The road is blue in the pale moonlight looming over the ground. The forest is but a black mass with a jagged edge and yet the witcher can distinguish the ardent shapes of trees and the soft, round forms of bushes. He can hear a gentle patter of deers fleeing deep into the thicket and the steady sound of an owl's screeching. He's a hunter and the night is a mystery to explore. All he needs is a trace.
He lets the reins loose and allows his horse to slow down. He straightens up in his saddle, rests his fists on his thighs and closes his eyes, as if to meditate. He draws a slow, steady breath. The night carries more smells than the day does. They're fresh and damp and pungent and they float over the ground, soar and tangle with each other like threads of mist. He focuses on that thick knot of smells, trying to unwind the one thread he will follow.
He finds the dry, dusty smell of the sun-warmed sand and the fresh, cold smell of spruce. There's also the sour, soily scent of moss and the salty, tickling odor of a tired horse. There's the stench of soot soaring lightly through the air. He focuses harder and finds the heavy, brown scent of the muddy soil. The peppery smell of shrooms. The fresh aroma of heather. He opens his eyes. There's something familiar to him in that last scent. He untangles it from the other smells and realizes that it's not heather, but lavender. Lavender and rosemary. He's found the thread to follow.
He gets off his horse and turns to the dark forest. The scent he's found is pale and fleeting and it lures him deeper and deeper into the thick darkness. He follows its trace, marking his way through the thicket without much hesitation. He steers clear of fallen logs and burrows hidden underneath the piles of moss and leaves. He doesn't mind the darkness. It helps him focus entirely on the scent he follows. He imagines it as something tangible, like a bright red ribbon writhing between the trees, flashing vividly in the night. This hunt is different from the other ones though. The track does not lead to a monster or a dead body. At least he hopes so.
He stops. At this point the woods thin out. The moon creeps through the trees, creating small, pale pools of light on the ground. A soft vapor of mist looms over the ground. The witcher wrinkles his nose. The herbal scent he's been following for a while now dies out here, covered with a damp, muddy stench. He crouches down. Slowly, carefully he examines the hidden swamp and then stands up. His horse neighs and shakes its head restlessly, not eager to move forward. The marsh breathes wetly around them, bounces softly under the witcher's feet and the hooves of his horse. They move with tiny, cautious steps, steering clear of the patches of thick, deep hungry mud. The witcher knows he would not find the way through this swamp on his own, even with his sharpened senses. But there was someone who passed through it safely and left footprints etched in the mud for the witcher to follow. The shoes that left those prints were small and lean. They could belong to a woman.
Where the swamp ends the scent of lavender and rosemary comes to him again, although now it is more fleeting than before, braided into the fabric of other smells of the forest. He stops again and then crouches down to pull a chipped wooden sword from a bundle of nettles. The sword is small, a toy rather than a weapon, carved to fit into a child's hand. He rolls it absentmindedly in his hands and then puts it in the leather bag that's fastened to his saddle. Maybe, if all goes well, he will give this back to its owner.
Now he turns his attention to the sounds. The forest rattles and creaks around him, full of tiny, fleeting noises. The trees rustle as if they were men stretching their limbs lazily. High above, hidden between the branches closing over his head, a bird hoots and flaps its wings. Somewhere in the thick bushes something rustles in answer. A deep, steady howling of a wolf comes to him from far away. Suddenly he picks up another sound - a cold, menacing one that feels strange in the night's clatter. Somewhere in the dark a weapon grinds quietly. He stops, waiting, but no arrow swishes towards him. It's quiet for a moment and then a pale-haired figure emerges from behind a large oak tree. A pair of slate gray eyes, bright like two torches in the moonlight, watches him with caution and reserve. He takes a step forward.
"Not easy to find you", he says quietly, approvingly. Wszebora comes closer, carrying a crossbow with its string drawn. Her gaze is sullen when she looks at him.
"I knew they wouldn't follow me into the woods. They don't know the paths", she says.
"You were right. No one looked here for you. Just me."
"Why?", she asks sharply. She's tense, cautious, but he can see the weariness she's trying to hide from him. There's an ugly gash on her cheek and a bruise spilling under the skin around it. He keeps quiet for a while, carefully weighing his words.
"I wanted to make sure that you're safe. That you're fine."
She grimaces and pulls her chin up.
"I can take care of myself", she growls. "And of the kid."
He sighs.
"I know you can. I just… wanted to help."
She frowns even more and casts him a grim look.
"I don't need your help, witcher. Or your pity. I'll be fine on my own."
He lets his arms fall loose by his sides and takes a few steps forward. She watches him with a sullen, angry face. The muscles on her jaw tremble with strain.
"I don't pity you", he says quietly, slowly. He outstretches his arm towards her, but she flinches and backs away. He shakes his head slowly, irritated and resigned at the same time. "I just want to help. Why do you have to be so stubborn?"
Now it's her turn to sigh heavily and shake her head.
"You owe me nothing, witcher", she declares harshly. "What happens to us is not your liability."
"That's where you're wrong. I owe you an explanation, at least", he says. His voice is gruff and quiet, but they're standing so close that she surely hears him. He hesitates for a moment and then reaches out again to squeeze her arm gently. "And an apology."
She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment and then casts him one more cold look and frowns.
"I'm not sure if I need to know what happened here. And I don't need your apology either. What good is that going to do?"
He takes his hand back.
"Then let me at least make sure you'll be safe."
She grimaces, clearly frustrated.
"I already told you that I don't need…"
"Cut it", he interrupts her sternly. His voice sounds sharper than he intended. "You're not stupid. You're well aware that there are monsters lurking in the woods. Even worse ones walking through the roads. Want to know what will happen if they spot a woman alone with a kid? You won't handle it on your own. You need me. You know that."
She stares at him for a long time with a sullen, pensive look on her face. He folds his arms over his chest and waits patiently, never averting his gaze from hers. Finally her face softens a little. She lowers her crossbow.
"So you're not going to leave?", she asks him. He can hear a strange mix of uncertainty and resentment in that question. Slowly he shakes his head.
"Shoot me with that if you want", he murmurs quietly, pointing at her crossbow with his chin. "I'm not going anywhere."
She snorts weakly and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she casts him a grim look.
"Would it even work if I shot you?"
He smiles a little despite himself and feels that the scar on his lip tightens and tugs at the skin.
"No. I can parry the arrows with my sword."
Now she smiles too, even though it's a pale, sullen smile.
"You're goddamn awful", she mumbles. "Come."
They start to walk side by side in silence. As they go deeper into the woods, she outpaces him by a few steps. Soon they reach a shallow cave, disguised neatly with a structure made of dry branches and spruce needles. She slows down and looks at him over her shoulder.
"I built it some time ago to have a good spot for tracking game", she explains.
He nods his head, watching the shelter carefully. It would suffice for a night or two, he thinks, but they cannot stay here. The smell of horses may lure a pack of wolves or something even bigger.
He stops by the entrance and hesitates for a moment. She's already inside and now looks at him questioningly. He grunts.
"I'll stay here", he says quietly. "I'll be meditating, but call me if you need anything."
She sighs and shakes her head.
"Don't make such a fuss, witcher", she mumbles tiredly. "I cannot leave you waiting here like a filthy dog on a doorstep.
He wants to say something, but she doesn't let him.
"Either you come in or I shoot you", she threatens, her voice humorless. She looks at him impatiently. "And gods as my witnesses, witcher or not, from this distance I'll hit my mark."
He relents. Coming inside, he sees her mare and the boy sleeping with his head propped on a leather pouch, curled into a tight ball. By the wall there are a few more bags and linen sacks.
She crouches next to the boy, covers him tightly with her own coat and brushes away the tangled locks of hair from his forehead. He stirs in his sleep and whimpers lightly, but does not wake. She watches him for a while and then sits down on the ground, propping her crossbow against the wall of the cave. She sighs as she straightens her legs and closes her eyes. Eskel turns to his horse to unsaddle it. He leaves his bags and his swords by the entrance and then comes back with one small sack in hand. He rummages through it for a while, trying not to make too much clatter, but he catches Wszebora's attention anyway. She opens her eyes and watches him cautiously, without speaking a word. Finally he finds what he's been looking for - a small glass jar filled with a yellow, greasy ointment and a vial of translucent liquid. He comes closer to Wszebora, who still eyes him in silence. He crouches down next to her and using his hunting knife tears a strap of cloth off of his own shirt. Then he uncorks the vial and soaks the cloth in alcohol. Pointing to her swollen, blood-stained cheek, he asks quietly:
"May I?"
She nods her head slowly. She hisses quietly through gritted teeth as he touches the wound. He cleans it cautiously, clumsily even, but not for the lack of practice. To his own wounds he would tend far less tenderly, but with her he tries to be gentler to not hurt her more. She doesn't complain and allows his ministrations with resigned patience, her absent eyes fixed on some spot on the wall. She's quiet. Finally he's the one to speak first.
"Someone got to you before you ran."
She casts him a glance.
"A few folks followed me to the stables", she mumbles with indifference in her voice, turning her gaze back to the wall. "A bunch of rabid dogs rather than men. One of them I shot with my crossbow. I wasn't quick enough to deal with the other one. This-", she says, pointing to the gash on her cheek, "was from a scythe. Lucky for me, these folks never groom their tools. It's mostly blunt, rusty crap."
Eskel puts the cloth away and opens the jar he brought with him. Seeing her questioning look, he explains:
"Just a herbal ointment. To dull the pain."
She nods her head, but her eyes still seem absent and he's not really sure she heard what he said. A long moment passes before she looks and him and says:
"I thought they were going to kill you there."
He's quiet, but she doesn't look away.
"But you're here now", she says quietly.
He doesn't have an answer for that either.
"Does that mean that it was you that killed them?"
He slowly shakes his head.
"Killing people is not my job", he mumbles. "Even if they're scum. I just wanted all that rage to focus on me. To let you escape." As he speaks, he brushes her gashed cheek with his fingers to spread the salve. "And then I followed your tracks."
For a long while she watches him intently. There's nothing on her face for him to read. When she finally speaks, she seems tired and resigned.
"Tell me what happened there, witcher. I thought I didn't need to know, but now I see I cannot make my peace with it without hearing it first. What bloody curse befell Cudka? What did you have to do with it? What happened?", she swallows loudly and clenches her fists, but doesn't avert her gaze from him. "Tell me, witcher. I need to know."
He looks her in the eyes for a long while, weighing the words in his head, trying to piece them together so they can contain all that chaos that started with a beast lurking in the woods and ended with fire and death. It's not an easy tale to tell, because there are things he doesn't know either. Some strands in this knot he cannot untangle. He does not know why Cudka feared so much that Wszebora would know her secret or why the spell that had tamed her true nature was broken. All he has are blind guesses. Maybe the boys that died strangled with flowery vines had something to do with it. Or maybe not. Maybe he himself was to blame. Maybe the fear she had for him weakened the protective spells and the raw power spilled out by itself. He does not know why she came back to her human form as she was dying and he will never be sure if he could have saved her, had things gone a different way. He does not know any of this, but he tries to tell this story nevertheless, as sincerely as he can. His words are slow and cautious. He quiets down often to gather his thoughts, but she does not push him. She just watches him intently, her face a mask of quiet composure. Every once in a while a shadow passes through it and she clenches her fists, but she gets hold of herself quickly. She listens. His tale is a long one. At the very end of it he stops and quiets down. With his brow furrowed he ponders something for a while. Finally he raises his gaze to meet hers and finishes quietly, hoarsely:
"I'm sorry that I couldn't save her. That I couldn't stop all of this from happening. I should have saved you both and I didn't. I failed. I'm sorry."
For a long while all she does is look at him and he cannot tell if her gaze is that of resentment or sorrow or exhaustion or all of these combined. Finally she sighs heavily, leans forward and pulls out her arm to squeeze his wrist. Her fingers feel soft and cool on his skin. She looks him in the eyes.
"Don't be sorry, witcher. I hold no spite for you", she says calmly, her voice hollow. "It's on me that she wouldn't share her secret. All of it could have happened without you around. And we would both surely meet a gruesome end. At least she went quickly. And for us, well - nothing but to go on." She shrugs lightly.
He's got no good answer to that, so he says nothing at all. He moves towards the wall, grabs her arm and pulls her closer. She lets him hold her in his arms and hesitantly leans her head against his chest. He closes his eyes. The smell of her hair seems familiar to him and it's an oddly pleasant feeling. For a long while they sit in silence, not moving at all, as in slumber, but her breath and the rhythm of her heart tell him she's not actually asleep. He knows she broods over everything that's happened over the course of the day. He wonders if her thoughts are just as tangled and heavy as his are. It feels like it's been hours when she stirs lightly and tucks her head deeper under his collarbone.
"We need to figure out what to do next, witcher", she mumbles.
"Eskel", he mutters.
She lifts her gaze to him questioningly. He lifts his brows a little.
"If we're going to do this together, stop calling me a witcher."
She gazes at him for a while, squinting her eyes in the dark. The crease that appers between her brows seems to mark her slight confusion, or so he thinks. Finally she snorts and smirks a little.
"I'll call you whatever I want, witcher", she declares hoarsely, but her eyes glint mischievously.
"Fine, call me as you like, but tomorrow. Now sleep", he orders, pulling her back close. When her breathing evens out and he's sure she's fallen asleep, he gently pushes her off his chest and covers her with his horse mat. In the bleak moonlight she seems smaller and more fragile than she is in the light of day. This sight of her feels heavy on his chest. It's hard for him to think that she could be so vulnerable. He pulls the mat he's covered her with a little up and tucks away a lock of her hair, uncovering a scar that mars her cheek. She sighs hoarsely in her sleep. He wonders if her dreams are full of blood and fire like his are.