The sword that lays on the witcher's knees glistens in the gleam of fire. The whetstone rasps and squeaks in a steady rhythm. The witcher feels calm. For some reason the process of grooming his weapons, the sounds and the patient, monotonous moves, always soothes and quietens his mind. It's also calm all around him. The quiet, gentle song Cudka's been rocking Miron to sleep with died out and now the hut is all silent. There's just the low, ringing sound of the whetstone grinding against steel and the cracking of wood in the hearth. Somewhere from afar the children laugh and scream and women call for supper. There's a distant buzz of chatter. The dogs bark. The night is near and the village readies to rest.
The witcher puts the whetstone away and lifts his blade. He examines it carefully, weighs it in his hand, touches the edge with his thumb. Then he sheathes it and props it against the wall just by his bed. He turns towards the fire, folds his arms over his chest and sighs deeply. His swords are ready and his wounds are almost healed. There are just days left until he can return to the road. He longs for it. He knows he owes these women all there is to owe, but he knows he's not welcome in this house. He knows that because of him their peace and quiet is disturbed. He knows that his presence here lures the attention of the whole village. He hasn't been going out further than to the stables, but he knows he is being noticed. The smallfolk love gossip. It's a big thing to have a wounded witcher in the village. When this wounded witcher is harbored in a house with no other man in it, it's already a revelation. And it's also a trouble for women who harbor him. He feels ashamed of this. He botched his work. The fight with the cockerel was messy and ill-prepared. The mistakes he made should not have happened. He knows that his brothers would roll laughing if they saw the trouble he'd had with a mere dragon. Then they would mock him about it to no end. And there are also these women - strange, secretive, stubborn women, who nurture him even though there's no gain in it for them. Even though they put themselves at risk by doing it. He thinks there is a secret in this house, one that can be threatened by his presence. He doesn't want to harm them. Whatever that secret is, it doesn't matter to him. The only thing that counts is that they helped him. It's yet another thing that chews at his pride. He's not used to being in need of help. Women's help especially. If it was Geralt right here in his place, he wouldn't think for two seconds about a witcher's pride and honor. He would know how to make use of the circumstances. But he's not like Geralt. He cannot be for a variety of reasons. All he wants is to give these women their ordinary life back. A life without monsters lurking in the woods and witchers bleeding out on their doorstep. He thinks it may be the best way to repay the debt after all.
He turns around and looks towards the door. There's the sound of footsteps getting near that lures him back from his grim broodings. The footsteps are light, so they're feminine, but they're also quick and dashing. The door creaks and Wszebora comes in. He nods to her in greeting and she greets him back, but she doesn't say a word. She seems distracted and absent minded. She goes past him in silence and with far too much force tosses two hares onto the table. They're both shot cleanly through their skulls. Then she turns to the basin that stands next to the hearth. She kneels down, gathers some water in her hands and cleans her face. She stays like that for a while, with wet hands pressed to her eyes, and then she sighs deeply. He cannot tell if she's irritated or tired or both. She tucks damp locks of her hair behind her ears and straightens up. She looks at the witcher. There's still a small crease between her furrowed brows and her arms are stiff, but when she speaks, her voice is calm:
"Do you drink, witcher? Or does your guild forbid it?".
He lifts his brows a little and grunts. It's not the kind of question he would expect.
"Sometimes", he mumbles. "But it's been long since there was an occasion for that".
She looks at him from the corner of her eye, no smile on her lips. She frowns a little. She seems impatient.
"What occasion do you need to drink?", she asks, her voice a little daring. "A special one, I suppose?".
He shrugs.
"Wouldn't say that. Me and my brothers drink a lot when we're in Kaer Morhen. Our keep", he pauses for a moment and grimaces at the thought. "And it's usually an ugly business".
She's bent over a chest and she casts him a look over her shoulder. It looks like she wants to inquire further, but all she does is lift her brows a little and turn her attention back to the chest. When she straightens up, there is a wicker-pleated bottle in her hand and two jagged wooden mugs in the other. She puts it all on the table and uncorks the bottle. An intense smell of alcohol and fruit fills the air. She fills both mugs with a ruby liquor and then she looks expectantly at the witcher.
He folds his arms over his chest, then unfolds them, rubs his neck, sighs and grimaces with tiredness.
"It's really not a good idea", he mumbles sullenly.
She doesn't seem fazed with his protest. She sits behind the table, takes one of the mugs and puts the other one on the opposite side of the table. She's looking him in the eyes as she rolls both sleeves of her shirt up. She props her elbows on the table. He's not moving, so she takes her mug and drinks from it, then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
"If you need a special occasion, witcher, I just came up with one. You're still alive and the beast from our forest is not", she says in a low, scratchy voice.
He feels her piercing, expectant gaze on himself. For a while he looks into the fire, thinking about what he should say. He really does not fancy this idea. The alcohol, the village booze especially, causes nothing but turmoil and problems. He knows that from experience. But he doesn't want to be disrespectful to her with his refusal. He's strained her hospitality enough already. All in all, he thinks to himself with resignation, it's really been a while since he had a proper drink. Geralt promised him a bottle of Mahakam's spirit as the reward from the horse race, but there's no telling when they will see each other again. Especially if the rumors are true and Geralt fancies the Toussaint wines over booze now.
He takes one of the stools and sits down, then takes the mug, nods to Wszebora and drinks a little. The booze is as strong as he expected, but it's also pretty good. The black currants, blackberries and other wild fruits leave a nice, soury-sweet sting on the tongue. Wszebora watches him, so he nods in approval and drinks some more. Satisfied, she smiles a little, drinks too and then turns her gaze to the flames in the hearth. They sit quiet for a while, but the silence doesn't bother him.
He drinks and he observes her. She's still sullen and lost in her thoughts, so his gaze goes unnoticed. She's a little hunched over, relaxed. She grips the mugs with both of her hands. Her gaze is fixed on the flames and there's this one little crease between her brows. He watches her with no hurry and without insistence, noticing the details he's not been able to observe earlier.
There's a lot of scars on her. Apart from the ones he noticed when he saw her for the first time, there are many more, some small and some bigger, of many shapes and different shades. He searches for them now and examines them with the curiosity of a professional. Three pale, thin lines above her collarbone that appear discreetly behind the lacing of her shirt look like they were left by the claws of a wolf or a wild dog. It must've been a nasty business, he thinks. She must have fallen on her back to be hurt like this. A pale pink, round scar up her left wrist might be a trace of the same fight. He imagines her guarding her face and throat with one hand and using the other to grab a knife and shove it into the wolf's guts. On many occasions he's saved some little knights from a peril like this.
Two raised, concurrent scars in the shape of crescent moon on the back of her hand seem to be the work of a big cat, a lynx maybe, or a wildcat. There are others too: nets of tiny, pale scars on her hands and lower arms; pinkly livid scar on her neck, covered a little with a lock of her fawn hair; two round stumps in place of her third and little finger.
She's not bad looking. The scars give her a coarse look that doesn't match her curly, fuzzy hair and the gentle lines of her face. Just like it is with many women that spend their days in the sun and wind, her skin is tawny and ruddy, specked with tiny freckles. Her eyes are what draws his attention the most. They're big and bright and their gaze is piercing. Now they're squinted and lost in thoughts. Those eyes keep coming back to him in his dreams, dreams filled with blood and howling beasts. They gleam in the darkness, brightly and strangely, like two lone lanterns.
He downs his mug and puts it back on the table. The sound of it makes Wszebora stir. She takes the bottle and fills both mugs again. She drinks a little, then she sighs and tucks away a lock of hair.
"You'll be gone soon, witcher", she says. It's neither a question, nor a statement, but there's no hostility in her voice. The alcohol smoothened the crease between her browns and rounded her stiff shoulders.
"Yes", he mumbled. "Enough trouble you had with me".
She looks at him for a long while, scraping the jagged edge of the mug with her fingers. Finally she snorts and smiles a little.
"Aye. But I don't regret taking you from the forest", she says.
"I still don't know why you did it".
Now he's the one to cast her a piercing look, but she doesn't seem abashed by it. She returns his gaze with the small, taunting smile still on her lips.
"I already told you when you've asked for the first time. We owe you our peace, so it was only right to help".
He frowns.
"Sorry, but I don't really believe in selfless care".
He drinks from his mug, puts it back on the table and speaks again:
"To be honest, I don't really believe in human decency at all".
She leans forward a little and rests her chin on her folded hands.
"Looks to me that you've had a tough way with people, witcher".
He looks at her and drinks from his mug again. She smiles.
"Folks are scum. Nothing special in that", she says with no emotion. "May be that's why I helped you. Just in spite of all that muck".
They both fall silent for a while. In the shadows by the wall there's a bow that suddenly catches the witcher's eye. There's artistry in its delicate shapes. He cannot tell for sure without taking it into his hand, but the wood the bow is made from seems to be the juniper. If so, it must be flexible and durable. A fine weapon. The witcher thinks of the hares with arrows in their skulls that Wszebora brought. He thinks of the scars that trace her skin so thickly. He turns his gaze to her.
"When your husband died…", he starts slowly. She looks at him, unmoved, expectant. "Of all the things, why hunting?".
She does not seem embarrassed with his question. She doesn't avert her gaze. She's silent for a while, then she raises her mug, downs it and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she sighs and tucks a wavy lock of her fawn hair behind her ear.
"I wasn't very eager to remarry", she says slowly, carefully choosing her words. "I knew that the moment a man comes into this home I'll soon be with child. And for Miron it'd be rough".
She stops for a moment, rests her chin on her hands and looks into the dying fire.
"To be honest, I'm better off alone anyway. But the kid needs to eat, when winter comes. So I took the bow".
He reaches for the bottle and pours in silence. She averts her gaze from the flames, nods to thank him and takes her mug. They both drink. Now Eskel too props his elbows on the table.
"And Cudka?", he asks.
Wszebora looks at him and lifts her brows a little.
"What about her?"
"You mentioned Miron. You said that if you were to remarry, it would mean a hard fate for him. Then what about Cudka?"
"She's not mine".
Wszebora clasps her hands together and rests her chin upon them. She gazes at something over the witcher's head.
"She's my brother's daughter. A fever took him when she was still a snot. So we took her in".
"And her mother?"
Wszebora straightens up and lifts her mug. Her gaze is now distant and heavy.
"Truth be told, I don't know who her mother was or what fate befell her. One day Jarylo came back to the village with a kid. He would get furious when I asked about it, so at one point I stopped asking".
He nods. Wszebora props her elbows on the table again and tilts her head to the side. She looks at him with her eyes squinted a little.
"And what about you, witcher?", she asks in a low, raspy voice.
"What about me?", he repeats.
She smiles with that tiny, sour smile that could mean everything or nothing.
"Why hunting?"
Now he's the one smiling - his smile is grim and lopsided. He takes a long drink from his mug.
"There wasn't any why. I didn't get to choose".
"And if you could?"
Her gaze is careful, but not insistent. She rests her cheek on her hand. Eskel grimaces with sudden iritation.
"Hell if I know what I would do if I could", he mutters. "I do what I am trained for, I kill the monsters in filth and in blood and all I get for that is poor coin and no gratitude".
The crease that appears again between her brows tells him that his little rant was louder and gruffier than he had intended. He drinks and shakes his head a little.
"If those singing bastards knew what the witcher's life really looked like, there wouldn't be this many ballads", he says, his voice flat.
She snorts. Her smile grows a little wider and she lifts her brows.
"If they sang about what life really looked like - any life, not necessarily a witcher's one - folks would not clap, but chase them with sticks", she says and then drinks from her mug.
He fixes his gaze on his swords.
"Unless it's the White Wolf they sing about. That's proper ballad material", he mutters more to himself than to her. She eyes him cautiously.
"Seems you hold many grudges, witcher".
Eskel sighs, rubs his eyes with his hand and then he pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry for that. I'm just… tired".
She nods her head and says nothing. Instead she takes the bottle, shakes it a little and frowns. She raises from behind the table and goes to the same chest she rummaged through earlier. There's a muffled sound of clinking and clatter and when she straightens up there's a satisfied smile on her face and a bulgy dark bottle in her hand. She puts it on the table.
"I reckon it's a fruit wine", she says, uncorking it.
She sits back and folds her arms on the table and he asks:
"Why were you so angry when you got back?"
Wszebora purses her lips. She casts him a look that's strangely stubborn and tired at the same time.
"The village's elder", she mutters. "He doesn't really fancy the idea of you being here. He thinks that there should be a man in this house".
"Shouldn't there be?"
She looks at him from under her eye, but a moment later she snorts and lights up a little.
"A lass can run a home just the way lads do. If I need a man here, it's not because I don't know how to care for what's mine".
He drinks from his mug and raises from the table. He realizes that the alcohol has already done its job. Everything around him sways gently as he goes to the back door. His steps are a bit wobbly and there's a soft hum in his ears. The chill of the night sobers him up a little. He relieves himself and sighs heavily. He looks towards the quiet, dark village. A dog barks somewhere from afar. The crickets buzz loudly in the nearby meadows.
Wszebora isn't there when he comes back. He lowers himself heavily onto the stool, finishes his drink and promises to himself that it's the last one. The door creaks and Wszebora appears, closing it gently behind herself. She comes closer to the table. He looks at her and sees that the booze has worked its way with her too. Her gait is more relaxed, her moves gentle and unhurried. His gaze wanders to her hips that are swaying. It's not what they usually do.
She sits down and he sees that her cheeks are flushed and her gaze is a bit glassy, even though still sharp. He swallows and moves his mug away. Wszebora rests her chin on her hand and glares at him.
"You're done, witcher?", she asks gruffly. Her lips are chapped. When she's sitting like that, half-laying on the table, it's hard not to notice that the lacing of her shirt has loosened up. There are tiny beads of sweat glistening between her breasts.
He grunts.
"I think I'm gonna go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll finish packing for the road", he says.
He's already in the middle of standing up, when she says:
"Looks like it's been a while since you had a woman".
It doesn't sound as if she's playing with him, but he also doesn't believe that she wants to mock him or chide him for eyeing her cleavage. It's just a rather flat statement. He sits back down and grimaces.
"A long while", he admits.
"Why?"
He gives her a telling look, but she's still gazing at him expectantly, so he sighs and points towards his face. His gesture is sharp, impatient.
"Haven't you noticed how I look? Women don't really fancy a man with chapped meat for a face". He quiets down for a moment and frowns. "If you haven't got the coin, that is. But a heavy purse isn't usually a bother for a witcher".
She's quiet for a moment, as if she's contemplating his words. Her gaze wanders slowly, carefully along his scars. He's feeling awkward.
"You're pitying yourself, witcher", she declares at last, quietly and calmly. He looks at her from under his eye, but the scars that mar her face and arms cool down his irritation. Suddenly he feels ashamed, as if there was an unwitting insult in what he just said. He still feels her gaze on himself. The silence between them is getting thick.
"So what are you saying? That women don't mind looks?", he asks finally. He means his words to be ironic, but they come out coarse. They show off his resentment that he'd rather hide. He doesn't look directly at her, but he sees that she's smiling.
"They sure do. But not every lass mind what you think they do".
"And how about you?"
She straightens up a little and tilts her head.
"I see a man just like any other, witcher, so don't get flattered", she says. She sounds a little amused. "And the rest of it? It's just what you do. Have you been a smith, your hands would be red. Have you been a herbalist, your back would be crooked. But you're a witcher, so the scars are what you get. You're not a monster because of that".
He gazes at her quietly for a long while. He's sullen and unconvinced. She's calm as she looks at him, grazing the jagged edge of her mug. Finally she raises it, drinks and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She doesn't look away from him as she stands up and goes around the table. She sits on the edge, tilts her head and looks down. He follows her gaze just to see that she propped her hands on the table so close to his own that they're almost touching. She slowly reaches out to him and grazes the side of his hand with the tips of her fingers. Then she touches his wrist and his arm. His skin crawls under this gentle, curious touch. It itches and pulses like the sting of a nettle. The blood rushes to his head. He straightens up on his stool with the intention to move away and say something cold and reserved to wake them both up from this stupor. But Wszebora is getting none of it. She leans toward him. He can feel her breath on his face, it's hot and smells of alcohol. Then he can feel her mouth on his own. She touches his lip with her tongue and now it's not pulsing, but violent thudding in his ears. He hasn't got a woman for so very long. Still - he's not drunk enough for this. He moves away, panting, as if he was fifteen, not one hundred and twenty. He grabs her arm and tries to catch her gaze.
"Wszebora…", he starts coarsely. She moves away a little. Impatient, she tucks away a lock of hair that's damp with sweat. She hisses to quiet him. She watches him from very close and her eyes are glassy and squinted. She puts one hand on his neck and covers the scars on his cheek with the other. She grazes them with her fingertips and he shivers. She leans even closer, so close that their foreheads are almost touching.
"Stop pitying yourself, witcher", she whispers hoarsely, still grazing his scars with her fingers. Her thumb moves to his lip, to that place where a scar moves it upwards. Her touch is soft and gentle like a caress. "You're no monster. Come to me". She closes her eyes. Her lips are just inches away from his. "Come", she urges him quietly and he finally obeys. He embraces her with his arms and pulls her closer, puts his hands under her shirt and closes them around her breasts. She purrs contently as he squeezes them. In return she starts to sway her hips a little. She puts an arm around her waist to pull her closer, but she puts her hands on his chest and moves away. He lets her go, panting and disoriented. He watches her as she stands up and he thinks that she must have changed her mind, that he somehow put her off, but all she does is take a few swaying steps back. Never looking away from him, she smiles just a little and tugs at the lacing of her shirt. She unlaces it with slow, calm movements and then takes it off. Her breasts bounce a little, hardened with the sudden cold, as she bends down to take her pants off too. Then she stands before him bare naked.
The red glow of flames dying in the hearth behind her back makes the lines of her body soft and faded. His gaze wanders along these lines. She lets him watch her. She doesn't cover herself or avert her gaze. There's a laxity and openness about her that's nothing like the brash frivolity of the prostitutes or the lustfullness of the sorceresses. Her breasts are soft and a little flabby from the feeding. On her belly there are whitish stretch marks. On her arms and chest he sees some more scars that were hidden underneath her shirt. There's a soft, fawn fuzz between her legs.
He likes what he sees. He grabs the twine of his own shirt and tugs at it. The way he does it is awkward and too rash at the same time. She keeps looking at him, calm and patient. He takes off his pants and steps forward. He pulls her close and kisses her. At first there's insistence in his kiss, but soon it becomes calmer and slack. As he moves with his kisses to her neck, he starts to explore the scents of her body. Her fair, soft hair has the smell of the forest and the herbs - the pine needles, maybe the rosemary. He moves lower to find the salty scent of her sweat and the sour aroma of lavender she might have used to stack her clothes with. There were also other scents - the smell of damp soil and the burning wood and shabby leather. Finally, as he kneels in front of her, he finds the smell he's been looking for - the sour scent of her arousal.
A low, raspy groan comes out of her mouth when he touches her and she props herself against the bed frame. She kisses him languidly when he raises. Her tongue wanders into his mouth and her hand creeps between his thighs. Her caress is slow and delicate. He uses one arm to hold her close and the other to squeeze her round ass, which makes her purr. They move onto the bed, she folds her legs over his back and he grabs her hip tightly. The rhythm they catch is slow and swaying. The alcohol they've drunk is making the entire room sway as well as they move. Her bright eyes are glistening in the warm, sultry dusk. He can feel her hot breath on his chest. At some moment she presses herself to him, her body stiff, and he tucks a lock of hair away from her forehead and places a wet kiss on it. Then he squeezes his eyes and stills himself. He slides off her and lies down on his back next to her. He looks at the ceiling that seems red with the gleam of dying fire and listens to the beating of her heart. With each thud it's calmer and sleepier. There's silence between them. She turns to him and slowly raises her hand. She traces lines across his arm and chest with her fingers and he feels calm and relaxed under her touch. He closes his eyes. The air is heavy and has a salty smell. It smells of the dying fire, of the wolf pelts and of something more - something sour and soily. He slowly turns his head and buries his nose in her fawn hair that's tangled on his arm. It smells of her. He likes this scent.
"You see, witcher…", she starts with a lazy, husky voice. She raises her head a little to look at him. "If I need a man here, it's not for managing… It's exactly for what we've just done".
He feels that an unwitting smile creeps onto his lips. The scar on his mouth tugs at his skin as it always does. He pulls Wszebora closer.
When he wakes up, the light that comes in through the window is pale and cold and everything seems devoid of color. He blinks sleepily and turns to his side to look for Wszebora. She sits on the edge of the bed with her back to him, tying her boots. The creaking of the bed makes her straighten back up and look at him over her shoulder.
"Sleep some more, witcher", she says quietly. "It's still a while until morning".
He rubs his face with his hand and rises up.
"What are you doing?", he asks. He looks at her as she tucks her fawn hair away and braids it into a knot. Then she rises up and buttons up her leather, studded jacket.
She casts him a brief look as she bustles around. She pulls two large sacks from one of the chests and puts them by the door. She takes her bow and hangs it on her shoulder.
"There's a fair in another village. I need to sell some pelts and dried meat".
He nods. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks for his clothes. He's in the middle of putting his shirt on when Wszebora stops by the door, with the bow and the sacks on her shoulder, and looks at him once again.
"I'll be back at dusk. Will you still be there by then, witcher?", she asks.
"I'll grab my things and go on the road. I've burdened you for far too long".
She nods.
"A goodbye it is, then", she says calmly. She comes to him and puts a hand on his neck to gently pull him down and place a light kiss on his cheek. Her hot breath tickles the sensitive skin on the edges of his scars. Eskel doesn't know how to respond to that, what to do with his hands. He's not used to farewells that don't involve paying. The memory of their last night - warm and intimate - still tickles his skin and lips. There's a part of him that doesn't want to let her go. He wants to take her into his arms and carry her back to bed, cover her with the wolf pelts and bury them both back in the sultry, sleepy warmth, but he knows it's not possible. She surely knows that too and that's why she doesn't let him embarrass himself. She takes a step back and smiles a little.
"Be well, witcher", she says with that vibrant, raspy voice.
And with that she turns around, secures the sacks on her arm and leaves. The sour, soily smell of rosemary and lavender still lingers in the air after she leaves.