I open my eyes. Slowly. To look into the blurry face of a man who is leaning over me. I blink and give a soft moan.

"Are you alright?" he asks. His voice is husky and full of concern.

I shake my head. A bad idea as a pang of blinding pain explodes inside my skull. I gasp for air, squinching my eyes shut again. Shit, what is going on? Why am I lying on the ground, my head hurting with the most vicious of headaches? And who is that guy? I could not see him clearly enough to be certain, but I'm almost sure I have never seen him before. Was there a scar all across one side of his face? Is he some kind of highwayman? Who has knocked me out to rob me? But why would a thief care if their victim is alright? Puzzled, I blink my eyes open again and try to sit up.

"Wait, I'll help you," he says and strong arms wrap around me, supporting me into a sitting position.

"Here, have something to drink," the stranger then says, holding a canteen to my mouth while still keeping me upright with one arm. I take a cautious sip. Water. Cool and refreshing. Good. Suddenly I notice how thirsty I am. I take the canteen in both hands and drink with greedy gulps.

"Better?" he asks when I lower the metal bottle. I nod gingerly. I do feel better, still shitty, but not like fainting any second anymore. And I can see him clearly now. Definitely not somebody I have seen before, I would remember him. The ugly scar across the right side of his face from temple to the corner of his mouth is surely not something you forget easily. It makes him look dangerous and I guess I ought to be afraid, but strangely enough I am not. Is it his voice that I liked from the first moment? Or his soft blue eyes? The light brown curls framing his strikingly high cheekbones? Is he perhaps—? No, his ears are not pointed but round. Not that I would mind if he were an elf - the persecution of elves and dwarves and other non-human races is despicable and I am truly ashamed for what we people from the north did to them, are still doing to them - still, maybe because of what we have done, I feel a little safer knowing he is not an elf.

"What happened?" I finally ask. My voice sounds faint and shaky. I am usually not easily spooked, but this time seems different. If I could only remember why. But my head hurts too much to even try to think.

"You fell from your horse."

"I don't fall off horses," I protest.

"Anybody would fall off their horse if attacked by a wyvern."

"A what?"

"A wyvern. Looks like a small dragon. It's a pity, too, they've become quite rare. Won't take much longer and they'll go extinct, I fear."

"This wy-thing attacked me and you're worried they'll go extinct?" I ask, incredulous. "Wouldn't it be a good thing if creatures like that died out?"

"Perhaps you're right. Still, it's just a predator hunting for food. We do that, too, don't we?"

"Sorry, but my head hurts too much to discuss the morality of hunting." I groan, rubbing my temples.

"I'm sorry. I'll better take you to the village. You might want a healer to check on you. You've probably sustained a concussion. Don't think the gash in your head needs stitches, though. It has already stopped bleeding."

With slightly shaky fingers I feel my head. There is a big bump just above the left ear. My hair is sticky, but the stranger is right, the blood is already drying.

"Where's my horse," I then ask, gazing around. There is a beautiful black stallion tethered to a tree nearby, the stranger's, no doubt, but not a trace of my dapple grey mare.

"She ran like the devil was after her, a remarkably fast steed," he says with an appreciative smile. "Well, a wyvern swooping down from the sky might be scarier than the devil. You cannot hold it against her."

"But is she okay? Gods, the wyvern didn't eat her, right?"

"No, luckily not. My comrade rode after your horse. I'm sure, he'll catch her. We're supposed to meet in the village."

"What about - what about that monster? Is it still around?"

"Technically speaking, yes. But don't fear," he continues quickly, sensing my uneasiness. "It won't harm you nor anybody else anymore. It's pretty dead." He looks over to the nearby edge of the forest. Something is lying in a big heap on the ground, something dark and scaly.

"Is- is it the monster? Did you kill it?"

"Yes. And yes."

"Then you saved my life," I suddenly realize.

"I might have," he says with a smile. Although it looks a bit crooked due to the scar, it is a surprisingly nice smile. He must have been quite handsome before someone carved his face open. Or something?

"Are you a knight, then?" I ask, smiling back at him. He does not look much like a knight in his simple black shirt and black leather vest and pants. Still, I can easily imagine him sitting astride the black stallion, his armour shining in the sun, his sword raised to kill the dragon and save the kidnapped virgin.

"No." He shakes his head. "A Witcher."

"Right. A Witcher," I say, a little disappointed. I have never met a Witcher, but I have heard stories about them. How they kill all kinds of monsters. For money. "Then, unlike a knight, you'll want to be paid for your troubles, I suspect." I frown. This is going to be difficult. I might not look like a poor peasant, however, at the moment, I have not a single copper to my name.

"A Witcher needs to live, too. Bread doesn't grow on trees," he explains dryly. "However, in your case, it was rather accidental. We didn't have a contract, so you owe me nothing. Think you can stand?" he suddenly changes the subject.

"I believe so." And I can. With his help, I get to my feet. I still feel a bit wobbly and woozy, however, I am able to stay upright and not faint again.

"Can I see it?" I suddenly ask. I have never seen a monster before in my life, and hopefully will never again. This might be my only chance to get a glimpse of one. I cannot just let that chance pass me by, can I?

"Sure. I'll have to take a claw and a few teeth with me anyway. Perhaps someone is interested in buying the body. For potions ingredients or to have it stuffed and mounted in the town hall or something. You won't faint again, will you?" He shoots me a doubtful look.

"I'll try not to." Feeling quite bold all of a sudden, I smile at him and start walking toward the forest. It is not far, I am sure, I can make it.

The wyvern is indeed pretty dead. It is lying on its side, the long, snake-like neck craned backwards as if in agony, the menacing maw with plenty of sharp, white, conical teeth standing wide open, the whiteness of the teeth in stark contrast with the black scales that cover its entire body. A purplish black, forked tongue is lolling from between the fearsome fangs. The monster's wicked wings are spread out in the grass, as is its long tail that ends in something looking like a trident. A deep hole in its chest is still seeping blood.

"Are you sure it is not a dragon?" I ask, shuddering. Imagine being snatched between those teeth and carried off to the monster's lair or nest or whatever to be eaten, or fed to the monster's spawn. Suddenly a hazy image of a piercing hiss and a black shadow darting down from the sky emerges from my memory. I gasp. My legs turn to jelly and my knees buckle.

"Shit," I hear the Witcher's voice like from afar. He catches me in his arms and gently lowers me to the ground.

"Sorry," I mumble, embarrassed. "I just remembered."

"They are pretty scary," he says, hunkering down next to me to feel my pulse. Although I still feel a little faint, my heart rate speeds up considerably at the touch of his strong, slightly calloused fingers. "Wyverns are not half as dangerous and difficult to slay as a dragon, though," he explains, still holding my wrist. "They can't breathe fire. The important thing to remember is not to get too close to their tail. Those sharp spikes at the end of it can inject you with a vicious venom that kills the victim within minutes."

"And your job is to hunt creatures like this?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. "Sorry, but are you certain, you aren't a few spokes shy of a wheel?"

"They kill people. I kill them. One day, one of them will kill me. It's as easy as that."

"Sure. Easy as pie." I roll my eyes at him. "I prefer a very different easy. The one with the happily ever after."

"Hm. Guess I'd prefer that one, too," he says with a wistful smile. "But not everybody deserves it." His face darkens. Even his pretty blue eyes seem to take on a gloomier hue, like the ocean mirroring the black clouds of an approaching storm.

"You saved my life," I point out. "How can you not deserve a happy ending?"

"Your life, yes. Perhaps a few others. Still, it's not enough. It can never be enough," he says sombrely. Then he draws a dagger from his belt and rises to his feet. "Have to get those teeth and claws. Don't watch. Can't have you faint yet again."

I close my eyes and try to block out the sound of his blade slicing into the monster's flesh. What evil can the Witcher possibly be guilty of, I wonder, to feel like he does not deserve a happily ever after no matter how many lives he saves? He does not look old enough to have committed that many crimes, does he? Honestly, he does not appear to me to be a man who commits any crimes at all. But neither does he come across like somebody who would confide in a stranger, perhaps not even a friend. Should I ask anyway? However, before I can gather the courage to do so, he is done with his grisly task.

"Come," he says, holding his hand out to help me up. "Time to get to the village." I reach for the proffered hand and he pulls me to my feet. For a brief moment my vision starts to blur and I have to lean into him for support. I take in a deep breath to steady myself. He is so close, I can smell his scent. A peculiar mixture of leather, horse and fresh sweat. Male sweat. An enticing odour. If it was not for the faint tang of iron in the air. I let go of him and step back. A brown sackcloth bag that was not there before is dangling from his belt. There are big dark spots on it. Blood, no doubt. Better not think of the bag's content, I tell myself and swallow. Throwing a last glance back at the dead wyvern, I then follow my saviour toward his horse.

The stallion gives a friendly snort when we approach. The Witcher strokes across its long nose with the thunderbolt-shaped blaze affectionately. Then he lifts me up into the saddle and jumps onto the horse behind me. He takes the reins and clucks his tongue. The stallion falls into an easy trot.

It is not very far to the village. Which is a pity. It feels quite nice to be riding double with the mysterious stranger, his body so very close to mine, his arms around me holding the reins and steering the horse. I can feel his breath on my neck. It gives me goosebumps all over, but the nice ones that prickle and tingle and make you feel warm in places I prefer not to mention. My face flushes. Fortunately, he cannot see it. I wonder, does he feel the same way? Or are the stories true that say that Witchers have no feelings? But how can his eyes be such a soft shade of blue if he has none? And how can there be so much sadness in the darkness of his voice?

He dismounts in front of the inn. My heart leaps with joy at seeing my beloved horse already waiting for me next to a bay mare. With a happy smile I glide off the black stallion and walk over to her. She looks alright. I sigh with relief and press my face to her silky muzzle. Looking up again, I notice a tall figure clad in black armour coming toward us. Although he does not look old, his hair is of a striking white colour. His amber eyes are gazing at me.

"You look better," he says with a smile. "But I suggest you see the healer anyway. He's already waiting for you, just over there." He points at a door nearby. A sign with a healer's rune has been nailed to the wall above the doorframe. "Will you make it on your own?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you. And thank you so much for catching my horse. I really appreciate it," I say politely.

"You're welcome." He gives me another smile, then turns to his comrade. "Come, Cahir, I've found you a buyer for your wyvern." He pats the bay mare, then, with bounding strides, he walks back toward the inn.

"This is good-bye then?" I say, looking at the younger Witcher.

"I suppose. We'll be leaving shortly. There's a contract waiting."

"Another wyvern?"

"No. A myriapod. Shouldn't be too difficult."

"They have lots of legs, right? Sounds nasty to me."

"I've got a nasty sword," he says with a confident smile. Then he straightens. "I have to go, can't leave a customer waiting. And you should see that healer. You look pale still."

"Thanks again for saving my life," I say. He nods in acknowledgment. Then he turns around and walks toward the inn with no less purposeful strides than his older comrade. I gaze after him.

"Take care, Cahir," I whisper far too softly for him to hear before I tear my eyes away from the Witcher who rescued me from the wicked wyvern with the fearful fangs. Lost in thought I walk toward the door with the healer's rune.

Will I ever see him again? Probably not. Still, you never know, do you? Miracles do happen, as do happily ever afters. And no matter what he believes, in my heart I know he is deserving of one.