The first time he wakes up there is just black, starless sky above him. The world is rocking and creaking and his body feels like one big gaping wound that sears with pain with every bump and jolt along the way. He hears whispers and murmurs somewhere close, but the words he cannot comprehend. Unfamiliar voices buzz above his head in a hazy, distant hum. He wants to speak and to get up, but the pain soars when he tries to move. A rattling cough escapes his chest. The thumping of blood that pounds into his skull like a hammer quells the hum of voices above his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take hold of himself, but his weak, shivering body will not yield to him. Another jolt comes and he groans through gritted teeth. He cannot tell where the pain is coming from. Everything seems to hurt. The pain throbs in his veins in place of the blood. He cannot manage to draw another breath. Red splotches flash under his squeezed eyelids. Suddenly there is a hand on his brow. Its cool touch soothes him. He opens his eyes and blinks once, then twice. There is a figure looming over him. A woman with bright, pale eyes - it is all that he can tell.
"Hold on. Just a while longer. We're gonna reach the village soon", he hears her speak. Her words seem blurred and distant, so he tries to focus on her eyes instead. Somewhere deep under the raging fire of pain he feels a hand gripping his arm with firmness that seems to calm him a little. Another hand moves from his forehead to his cheek. He closes his eyes again and tries to focus on the touch of those hands, grip it firmly with his mind to distract himself from the pain. Eventually the pain burns out. It seems that death is finally claiming him, except the cool hand is still there on his cheek, bounding him to his senses. It weighs him down to consciousness like an anchor, never letting him drift away. He cannot understand why.
The second time he wakes up there is a timbered ceiling above him. There are bouquets of herbs and flowers and bundles of antlers dangling from wooden bars underneath it. He stares at these for a long while in a thoughtless stupor. The bouquets are adorned with bright strings and ribbons. The antlers are huge. There is also a pair of a boar's tusks and the horns that must have belonged to an old, large elk.
He slowly turns his head to the side and looks around. It is a spacious room with a fireplace that glows with soft, orange light. Over the hearth there is a small cauldron that bubbles and smells of broth and herbs. Several stubby stools and a low, solid bench stand close to the fire. On the bench he sees some herbalist utensils, scattered amidst the bundles and heaps of fresh plants. By the walls, where the glow of fire does not reach, there are chests and trunks with many pelts piled upon them. One of the pelts lay on the stone floor. A shimmer catches his eye. He looks that way and sees two swords leaned against a wall. A witcher's swords, there is no doubt about it. Seeing them is even more of a surprise to him than the fact that he is still alive.
He turns his head and looks back at the wooden ceiling above him. He tries to grasp the snippets and shreds of memories that float in his mind. He sees the monster's nest, hidden deep in the forest, covered with the stench of rotting meat and sulfur. The cockerel that was greater and stronger than he had anticipated. A deafening clamor and a flutter of leathery wings. A missed dodge, an inch-long fangs buried under his ribs. The blood, lots of it, on his sword, on his lips, on the cockerel's monstrous body when he slew its throat. A dull rumble of the Sign that he aimed almost blindly. The putrid stench of poison that the monster spew and the choking odor of its livid, steaming guts that rolled onto the moss when he managed to slain it. The forest that darkened and closed in around him as he made his way back, stumbling and leaning against his sword, dazed with blood loss and elixirs. A fall, and then another one. The feeling of cold coursing through his veins and the painful throbbing of his heart when he made himself down another bottle of elixir to stop the bleeding. The horse that rose to its hind legs and neighed sharply at the sight of his bloody form and then ran away. A curse dying out on his lips and then black, hollow darkness.
He squeezes his eyes shut. No, there is one more thing he remembers. A dim memory of a woman looming over him, white as a ghost in that black forest. A bright, pale gaze, a foreign hand that gripped his arm, not letting him drown in his own blood and pain. He opens his eyes. He cannot tell if this memory is real. He could have dreamed it, half-conscious and dizzy with elixirs. It is true that someone found him, brought him here, tended to his wounds and nurtured him. Nevertheless he doubts that the woman from his memories was the one to do it. He cannot fathom how she would manage to take his half-dead body from the woods and why would she do it. There must be another task for a witcher, he thinks, and that is why the folks harbored him.
He makes an attempt to get up. He doesn't succeed the first time, but eventually he manages to sit, supporting himself on shaky arms. He groans with the effort. For a moment the view darkens in his eyes. A dry cramp coils in his empty stomach. He feels stiff, weak and in pain, but it is nowhere near as bad as he felt after the fight. He looks down and realizes that someone undressed and washed him and tended to his wounds. There is pain, but a dull, muffled one. It is easy to endure. Curious, he examines the stripes of cloth that cover his arm, ribs, belly and left thigh. There is a distinct smell of herbs - the wormwood and the milfoil. He cannot smell the pus or the odor of the rotting flesh he would expect from the wounds made by the cockerel. He has seen many wounds like this on his brothers, he had sustained several of these himself before. He knows from experience that wounds of this kind are hard to treat. They fester often and the only way to deal with them is either burning with fire or potent alchemy. He has a few marks after such treatments and there aren't many things to him that seem worse. But these wounds that he is examining now are clean and already half-healed. Someone burdened himself not only to cleanse and stitch them, but also to treat them with some kind of herbal ointments. The witcher furrows his brows. He is intrigued. He cannot tell what had been used to treat him. Even the witchers' potions would not help with the infection from the cockerel's poison. It is not possible to mend such wounds with ordinary alchemist's recipes. He touches the dressing once more. There is a light prickle of magic - mild and shimmering, not at all like the usual humming glow of healing incantations.
With much strain he manages to put one leg on the floor and then the other. A shiver runs across his back. Despite the fire in the hearth he feels cold. He grits his teeth. He is grateful to his unknown savior, but at the same time he cannot help a cautious suspicion. He doubts it could be a sorcerer - why on earth would a sorcerer roam the forests of Kaedwen? - but he also cannot fathom it to be some old herbalist. Maybe there is a pellar in the village, he thinks, or maybe a druid. One way or another, he will not put their hospitality to test. It is enough that he is still alive.
He looks around. Except for the swords, his belongings are nowhere to be seen, but he does not expect that there are many of them left after the fight. On the chest that stands next to the bed there is a pile of folded clothes. He slowly reaches towards them and with a shaky hand he grabs what is laying on top of the pile. It turns out to be a loose shirt, coarse and patched, but clean. Slowly and awkwardly he manages to put it on his back. He hisses through gritted teeth as he ruffles the wound on his ribs in the process. After that he leans out again to grab the rest of the clothes. There is a pair of pants made of thick, gray linen. Putting them on cost him a jolt of searing pain in his leg and a string of curses muttered under his breath.
He grits his teeth and supports himself on the wooden frame of the bed. With much strain he pulls himself up and falters. His vision goes dark for a moment. The hand that he grips the frame with was shaking. There is a throbbing pain in his thigh that makes his entire leg numb as a log. He is still fighting to keep his balance when the door creaks and a kid appears in the doorway.
The witcher sets his gaze on the little newcomer. It is a boy, six years old at best, tiny and skinny. He makes a few steps towards the witcher and then stops, his head tilted to the side. He looks unsure, a little sheepish, but there is curiosity glinting in his dark eyes. He gazes at the witcher with no sign of fear or surprise, but he keeps his distance. The shirt and the shaggy coat he wore look far too big for him.
For a long while the man and the boy eye each other in an awkward silence. Finally the boy takes one more reluctant step forward.
"You're feeling better", he says. It is neither a statement, nor a question. The witcher tries to stand straight, but when he lets go of the bed frame, the wound in his leg sears with pain that is sharper than before. He hisses and relents, sitting back on the bed.
"How long have I been here?", he rasps, looking at the kid from under his eye. The boy broods for a moment.
"Four moons passed, aye. The fifth is going now. Mama said that if you didn't get better, there would be trouble. Did you get better?", he asks.
The witcher nods.
"Who is your mother, kid? When will she be back?"
The boy shrugged.
"Mama is mama, aye. She'll be back soon. She's with the horses, aye. Wanted to help, but she wouldn't let me. Nice horse you have".
The witcher listens to this rant with a little confusion. He is just about to ask more questions, when the door creaks again. Both the boy and the witcher look that way.
A woman comes in. She does not look like a young silly thing to him, but he cannot be sure how old she is - it is never easy to tell with the women from the country. Her skin is tawny, blushed by the sun, and her hair is fawn and flurry like combed wool. She has eyes that are gray as steel, bright and sharp. She is rather short and of dense build. Her arms look strong and her back is firm and wide. It is obvious to him that she is no stranger to hard work and strain. When she comes into the light glowing from the hearth he notices the pearly patterns of scars on her arms, neck and face. One of them runs like a crescent moon from her ear and through her cheek. Three more, thin and pale, cut through the line of her jaw. She lifts her hand to sweep her hair from her neck and he sees that two fingers on her left hand are missing.
"Miron, clean up. We're gonna eat in a moment", she says to the boy. Her voice is deep, low and rusty, but soft. It has a nice ring to it. The witcher observes her in silence, not knowing what to do or say. She seems not to notice him. She comes to the trunks that are huddled by the wall, opens one of them and starts to untie her leather jacket. When she is done, she tosses it into the chest. Now she's wearing only a shirt. She rolls her sleeves up and comes closer to the hearth. He sees more scars on her lower arms. They have all kinds of different shades and sizes. She bends down towards the cauldron, frowns and stirs its contents with a wooden ladle. Then from above the fireplace she takes a bowl, fills it and approaches the witcher.
"Don't stand up yet", she says to him calmly, handing him the bowl. "Yer wounds are quick to heal, but you're still weak. Gonna hurt yourself".
He takes the bowl and props it on his knees. For a while he watches this strange woman who shared her roof and her food with him. She looks at him. Her eyes are calm and bright. He does not know what to think. Finally he realizes he has not spoken yet. He grunts.
"Thank you", he says, turning his gaze to the bowl in his hands. His words linger in the air.
There is a thick broth in his bowl, glistening with grease and smelling intensely of savory and rosemary. There are a few strips of meat and chunks of carrot. It has been a long time since he last ate something like this. He did not want to waste his coin on good food in the inns along the road. In Kaer Morhen they ate like this only when there were sorceresses at the table. Lately there have not been many occasions for that.
The woman nods and turns back to the cauldron to make portions for herself and for the kid. As she is putting the bowls on the table, she says to him:
"Four days you've been in my home, witcher. Since we can eat supper together at last, it would be good to know your name".
Her bright eyes lay on him briefly as she speaks.
"Eskel", he answers and then he immediately adds the questions that have been bugging him since he woke up in this strange home: "How did I get here? And why?".
"I am Wszebora and this is Miron, my son. You're here, because you needed help", she says with simple firmness, looking him in the eyes.
"I needed help", he agrees, turning his gaze to the pants that were borrowed to him. On one of the legs there is a speck of crimson that was not there before. "It does not mean you were supposed to help", he adds.
The woman eyes him calmly. She raises her brows a little as if she urges him to continue. He scowls and makes a short, fitful gesture.
"Folks usually don't hasten to aid the witchers. It would probably be better for you if I had not come back for the prize. Then why…", he quiets down and shakes his head a little.
She props her elbows on the table and sighs. She tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear and then shrugs.
"The way I see it, no right for any folk to get eaten by the wolves", she says.
"A folk, right. But a witcher is another story", he replies grimly.
"What wrong is there in being a witcher?", she raises her gaze to him again and frowns, her patience seemingly growing thin. "You're just the same as we are. Just better with a sword, I suppose, since you killed the monster".
He smiles grimly, with a sneer.
"Most of the time that's enough to fear us. Or even hate us".
"Hate usually comes easy", she mumbles with indifference in her voice. She seems preoccupied with stirring her broth with a spoon.
Eskel looks down to his own bowl.
"It comes easier to spit than to look a witcher in the eyes. Some of the folks are grateful, but to offer a helping hand…", he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to her.
"It's you who helped us. With the monster", she interrupts him. There's firmness in her voice, but it does not sound sharp. "What you earned is to not die in the woods alone, at least".
Before he has a chance to answer, the door creaks and a young girl comes in. She resembles an elf a little - she is tall and pale, but frail, almost bony. The lines of her face are straight and regular, but her skin is scarred with red traces of smallpox. Her hair is as fawn as Wszebora's, but hers is longer, smooth and kept in a long, tidy braid. Her dress is too loose and her limbs seem to be too long, which makes her move with shy awkwardness. She clutches a small wicker basket.
Her appearance makes Miron liven up. Up to this moment he has been sharing his attention between his meal and the conversation of his mother and the witcher. Now he shouts with excitement:
"Cudka, look! You herbs did the work! The witcher's well, aye!".
The girl freezes at this exclamation and looks towards the bed Eskel is sitting on. Her eyes are big, doe-like, now wide open with fear. She looks abashed. She pales and that makes the pox scars stand out on her cheeks and brow. He greets her with a nod of his head and she shivers, as if he insulted her. She puts the basket on the table and goes to the other room without saying a word.
Wszebora follows her with her gaze. When the girl disappears, she looks back to the witcher. She frowns.
"She does not do well with strangers. But she helped when a fever took hold on you. I stitched your wounds up, but there was nothing I could do when they started to fester. But she knows her way around herbs. I don't know how, but she helped, even though I was sure we would need to dig a grave", she says.
The witcher looks towards the curtain that separates both rooms. The way the girl reacted to him is exactly what he is used to, but he holds no grudge. If she indeed was the one to keep his flesh from rotting and leaking pus after his fight with the cockerel, he feels nothing but thankful. He lifts his bowl to his lips and drinks. The broth is good, thick and savoury. He eats the rest in silence and then he puts the bowl away onto the stool that stands next to his bed.
"Thank you for the food. And for your help", he says quietly. "I won't strain your hospitality any further. Your boy said that my horse's here".
"It is", she says calmly, standing up from behind the table. "Beautiful beast it is. Unruly as hell, but clever. It came here from the woods. That's how I knew your odds were poor. If it wasn't for the horse, I would not go into the forest".
There's suddenly an old memory slipping up in Eskel's mind. He remembers how Geralt mocked him that destiny bound him to his horse. Eskel smiles dryly to his thoughts. Geralt, that son of a bitch, was right exactly when he wasn't aware of that.
Eskel stands up heavily and then he staggers. From the corner of his eye he sees that Wszebora slowly strolls from behind the table and then leans against it with her arms folded on her chest, looking at him. He makes two awkward, wobbly steps. He blinks. There is a hum in his ears. His weakened body does not want to listen to him. His legs are like two logs of wood, the one that the cockerel ravaged even more so than the other. The still unhealed wounds throb with a dull, persistent pain. He knows he needs to find an inn to rest for a few days. That damned cockerel really did him good. He makes a few more strained steps. The room rocks in his eyes. He intends to take his swords, mount his horse and go away. He nearly manages the first of these tasks, when with another step a searing pain rips through his leg. It feels like a glowing skewer was plunged into his thigh. He has just enough time to curse and look down. He sees a growing splotch of crimson on his pants. He feels his leg give out under him like a broken twig. He raises his arms, but there is nothing to hold onto. Before he falls a pair of small, but strong hands grab him and stop him halfway to the floor.
"Told you that you're still weak, but it seems that witchers are no less stubborn than other men", he hears a voice somewhere close to his ear. It sounds impatient and a little amused at the same time. She puts her arm around his waist. He lets her guide him back towards the bed. At the sight of the scowl on his face she smiles faintly for the first time this evening.
"You're allowed to be weak just like we are", she says. "We do not cast you out. In this home we do not expel our guests into the cold and dark with nothing but a shirt on their backs. Respect our hospitality. Rest. You'll go on the road when you're ready".
He does not know how to answer. The kindness and care this strange woman treats him with seem so foreign he almost cannot understand it. Finally he nods his head in surrender. He knows she's right - he wouldn't be able to stay in the saddle or walk. He does not want to fall face-first into the mud in her yard. There is nothing he can do about all this.
Wszebora turns towards the table where the boy is still sitting, waving his legs and watching them.
"Go to Cudka", she says to him. "Time to sleep".
For a while longer he gazes in turns to his mother and to the witcher. Finally he climbs down the stool and comes to his mother, who embraces him for a while. Then, one more time, he looks curiously towards their peculiar visitor and finally vanishes beneath the curtain that covers the entrance to the other room.
Wszebora turns back towards the witcher.
"May I?", she asks, pointing towards his blood-soaked leg. He hesitates for a moment and nods. She kneels down in front of him and helps him take the trousers off. She does not seem moved at all with the fact that she undresses a stranger in her own home. Eskel does his best to stifle the embarrassment. When the trousers are taken off they see a dressing damp and heavy with blood.
"I'm sorry for the pants", he mumbles quietly. She casts him a quick glance and shrugs.
"There are things that are harder to wash off than blood", she says. "I'll give you another pair. All these clothes lay in the chests anyway".
While she is talking, she unties the cloth that covers his wounds. Her hands are cautious, but unhesitant. He muffles a groan when the cloth unsticks from his skin. The twine that binds his wound is thick and hoarse, but the stitches are tight and even. They prove precision and experience. The stitch is torn in one place and there is blood leaking from the wound, but Eskel knows that he is at fault here. All in all, he still expected much worse.
Wszebora too eyes the wound with caution.
"I can stitch it back if you want", she offers. "But I have nothing to give you for the pain. I already used up all of the milk of the poppy on you and I will not give you booze. It will make the blood gush even more."
"It's fine", he says with a shrug. "I'm used to the pain."
She rises up and after a while she comes back with a small case. She pulls out a spool of twine, a needle and a small flask. She uncorks it and a smell of alcohol fills the air. Wszebora wipes the needle with her shirt and pours some liquid from the flask onto it. She strings the twine into the needle and leans over the witcher's thigh. She puts her hand on it. He grits his teeth as the needle prickles his skin. The feeling of tugging that sear and sting is familiar and as unpleasant as ever. The cool touch of a small, feminine hand is unfamiliar, but pleasant. It's soothing. After a while Wszebora straightens up and examines her work with a furrowed brow. The wound is burning red and swollen, but the stitches that bind its edges are once again thick and even. Wszebora covers the wound with a fresh dressing and tosses the old one into the fire.
While she is placing her utensils back in the case, he asks to end the silence:
"How come you're so good at it? Tending to the wounds, I mean. Is there a medic here that taught you?".
Wszebora briefly raises her gaze to him, but then she is looking back at the case tucked on her knees. Her face is unreadable, but he doesn't fail to notice that her hand stopped mid-air for just a second.
"I was married to a huntsman", she says calmly, with no emotion to her voice whatsoever. "Many a time he came back mauled. I needed to know how to put him back together".
"Where is he now?", he asks.
She closes her case and stands up. She smiles, but the smile seems grim.
"When a folk comes upon a hungry bear in the woods, there is not much to put back together", she says.
He turns his gaze to his own hands. He's not surprised with her answer. He's not very moved either. He's heard too many of the stories just like this one.
"I'm sorry", he says anyway. It seems his words linger heavily in the air between them. Wszebora is quiet for a long while.
"Rest, witcher. And be so kind not to get up any more. I don't fancy stitching you again", she finally says, as she looks into the fire. Her gaze seems distant. She casts him a brief look. "Gnight".
Long after she leaves he sits, brooding, with his gaze turned towards the moon that looms behind the window. When he finally falls into a deep slumber, he dreams of blood and white ghosts that gleam brightly in a dark forest.