no trousers?" she pushed, smiling slightly.
"Call Jaskier over. He'll love that."
"Alright, I'll be sure to do that." Rowan concluded and rose to bring more wood for the fire. "Eyes open. I'm just fetching more firewood."
When she returned, Geralt was clearly asleep.
"Damnit," she whispered. The druid knelt, dropped her armful of wood next to the fireplace, and began tapping the Witcher's cheek.
"Geralt!" Rowan tried. "Geralt!"
Achingly slow, the Witcher's eyes cracked open. Gummy, and still bright with fever, those amber pools suddenly met Rowan's hazel frown with a well of dazed concern. Geralt's grey brow furrowed and he slowly raised one hand to the druid's own face.
Startled, Rowan froze, holding her breath like the doe.
"There's gold in the green of your eyes," the Witcher whispered, exhaustion and fever slurring his words. His hand slipped down until his thumb caught Rowan's bottom lip for a moment before falling back onto his chest.