Sticks and Stones
A/N: This is another show-aligned chapter, though it's another exception to Akela's timeline, as she's born 13 years after Renfri dies.
Akela's about 17.
Summary: After Renfri's death, Akela finds Geralt surrounded by a crowd of people throwing stones at him and yelling at him to die. Needless to say, she reacts in the only way possible. Like a witcher.
It was far easier to hate people than like them.
Renfri proved that.
Had done from the first moment Akela had met her, sidling up to Geralt at the bar of an inn in Blaviken they'd only stopped at because she'd begged him for a break. Then Renfri had started talking about things she couldn't understand. Destiny. A girl in the woods he apparently would be unable to outrun. Stupid things that came from stupid, senseless people.
And she'd looked at Akela weird, too.
It wasn't that all of this made her glad when Geralt killed her… no. He hadn't liked it, and so she hadn't liked it. But she couldn't help but feel some sort of happiness that the woman was no longer living. She'd distracted Geralt enough the few days he'd known her, and a distracted Geralt wasn't a normal Geralt. It wasn't a Geralt Akela particularly liked.
So, no. She wasn't glad she was dead. Rather, she was glad her influence was.
She hadn't seen it happen. She'd told him she'd go in search of food for the journey she was sure they'd be leaving on soon and had been walking back the way she'd come when the bustle and shouts of a large crowd caught her attention.
Her eyes narrowed in confusion, and she stood up on the tips of her toes in order to see over the heads, but there were so many people it'd been almost impossible. A girl raced past her, carrying a handful of stones, and Akela watched, rooted to the spot, as she forced her way through the crowd and launched them at the middle.
There was someone there. That part had been obvious. The only way she'd known it was Geralt was when the cacophonous chorus of "Die, Witcher!" reached her ears.
That caused her heart to leap, and she dropped whatever she had in her hands, shoving past people, swearing and pushing and knocking some to the ground. And, when she was close enough, she saw him. He looked defeated. One knee on the floor, head bent, arm raised, sword in hand to protect his head as the crowd threw stones and rocks just as much as they did insults.
A teenage boy behind her readied to do exactly that with a large rock which most certainly would have knocked a human unconscious. Jaw clenched, she wrenched it from his hold, stared him in the eye, and dropped it on his foot, all in the space of two seconds.
His yelp was a mere echo as Akela pushed herself into the centre of the circle, immediately grasping Geralt's shoulders. He stared up at her, and his face morphed into one of slight panic as he saw her there, stones hitting his back and barely flying past her head. He made to pull her to him, and she jerked when a stone hit her temple. Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment before a wave of anger washed over her face and she suddenly and without warning reached for the dagger at his waist. She stood to her feet and pointed it at the crowd, satisfied at the gasps of fear and surprise.
"Throw one more thing at him," she yelled, her voice loud and stonier than Geralt had ever heard it, "and you will not live to regret it. I promise you."
Geralt took the momentary pause in stone throwing to bolt upright and to his feet. He grabbed the arm holding his dagger and took it from her with ease, shoving it back in the sheath by his waist. His hold on her didn't waver as he turned to meet Marilka's eyes, the girl staring at the both of them with a hurt Akela couldn't find it in her to care about.
"Get out of Blaviken, Geralt," Marilka said, her voice trembling. "Don't ever come back."
Geralt gave her a look. Something Akela couldn't decipher. But before she could spit out the word "gladly" he dragged her away with him and out of the town, ignoring the shouts that followed him.
The water from the stream didn't help to calm her anger. She wasn't sure if Geralt had intended to take her there on purpose because it usually did, or if he figured he'd need to clean up anyway. She didn't know. She didn't care.
Currently, the witcher was sat on the wet mud, right next to the bubbling water. His back was up against a tree, and he was quiet, as he had been for the past five minutes. Akela was quiet, too, but her head was beginning to hurt with the amount that was going on inside it as she went back and forth between him and the stream, wetting a rag to dab at the marks the stones had made on his face. He'd said he could do it himself, but she'd told him she wasn't sure how he could clean what he couldn't see, so he'd sat back and let her do it, wiping at the mud and the tiny specks of blood—gently, despite her aggravation.
He'd been watching her for the full five minutes, amber eyes following her every move. Her locked jaw and the way her fists were clenched around the rag. The way her shoulders were so tense he was sure if he touched her back it would be like touching a plank of wood. The conflicted emotions in her eyes. Anger. Fear. Panic. More. All of it was there, swirling in a meld of overwhelming confusion.
She leaned closer to him once more, patting at a smudge of dried blood, and for stupidly the first time, he noticed her own blood, dried on her temple. From where the stone had hit her, he guessed.
He caught her wrist and took the wet rag from her stiff hand. He pulled her closer, thankfully not having to listen to any argument, and swiped gently at the side of her head.
Akela winced and his hand paused, eyes flicking to hers, which were tired and looking anywhere but at him.
Lowering the rag, his chest heaved with a sigh. "You shouldn't have pulled my dagger like that," he said, that rough edge to his tone.
She still wasn't looking at him, but she sank to the ground, picking at a stone embedded in the dirt.
"They were throwing shit at you," she reminded him quietly.
Geralt stared, unblinking. "And you shouldn't have come to me, either. You got hurt. Could've gotten more hurt."
This time, she did look at him. Her eyes, still clouded with those emotions, flicked up to meet his, and they locked. And nothing happened.
"They don't understand everything you've done for them." She dug the small stone into the mud.
Geralt leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. "They're human. It's in their nature."
Akela rolled her eyes. "Fuck humans," she all but spat, and Geralt's face fell for a moment, in a way he had no control over. He watched her bring her knees up to her chest, still incessantly digging with that stone, her fingers brown with mud and white from the pressure.
"Not all of them," he assured her.
"Most of them," she reiterated in a quiet whisper.
Geralt twisted his mouth. "Don't turn on your own kind."
A snarl curled the girl's lips, and she shook her head. "My own kind was throwing rocks at you and damning you for causing a little disruption on their beloved street. To hell with not turning on my own kind. I hate my own kind." And she threw the stone, watching it fall into the stream with a plop and sink to the bottom, a ripple of small waves the only sign it had ever been there.
His mouth opened the smallest bit and his eyes softened. He continued to stare. She was so angry. He could just tell. And it was rare she was ever angry. She had a hold on her temper like no other. But this time, it seemed her fingers had slipped.
"I'm not hurt," he said slowly, dipping his head a little for emphasis. "You think a bit of blood and stones is going to bring me down?"
"No." She snapped her head to him, face a mixture of anger and impatience and something more he couldn't make out. If anything, his own face dropped, and so did hers when she saw it. She blinked quickly, looking away, and her eyes suddenly squeezed shut, tears leaking from under them. He figured they'd been there a while, waiting for her to allow the wall to tumble.
Geralt hummed. He sat forward, grasping her arm, and pulled her closer, until she was settled against his chest. He leaned back again and rubbed her arms.
"Just…" she started again, wiping at the tears trailing down her cheeks. "The things they said… telling you to die… it hurt me."
"I'm used to it, 'Kela. I'm sorry, but I am."
"You shouldn't have to be."
"Maybe."
Akela shut her eyes, turning her face into his chest. The stream settled her. He knew it would.
"I'm sorry I took your dagger," she said eventually.
"I don't want you to be like that."
"Like what?"
"Me."
She lifted her head to stare at him, tight-lipped and otherwise silent. "Okay."
There was an old saying. Something about sticks and stones. Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words can never hurt you.
She guessed, in a way, it was right. Words couldn't hurt you. Not physically. Not like sticks and stones.
But they could hurt you in other ways. Deeper ways. Ways that reached all the way to your soul and etched themselves there.
Because bones healed.
She'd broken one once after falling on her wrist. Geralt had wrapped it up and the pain was non-existent now.
But words could stay with you forever.
Words could be the one thing that you suddenly remember before drifting off to sleep and then leave you awake all night, biting at the insides of your cheeks.
Words could char your mood and your spirit and your very soul for however long they decided to remain in your mind, taunting you, reminding you they'd been said. Reminding you they'd escaped from someone's lips and no matter how much you chained them back up, the point was they'd been let out, and they'd already made their mark.
She was sure Geralt had been told to die before. He was a witcher. Witchers weren't liked.
But she'd never heard it been said before.
One thing was for certain.
The bruise on her temple would heal faster than the bruise on her heart. If it ever did.
