Chapter Five
Light pressed against the backs of her eyelids as she reluctantly let herself realize she was awake. She half expected to open her eyes and find herself alone in this unfamiliar forest. Her head hurt less, blessedly, but her body ached something fierce from a night's rest on the bare, unforgiving forest floor.
Uttering a grumble of discomfort in the back of her throat—getting up, moving about, that would ease some of the aches—she reached a hand toward the ground to push herself up. Her fingers brushed fur and she snatched back her hand. Cautious, she at last opened her eyes.
Sometime during the night, her rescued wolf had crept closer. The witch imagined the action felt safe when both humans had been sleeping, which was why she also imagined that the creature would've slunk off to a distance, again, once she'd started to stir. Instead, the wolf stayed where it was, curled up within easy reach and staring back at her.
"You're still here," she said in a shocked whisper, smiling.
A sound of movement—a shuffling or rustling, she couldn't be certain—drew her attention toward where the fire had blazed last night. There he stood. She hated that his rugged prettiness was even more unavoidable by daylight. That was going to get annoying.
She felt her smile fade, but her expression was no less surprised; she'd thought that perhaps once the night had passed, he'd have rethought this traveling together idea and left. "And you're still here." The beast standing at his shoulder came into focus for her, then. Hermione arched a brow. "And the horse is still here . . . ?"
He hid that her confusion amused him. No, she didn't seem the sort to take being laughed at first thing in the morning very well. "We're going to need him. Lower Aedirn isn't exactly a small area."
"So, that is our plan, then?" She sat up, her movements delicate on account of her screaming muscles and joints. "We're just going to go off into the—what did you call them? Oh, right—the 'ashlands' and simply, what? Wander about until we trip over something one of us deems important or useful?"
His features remained schooled as he said in that usual gruff tone of his, "If you didn't state it flippantly like that, it would not sound flippant."
Hermione blinked slow once, twice, as she held his gaze. God, he sounded unnervingly like Lucius Malfoy in that moment. It wasn't his voice, exactly, it was something in the cadence.
Clearing her throat awkwardly, she climbed to her feet. "Fine, you're right, it just . . . doesn't seem like much of a plan. Do we know what we're looking for?"
"Your captors, for a start. Barring that?" Geralt squared his jaw. "I crossed paths with an unnatural creature, the like of which I've never encountered before—which says much as to how troubling a circumstance that is. I think whatever we hope to find in the ashlands might be connected."
The witch folded her lips and nodded. "So, my captors or some bizarre animals, then?"
Those gold eyes narrowed. "Yes."
She sighed, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right. I can see you're in a mood . . . . Or you are a mood, but—" She hurried on, deliberately ignoring how his already less-than-happy expression soured further—"if you're right and there's no flora or fauna there, then we need to do what 'my captors' did and stock up on supplies, don't we? That, and I need to get something else to wear, something that doesn't make me stand out quite so much. Maybe stop at a tavern or pub before we're off to have a meal? I haven't eaten in a full day, now that I think about."
His brows inched upward as he looked back at her. She was already ticking errands off on her fingers.
"Let's see, that'll mean finding . . . obviously a seamstress, a butcher or maybe a charcutier, definitely a market." She looked down at her feet. "Oh, and a . . . what was that word, oh, right! A cordwainer!" It seemed fortunate that her trainers were so caked with mud and forest debris that they were no longer discernible as a style of shoe that simply didn't exist here, but camouflaged or not, there were not ideal for the environment.
Mouth pulling to one side, he only continued to stare at her. He'd never heard anyone so thrilled about requiring the services of a shoemaker before in his life. "Because I'm certain the seamstress won't have any questions about your current attire?"
"Hang on, I have something for that . . . sort of." Stooping to rummage about in her pack, she produced the nicked tunic. "I'll wear this for now, it'll be long enough to cover the more telling portions of my jeans—"
"Your what?"
"Trousers."
"Ah."
Hermione stood again and seemed about to say something. But then she thought better on asking him to turn around. "You know what? Never mind, I'll just . . . Holly Golightly this." Of course he wouldn't understand a reference to Breakfast at Tiffany's—she wistfully wondered if she'd ever get the chance to watch another Audrey Hepburn film, she wasn't much for sitting about watching films, yet she adored Audrey—but she imagined he'd be resistant to her request for him to turn around, as he probably didn't trust her not to try running off, or hexing him.
Not that she was particularly at ease with the notion of being in any state of undress around him—but that was another matter entirely which had little to do with nerves—but she could guess she didn't have anything he hadn't seen before. Probably many times, too, if other women were as affected by his looks as she was.
Geralt shook his head, but sooner than he could ask what the bloody hell a 'holly-go-lightly' was, she put her back to him. She whipped her shirt off over her voluminous hair and dropped it atop the pack. His brows drew upward, but he remained silent, his lower lip poking outward in thought.
"Oh, suppose I can do without this thing, now," she grumbled to herself as she unhooked her bra and dropped it onto the pack, as well. She had to stop herself from letting out an ecstatic sound, or curling forward in relief—she hadn't even realized how long she'd been wearing the bloody thing until she'd taken it off just now.
He only watched the strange, satiny white thing drop from her hand. Perhaps he was waiting for her to do something that didn't add to the number of questions running about in his head.
He'd start small. His gaze was drawn to the strange purple slash marring her skin in a diagonal line from her shoulder straight down to her opposite hip. "That's a bizarre mark. A scar?"
She froze, the tunic bunched on her arms, held over her head. After drawing a breath, she let the rough fabric fall down over her. Pulling her hair from her the collar, she focused on straightening the garment.
"It's, um, a from a spell that was meant to kill me, but didn't."
If she was waiting for some response, he had none. He had more than a scar or two of his own from things meant to kill him.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, her gaze guarded in a way it hadn't been a moment earlier. Turning to face him, she lifted the front of the tunic, only to just beneath her ribs, high enough that he caught a glimpse of the same mark starting from the top of her strange trousers and slashing upward and across to disappear beneath where she held the fabric. "It was a . . . special spell, only known to its creator. Cut through me. I was a mess, on all manner of potions to help me heal. It killed my friend, but left no mark on him, so the assumption was made that it only marks those who survive it."
Actually, she felt more like the scar was a purposeful reminder that the spell could've very easily taken her life—that others had lost their lives to it.
It was a burden. When she'd learned Remus had been killed by the spell that hadn't killed her, the scar felt like a weight around her. Pulling her down. Asking her, murmuring in her ear, why had she survived, but not him? Why had fate decided he couldn't live on to return home to his son, but she could live to do what? Help Harry win the war? And then what?
Nothing. She supposed maybe her life had already served its purpose, then. So what the bloody hell was she even doing here?
"I don't like to talk about it," she offered as she once more smoothed the tunic down over herself, her voice a bit strained, hoping he'd take the very large, very blatant hint not to pry. Of course, she realized in hindsight that she'd just babbled an awful lot about a subject she claimed she didn't wish to discuss.
That was the problem in being forced into close company with a stranger. The things one usually kept to themselves around familiar faces tended to bubble to the surface of their own accord.
"Anyway . . . ." She gave herself a shake and started burrowing through her pack, again. After tucking away the garments she'd removed, she produced a leather pouch. Hermione hesitated, visibly, before holding it out to him. "I am trusting you with this. I don't know that's much of a compliment, as I don't know anything about this place, so I wouldn't know what anything is actually worth or if someone is trying to swindle me, so . . . take it."
Arching a brow, Geralt accepted the pouch. It was quite a bit heavier than it appeared, and he knew what it contained the moment the weight hit his palm.
"This is rather a lot of coin for someone new to the realm."
The witch shrugged and looked away, her expression a strange mix of righteous and abashed. "Nicked it from my captors."
He gave a sideways nod as he opened the pouch and peered inside, estimating the contents. "Would seem to serve them right, kidnapping mysterious young women and all that."
Deliberately refraining from smiling at his quip—this had to remain neutral, if such a thing were possible, so she didn't get too used to him. There were about to journey together for who knew how long, but she was going home at some point. For all she knew? The mysterious GR was someone else, entirely—since he'd admitted himself incapable of fathering a child—and she came into possession of Geralt's book for . . . for reasons she wouldn't think on at the moment, as she didn't imagine he'd part with it easily.
Of course, that also meant she was accepting that the ML was, indeed, 'Mione of London. Oh, this was too much before . . . before . . . oh dear Lord, they probably didn't even have coffee or tea here.
She was going to die in this accursed place.
The witch collected herself. "I didn't expect to just spit a bunch of expenses at you and have you pay for it all. We are both going to be using the travel supplies, after all."
He nodded, his features once more settled into that already familiar mask that might be boredom, might be stoicism, who could tell? "Very well. And . . . about your wolf?"
"Right." Wincing, she dug in her pack for some of the pilfered jerky and tossed it to the beast. It hadn't really budged since getting to its feet when she had stood; it seemed happy to stay far away from the witcher. "I don't suppose people walk through towns with pet wolves?"
His mouth pinched and the slightly offset bridge of his nose crinkled. He didn't need to offer a verbal response, that look was answer enough.
With a sigh, she shrugged. "I suppose he'll just have to wait in the woods. I can . . . I hate to do it, but I can use magic to put him to sleep for a bit. We can stash him somewhere safely hidden from any humans until we're finished and can come back for him."
"You can do that?"
Another shrug. "Normally I wouldn't even consider using magic on an innocent animal, but it won't harm him, and as he doesn't seem to want to leave me, I can't think of any other way to keep him out of danger."
Those golden eyes narrowed as earlier, his gaze locked, unmoving, on hers for a few silent heartbeats.
Hermione had to remind herself to breathe. Having his attention focused on her was a weighty, distracting thing. "What?"
He cleared his throat and gave a quick, subtle shake of his head, his mouth tugging down at the corners. "Your world and mine seem very different, is all."
She wasn't entirely pleased to translate that to not many people here think twice about harming an innocent animal. Though, she did find herself strangely flattered that this must give him a positive view of her. In the Wizarding world, she didn't have much opportunity to consider how others saw her. Public opinion was in her face, all the time, on account of her very prolific war record, even years later, leaving little luxury to wonder what others thought about her.
"All right, I suppose I should get this over with," she said unhappily, withdrawing her wand. "How long d' you suppose this little adventure into town will take us?"
His brows inched upward in question.
"I need to know how long the spell should last."
Geralt huffed out a low, grumbling breath as he thought it over. "Given the hefty errand list you've compiled, it may take us the better part of the day."
"All right." She could tell from his demeanor that he was not pleased with the delay in departing for the ashlands, but they both knew it was necessary. "Oh!" She smiled. "I completely forgot. There's a spell for shrinking items, so after we're done with the shopping, I'll do that with what I've already got in here and we can put whatever else we stock up on in here, too. Much more convenient for traveling, don't you think?"
He pursed his lips in thought, but sooner than he could say anything, she spun on her heel to face her wolf.
"I do apologize for this . . . I think I'll call you Romi. It's short for Romulus. When we're traveling, I'll explain it." Naming the wolf Remus would hurt too much, but naming him for the mythological Remus' brother seemed a good tribute. "I'm sorry, Romi, but I promise you'll be safe." She muttered the incantation under her breath as she waved her wand.
Geralt observed in silence as the wolf lay back down and fell dead asleep within moments. He didn't wait for her signal, he could tell when the creature was out cold. Stepping around her, he scooped up the beast and walked off toward the branches of the felled tree.
Hermione observed in silence as the man in black leather strode across the clearing and stooped. The air filled with the sound of rustling leaves as he stepped on a branch, bowing it beneath his weight so he could slip Romi's unconscious form into the foliage. How she kept her head from tipping to one side as she noted, rather against her better judgement, how snug said leather was around his bum was a mystery to her.
Luckily for her, she managed to snap her attention from him and fix her gaze, instead, on the leaves that now concealed the wolf as he eased the branch back into place. He backpedaled a step to survey the effectiveness of the chosen cover before turning and walking back to her.
Just as she was beginning to wonder how long a walk it was to the nearest town, or village, or hamlet, whatever, he continued past her to the horse. She pivoted on her heel, following his movement with her eyes only to see him place his foot in the stirrup and pull himself up into the saddle.
Without any apparent second thought, he held his hand down to her.
She could only stare at his waiting fingers a moment. "I . . . I'd thought we weren't using the horse until we departed for the ashlands."
"We need to be quick if we want to make preparations, return for your wolf, and be on our way before sundown."
Swallowing hard, she nodded. "Of course." Of course within less than a day of knowing this man, she'd be forced to do something as awkward and close as to sit in front of him in the confining space of a bloody horse's saddle.
With a sigh—and reminding herself that this sort of, well, seating arrangement was probably not all that unusual in a world where horseback riding was still a popular and convenient mode of travel, so it would likely mean nothing to him and she refused to be the only one flustered—she placed her hand in his. He didn't seem to strain at all lifting her into the saddle, but she staunchly ignored that as she tried to settle comfortably without moving too much against him.
"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly. "Different, um, different modes of transportation where I'm from."
Good God, she could curl up and die right now that she could feel the movement of it as he shrugged behind her.
In an effort to distract herself while he nudged the horse into motion, she spat out the first words that sprang to mind. "When my captors saw the wolf pendant, they said it was 'just like the one the Butcher wears.' Did . . . did they mean you? Or is the wolf pendant something all witchers wear?"
"No." For a moment, it seemed that was all he would say. "Only witchers trained within the School of the Wolf. Due to that, I am known as the White Wolf."
"Do all witchers look like you? With the hair and the eyes, I mean?"
He snickered, the sound short and gruff, but then what was new with that second part? "No," he repeated. "I am . . . different. I was more resistant to the methods used to create our kind, and so I was subjected to more strenuous means in order for those methods to take effect. Made me more, I suppose."
Perhaps the opening up to a stranger thing went both ways, then? She nodded slow, almost afraid to move too abruptly. The way he held his arms around her to clasp the reins was uncomfortably like an embrace. "And the 'Butcher' thing? I—I'm sorry, I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
"If we're to travel together, you are bound to hear the name again, if not the story. I am called the Butcher of Blaviken. It was a long time ago; the short of it is that I was tricked by a mage. I tried to stay out of the matter, but he . . . he didn't care if the entire town was sacrificed to get what he wanted. A bloodbath ensued. The townspeople witnessed the entire thing, but they never knew what the mage had been up to, they never understood they'd been in danger at all. So—"
"So they only believed what they saw," she said, her voice barely a whisper above the sound of the horse's hooves against the forest floor.
He nodded, his chin brushing her hair with the movement. "Exactly. Hence, I became the Butcher of Blaviken that day, and have been every day since."
Hermione returned the nod. "Here I was worried it was something terrible."
"A bloodbath isn't terrible?" His voice was loaded with surprise, or rather as much surprise as he seemed capable of mustering up.
She shrugged, unsure if he felt the movement the way she had when he'd done it. "Circumstances make the whole story, don't they? I mean, it isn't as though that bloodbath was you 'butchering' innocent townsfolk was it?"
Geralt chuckled. "No."
"There you go."
For a moment, they were both quiet. They'd broken through the treeline and were headed toward the not-too-distant bit of civilization she thought she'd spied last night from across the water.
"Definitely from a very different place," he finally said in a hushed voice as he nudged the horse to a gallop.
Hermione hated that she had to repress a shiver at the feel of his breath ghosting warm against her ear just then. She had no idea how she was going to make it back to her very different place with her sanity intact if she had to deal with Geralt of Rivia for too long.
