After that night come many others he spends under the bare sky rather than a roof. During those nights Wszebora sleeps next to him, with her head propped on a saddle and her arm wrapped securely around the feeble creature that is her child. In the pale moonlight her hair turns silver and the lines of her face lose their sharpness. Some night she watches the burning logs through half-lidded eyes and before she falls asleep, the flickering embers paint her gaze with the color of fresh resin. In the warm light of the bonfire the scars marring her skin are just soft trails of shadows.

The dawns that come after those nights are damp and gray and when he wakes, he often finds the child sleeping alone on the saddlecloth, stiff and cuddled like a small animal. What's left of her presence is a familiar smell and a fleeting warmth still clinging to her spot by the fire. The silence spreading through the woods is so deep he can always hear her from afar as she comes back, so he sits against a tree, closes his eyes and waits patiently for the sound of her quick, gentle steps. She's always back by morning, when the pale mists of dawn recede and sharp rays of sunlight start to seep through the branches. She emerges from the thicket with her bow and with a leather pouch on her back and with a little, content smile she presents him with her game - a small hare, a silver trout or a wild geese. As the time passes he slowly gets used to her lone hunts, but the first time he wakes alone he finds himself surprised and irritated. He says nothing when she's back, but his sullen mood doesn't go unnoticed.

"Spit it out, witcher, will you?" She mumbles calmly. She doesn't raise her eyes from the small grouse she's plucking. He sits on the other side of a dead bonfire and watches her in silence, with his arms crossed over his chest. He frowns a little at her words.

"What do you mean?" He asks with a harshness to his voice he can't quite hide. Her lips curve in a small, telling smile.

"Tell me what's bothering you so much. The way you scowl it looks like a bee has stung you right in the ass."

He says nothing to that. She finishes plucking the bird and sits back. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she casts him a look of lenient, gentle scoff.

"If I was to guess I would say I irked you by going on a hunt by myself. But that would be just a guess."

He frowns even more and her smile grows broader.

"I didn't hear you get up," he admits reluctantly. She laughs hoarsely.

"That much I know," she teases, her voice ringing slightly with amusement. "You snored like an old cat perched on a hearth. What's wrong with that?"

He casts her a somber look.

"I'm a witcher. All my senses are heightened for a good reason. I cannot just sleep when…"

"When what?" she interrupts him, raising her brows a little. For a while he just looks her in the eyes with a sullen sneer on his face.

"When a woman does the work for me," he grumbles, averting his gaze. She snorts.

"So that's what this is about. The way I see it, witcher, not only your senses are heightened, but your dumb manly pride too," she teases him gently, still smiling. He leans forward, growing irritated.

"It's not a joke," he sneers. "If there were some thugs lurking nearby, then…"

"Then you would sense them from afar and give them a wallop. Just like you did with that pack on the road." She interrupts him again, her voice calm and certain. He casts her a brief, impatient look.

"How would you know? Since I couldn't hear you…" he starts and then quiets down, seeing that she shakes her head a little. She stands up and goes around the bonfire to crouch next to him. She props her elbows on her knees and smiles a little, as if to indicate he's missing something obvious.

"Wanna know what I think? I think your senses are just as keen as always. But maybe those killer instincts of yours know better than you do. Maybe I'm not a danger anymore."

He glares at her in silence, caught completely off guard with her words. She shrugs.

"Maybe you just let yourself trust me a little. I'm around night and day these days, so it's only natural you grew used to that. Nothing wrong with it I suppose."

She's still talking when Miron starts yelling excitedly from the other side of their camp, calling her to come and see some newfound trophies. She looks at the witcher one last time and then stands up, whisks a few feathers away and leaves to find her son. He follows her with his gaze, lost in sullen thoughts. He doesn't want to admit it, but she's right. Unbeknownst to himself, he let her company become something natural and familiar, like the weight of the twin swords on his back or the cold touch of his medallion under the shirt. He got used to her quiet presence, to the smell of her body and the rhythm of her breathing, to her many different smiles, to the weight of her head on his chest, to the cold, safe touch of her hands, to her sharp, penetrating gazes, to knowing that she's near. He got used to her. He tamed her. The thought of that now stirs in his gut, boiling and burning, and then it falls down with a cold, heavy weight. He can feel its tangy taste in his mouth. He sees that now clearly, how stupid and reckless it was of him to think that he can afford such a bond. After all, he knows what the price is. Wszebora is not Yennefer and he's not Geralt. There will be no songs for them, but disdain and blood. He should know that because that's what he sees in his dreams, the dreams in which a sad, fair-haired girl stares at him with a rampage of fire and steel behind her. He sees that in Wszebora's eyes, when she glares sullenly into the bonfire, lost in the thoughts he does not know. He's never asked her about those thoughts, but he sees the weight of them on her face. He's brought so much burden on her. He should have realized a long time ago that they're not allowed to tie a bond. He should have realized that before everything got so messed up, before he had to defend her from a feral mob and then follow her tracks through a dark forest. Even if she's endured enough hardship to understand him without any words, her world is not his own. He cannot enter it without causing her harm and putting her in danger. He thinks of that, listening to the voices carried by the wind - one shrill and joyous and the other one deep and hoarse like a purr of a content cat. The weight in his gut hardens into a cold, unmoved resolve. He stands up and slowly goes away from the camp. He finds a spot beneath a great spruce tree, kneels down, props his arms on his thighs and closes his eyes. He lets the heavy burden of his tangled thoughts lift and flee like shreds of wool. The voices quiet down and silence surrounds him. He's finally alone, like he ought to be.

From that moment on he tries to move away from her. As they ride, he talks even less than usual and when he does, he speaks to the child rather than her. When they stop to rest, he leaves her with the kid by the fire and goes away to meditate and ward off any dangers. He shuns her more and more. They don't make love anymore and hardly ever touch. She doesn't comment on this sudden indifference of his, gives no complaints and asks no questions. Rarely when they ride next to each other or bustle around the camp together they eyes meet and he finds no pain or anger in her gaze, only cold, quiet disdain, and in these moments he understands it's all for nothing, because it's too late, too much has happened between them already and it's pitiful of him to try and step back from this now. That realization inflames his bitterness, even more so as they finally reach the coast.

The wind carries the smells of salt, fish, wet wood and smoke and Wszebora grows distant and thoughtful. Miron is sleeping soundly in her lap after a day-long travel and she strokes his hair absently, watching the dark forest that spreads behind their camp. Beyond that forest there's the sea and they will reach it in a day or two. They will find some village and a new life will start. She's seated sideways to the fire and so half of her face is veiled in shadows, but her eyes are bright as always, glimmering in the dusk like two silver candles. The witcher watches her furtively and thinks that there's something sad and gentle in those eyes tonight, a longing or a nostalgia. The evening is calm and cold, the air vibrates with the ticking and humming in the tall grasses. The witcher's eyes keep wandering to the dark expanse of the forest and the unknown beyond. Even though it's so peaceful, his thoughts are scattered. He looks at Wszebora again and she suddenly looks back when he's not expecting it. She pierces him with a cautious, focused gaze and that pulls him out of his torpor. He reaches out to a pile of branches and pulls one out to stick it into the fire. A swirl of embers rises from the flames, flickers and dies out. Wszebora's gaze is still fixed on him.

"What next, witcher?" she asks him quietly. Her voice is soft and hollow - neither sullen, nor hopeful - but her eyes still carry that morose look that makes her gaze heavier than usual. He wonders briefly what it is that she sees when she looks at him. Her gaze often makes him feel uneasy, because those gray, piercing eyes of hers seem to dig into him and find everything he tries to hide, every weakness and every secret. Now her gaze doesn't bother him anymore, because there's nothing left to hide. Every little turmoil, all of his frustrations and accusations he's been beating himself with have lost their meaning. Now he's as hollow and indifferent as the sky above them. Just a while longer and they will part for good. None of this matters anymore.

"Eskel."

He flinches and looks at her, raising his eyebrows almost involuntarily. His name still sounds strange when she calls it.

"Tomorrow we will reach the nearest village," he states quietly. "If you decide that's where you wanna stay, I'll leave you there."

She's silent for a while. She lowers her gaze to the boy sleeping in her lap. She strokes his dark hair for a while longer and then slowly, cautious not to wake him, reaches for the pouch laying nearby. She pulls a leather costrel out and uncorks it. She takes a swig, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and tosses him the costrel.

"That's not what I asked about," she mumbles hoarsely, trying to catch his gaze. He glares into the fire, feeling her eyes on himself.

"What did you ask about then?" he asks with a harshness to his voice he can't quite hide.

"You," she replies calmly. He keeps quiet. He turns the costrel in his hands, but doesn't drink from it. For a long while they sit in silence, the only sounds being the cracking of the fire and the neighing of their horses. Finally she breaks that silence.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks. He can hear the curiosity in her voice, but it's gentle, unobtrusive. He shrugs.

"I'll go back on the road. There are still many villages and many curolisks that devour cattle."

She's silent for a while, pondering his words.

"Aren't you tired?" she asks at last, watching him curiously. He changes his mind about the costrel. He uncorks it and takes a large swig and then shakes his head.

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles with indifference. "Nothing there for a witcher but the road."

"For any witcher or just for you?" she asks him quietly. Her words linger in the air, flutter over the fire like moths, scrape his skin with their curious little wings. He's not looking at Wszebora, but he can feel her gaze. It's calm and stubbornly penetrating. Once again he feels bare and crestfallen under her eyes. It's almost like he knows there's something she sees in him, something he himself refuses to see. He stands up.

"I'll check the horses," he mumbles harshly and goes away from the bonfire, into the darkness, never looking at her. Her gaze follows him like a shadow, he can feel its touch on his shoulder, but she doesn't call after him. She lets him leave and he's grateful for that.