Book
A/N: The first of a number of small fics on my tumblr page which I wrote for my December Writing Challenge! Akela is about 8.
Summary: After a long day, Akela asks Geralt to read her a story before bed.
The days were long.
And hard.
The days were long and hard.
They'd always been that way, but he'd noticed it more recently.
He'd been staying at an inn for the past four days, hunting, raking in some coin to keep himself and Akela going for the next months. He'd spilled more blood in those days than he had for a while. Bad blood, yes, but blood all the same. And he was tired.
Yet, every day, when he returned to the inn, sword freshly wiped clean from black and red and yellow, his spirits lifted. Not much, but seeing Akela sat there on the bed, quietly talking to herself, or scribbling on a piece of parchment the innkeeper had given her… the trials of the day washed away, and his mind cleared, and he allowed himself a breath of air.
It'd been a kikimora today. He'd almost died. Twice. Or perhaps three times… he wasn't sure. He'd forgotten most of it while washing away the dirt and the grime and the blood in a lake before heading to the room.
Anyway. He'd killed it, and now here he was, back at the one place he'd wished he was all day, lying stone still on a bed with his hands crossed on his stomach while Akela ran around the room like a little lunatic, wielding a stick, his witcher medallion hanging low around her neck.
He didn't even blink as she leaped onto the bed, climbing inelegantly over his legs and to the other side. The crack on the ceiling he'd been staring at for the past twenty minutes was progressively getting blurrier, and he was only just realising it was because his eyes were slowly shutting with sheer exhaustion.
Heaving a deep breath, he sat up, just in time to catch the girl around the middle and flop her down on her back in front of him.
"Bedtime," he said simply, wrenching the stick from her hands as she giggled uproariously. He mentally sighed at her pure energy.
"I fought a kikimora!" she told him, panting even as he discarded the stick on the floor. He made to pull the medallion off as well but left it when he noticed her hand curled around it, likely subconsciously.
"Did you?" he asked, tiredness laced throughout his voice.
"Yep, and I won. Just like you!"
He didn't answer, instead reaching for a corner of the blanket to pull back. Akela, thankfully, crawled under and lay down on her side of the bed—at least until he settled back, and she shuffled over so she was curled up neatly against his chest, still clinging onto his medallion.
"Will you tell me a story?" she asked quietly, peering up at him.
Geralt hummed. "Once upon a time, Akela fell asleep. The end."
Akela giggled. "No! A proper story."
He ignored the tiny hands that came up to play with his hair. "I'm tired, Akela," he said softly. As softly as he could manage, anyway.
"I'm not! Stories make me tired."
"Your selflessness amazes me."
"Thank you!"
"That was a joke."
"It wasn't a very oblivious one."
"Obvious."
"Oblivious. Can you tell me a story about a kikimora?"
"Once upon a time, a kikimora fell asleep. The end."
And her giggles rang in his ears, causing a corner of his lips to curl absently upwards.
Yes… the days were long.
But they were worth it.
