High-heeled steps echoed arrhythmically along the uneven flagstones, the only noise in a night too eerily quiet after the clangorous tumult of the past hours. If one listened closely, one might - even in that unbroken darkness - discern the slight dragging of the right foot, a result of a deep gash in the upper thigh. Even though haphazardly bandaged with a stretch of finely embroidered, ebony fabric, deeply crimson blood still seeped from the wound and ran down the leg, leaving a gory trail. It would have been easy to say she had been outnumbered, overpowered, ambushed, but, in all honesty, Yennefer had to admit that she had simply been careless. Had been in a hurry to finish up and be done with it. She had never enjoyed physical violence, and Sodden had amplified this dislike to the extremes. Had it not been for the witcher, she would not even have considered getting involved. At least now it was finally over.
She dragged herself through a half-crumbled archway, grasping the stone structure for support and finally spied the old well sitting in the middle of a small forgotten square. Her eyes swept across the scenery in search of him, or even just one of his boots, a discarded glove, the tip of a sword. A puddle of blood.
And yet spied nothing.
Her heartbeat quickened and slowed at the same time, spreading a numbing cold throughout her chest. A strange buzzing and rushing deafened her ears to the outside, as if to force her to focus on unbidden thoughts.
No. She refused to believe that something had happened to him. That stupid witcher had a penchant for grand entrances, one much more befitting of a bard than a warrior known far and wide by such colourful names as 'White Wolf' and 'Butcher of Blaviken'.
With a small sigh, she limped into the middle of the square, sat down and leaned her back against the steady coolness of the well.
Yes, he would appear any moment now, beaten and bloodied, chased perhaps, yet he would come. Just as they had agreed. In the event that they were to be separated during the fighting, they would meet by the well in the small square. They had both promised.
With stiff fingers, she inspected the wound in her thigh, tightened the bandage with a weak tug and a sharp hiss. She wondered what shape he would be in. Blood, especially his own, never seemed to bother the witcher. And once he had downed a few of those toxic potions and decoctions of his, care for his own safety began to dwindle even further. The countless thick scars lining his torso, limbs and even face were a silent a testament to that. In the past, she had sometimes suspected him of having a death wish - a state of mind with which Yennefer was all too familiar - but now those moments of self-loathing and -deprecation had become few and far in-between.
And he always kept his promises now.
Her eyes fluttered shut as she tried to drown out the throbbing in her thigh and calm those insidious voices in the back of her mind.
No, he always kept his promises.
That stupid witcher was just taking his bloody time.
With a sigh, she brought a hand gloved in soft sable leather to her forehead to drive away the onset of a headache, shakily massaging her temples.
For the first time since Skellige, she cursed her decision to have the Djinn remove the bond connecting them. If she hadn't been so insistent then, she would know now. Well, she did know, but she would know for certain. As long as his wish had bound them to each other, nothing could have happened to either of them without the other becoming aware of it. For years, decades perhaps, the knowledge had consoled her. Whenever news of the witcher's death, more and more gruesomely illustrated each time, had reached her ears, she had taken comfort in knowing that, even if he had been harmed, he could not have died while she still lived. No matter the state of their relationship - whether she had loved, loathed or lamented him - the certainty of his reality had grounded her.
Even now, without the wish, their connection was undeniable, their love for each other different, but by no means diminished. Together, they had experienced too much, lived through too much. And survived.
Yes, they had survived. All those times…
"Stupid witcher", she murmured to herself, "I told you not to take any unnecessary risks. I told you…"
While the words still sounded, some part of her expected him to stumbled through the archway, one of those blunt but smart comments of his on his lips, twisting them into a tired yet honest smile. With his eyes, he would apologise for making her wait, and his hungry lips would seek confirmation of her forgiveness and well-being. Her hands would search out his wounds, fingers tracing healing motions before conscious thought even commanded them to.
Yet the words faded away and the crumbling archway remained empty. No comment, no smile.
No witcher.
"I told you…" she whispered again, hoping to drive away the silence and with it, revive his image. Will it into existence. But the illusion had fled and would not return.
She remained alone.
The silence was absolute, enriched only by the rushing of her blood in her own ears, growing more overwhelming and frantic by the minute.
Sloppily, she murmured a spell to calm her quickening heart - this was neither the place nor the time to hyperventilate - but was only mildly successful. Her body was drained from both the wound and the countless spells she had hurled against her foes. Yet her mind returned to that smile. Over and over again. For long moments she sat in silence, in darkness, revisiting the same image. She knew she should move, search for him, but she had neither the strength of body and mind nor the courage to do so at the moment. No, now she needed rest.
Just for a little while.
Yes, just a little while.
"Stupid witcher…" she murmured, her voice trailing off as her eyes flickered shut and her breathing evened out.
Yet even in her slumber she could not find peace. Instead of calming oblivion, images of him found her. And of course she welcomed them. Welcomed him. Embraced him with all her body and mind, drank in his presence. Vaguely she was aware that once she opened her eyes to the world, he would be gone, would leave her, possibly forever. So she decided to ignore the indignant prodding and shaking that tried to tear them apart and force her into the waking world, decided to stay just a little while longer.
But the waking world remained insistent, called her by name.
That name.
"Yen!"
Her eyes struggled to open, welcoming her into a hazy twilit world. Slowly the indistinct shapes around her gained definition, contours, textures. Chainmail, leather, steel, skin, blood.
Her gaze traveled upwards and found his face, spattered with blood and contorted in worry. But still, his face.
"Geralt…" she whispered. Her voice was quiet, drowsy with exhaustion and barely audible, but hearing it was enough for his features to brighten up immediately.
He said her name again, the tone of his voice betraying his relief. His lips formed into that rare, honest smile. "I thought… You had me worried."
Yennefer blinked, slowly regaining her senses.
"You were worried? Oh, you stupid, stupid witcher…"
Raising his eyebrows, Geralt threw her an uncomprehending look.
"What–"
He was, however, never able to finish his question before she leaned toward him and greedily planted her lips on his. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her against his chest, locking her in a strong embrace. His presence was soothing, familiar. He still grounded her. And she him.
As they sat there by that old well, leaning into each other tiredly, the past hours fell away. They had survived. Again.
"Let's go home, Yen."
"Yes, home."
They had survived.
