Chapter 3 – The Journey Begins

Geralt is strong enough to lift me by waist and set me on his steed. A strange looking one – blacker than any this side of the country. I am obedient, for now, allowing him to pull one of my legs over so I am straddling the horse appropriately. I may be defiant, but I won't buck until I fall and crack my skull. My gag is still tight and large, my wrists barely able to wiggle. I force down the one thing I know will overtake me quicker than any Witcher: fear. I have only been truly scared a handful of times in my life – all of them within the last three months. Growing up a princess gave me no favors in combat, wisdom, or money. And now, I am without any luck – I have no way out.

Geralt is relieved by my subjugation. He is not a patient man. I will use that to my advantage. He is fully dressed in black leather again today, the top of his hair pulled back into a ponytail, the rest of it falling to his shoulders. When he finishes tying his bags to the saddle, he lifts himself up to sit behind me.

I shutter when I realize how close he is up against me. My hands are wedged between my side and his left thigh. He places his hand on my stomach to pull us tighter together, so the horse will remain balanced. I struggle against his hand, a gut reaction.

"Relax." An order. I try my hardest to obey now, letting my stomach untense. He presses harder until finally I lean gently onto his chest.

"Good," he breathes heavily. I can feel his lungs fill and empty on my back. His arms come up beside me and guides the steed onwards. He is not much for conversation.

Sometime during the late morning, I find my head resting back on Geralt's shoulder. Fatigue has overtaken me, likely something to do with the potion they used on me. We are going at a fast pace, the rhythm of movement causing my jaw to surge with discomfort. I know why he has gagged me. If he takes it off, I will scream for help. Or perhaps just to see how long it takes for him to break. An image of him snapping my neck flashes in my vision. Maybe I would not scream. Then again, perhaps death was preferable to seeing my father again.

"We will stop to eat soon."

I give a groan of acknowledgment.

A tree has fallen across the path up ahead. Instead of cantering around it, Geralt directs his horse to jump over it. I try to protest but instead we land hard on the other side, I moan loudly, my arms aching from their awkward position. Geralt doesn't respond.

Annoyed, I complain louder, lightly banging my head against his shoulder. I can see his face if I lean back enough, turning my head. He grimaces.

"What?" A low growl.

I merely squint, trying my hardest to look in pain. For effect I add a whimper. He rolls his eyes and stops the horse.

"If I take it off, will you scream?"

I shake my head. I know well enough where the surrounding towns are. A group of travelers could pass us at any time. He must know he is playing with fire.

"Fine."

The scarf falls to my waist. He pulls out the cloth, my jaw singing with delight. I cough.

"Water, please," I beg politely. He grumbles again but grabs a waterskin and lets me greedily drink it. When it dribbles down my chin he takes it back and has some for himself. Soon we are moving again.

"Geralt," I adjust myself, trying not to move my hands against his leg. "You are not a bounty hunter."

He laughs.

"Who told you that?"

"You hunt monsters. You don't kidnap women." In some way, I am trying to appeal to his Witcher code of conduct. Greed can't be all that's left in his black heart.

"I don't hunt monsters for free."

"Are you saying I am a monster?"

The horse stops abruptly.

"We will rest here to eat."

My attempts to lure conversation out of Geralt are unsuccessful. I'm smart enough to stop prodding when I can tell he is considering re-gagging me. He sets up a blanket across the dirt, a good walk from where the road was. We are by a clear, deep stream now. I am sitting against a tree, watching as he toasts bread over a small fire.

I try not to watch how his hands are strong, methodical and steady. Everything about Geralt seems solid – even his temper, though easily stroked. He simply did not seem like the kind to drag a princess back to a castle.

"How much money is my father offering?" I stand, anchoring my back against the oak. He immediately tenses, one hand traveling to where his short sword is sheathed. Good, I will make him uneasy. I walk closer to him, kneeling beside the fire. All the while his gold eyes assess me, my intentions.

"How much?" I ask again. I must look a fright, my orange hair falling in unbrushed waves all around my face, my dress thin and dirt-stained, my feet bare.

"Too much for one man," he replies, not taking his gaze off me.

"And for what? Does he want me dead or alive?" I sit on my heels, trying to come across friendly, unassuming.

Geralt's mouth curves in a grin. He takes the hot bread and rips it apart.

"Are you hungry, princess?"

God, I want to slap him. For drugging me, for tying me up, for calling me that.

"Yes," I respond. He lifts himself up and comes to sit beside me. I shove all my pride down my throat, and open my mouth. Geralt doesn't seem to care or even notice how degrading it is when he lifts the loaf to me, letting me bite it. It's crispy and warm, pure heaven to my stomach. I hadn't realized how starved I was. But then, I roll it around on my tongue again. This is Nim's bread that he gave me, seasoned with too much rosemary and barely leavened.

"Is this," I swallow roughly, "My bread?"

Geralt laughs, tossing the last half into his mouth.

"I saw you had packed a bag in your room," he goes to the saddle, untying my red cloth sack. "I brought it along in case you needed a change of clothes." He tosses it to my lap. I stare at him in shock.

So this is a man who is considerate? He feeds me, gives me water, brings my clothes?

"Thank you," I say, no manipulation needed.

"And if you need to bathe," he stomps out the fire, "I will give you privacy."

This isn't working. I was supposed to grate at him, get his guard down. How can I antagonize a man who gives a change of clothing to his hostage? Maybe I was going about this the wrong way. If I please him, stroke his ego, play nice – then I can make an escape when he's most fooled.

"I would like to wash my face, and change into a cleaner dress."

He nods. The sun was starting to heat the air all around us. Afternoon happened so fast, I'd barely noticed the sweat at the back of my neck. The stream was utterly inviting, a cool blue against sandy shores. He picks me up by my arm and guides me to kneel on the shore. His force is not gentle, by any means, but it's certainly not sadistic. I try not to vocalize the bruises I'm sure he leaves when he sets me down.

The cadence of wild forest surrounds us both. He uses his short sword to slice my ropes. I groan when I rub my hands, fussing at the red marks it left – the drops of blood I wash in the water. He stands behind me the entire time, I can hear him sheath his sword. I cup water and prepare to wash my face, when I blush.

"Geralt," I ask meekly, "Could you hold my hair back?"

He pauses, as if this is a trick. When I turn to look back at him, he relents and kneels behind me. My skin shivers when he runs his fingers through the strands that fall in front of my eyes. He gently pulls them back, holding my tresses carefully with his hand. My fingers struggle to move rightly, the knuckles bruised and sore. But soon I am clean, and he lets my waves fall over my shoulders.

"Now," I stand abruptly and face him, "How will I dress?"