For the Whumptober Prompts: 15 Makeshift Bandages; 27 "Let me see"
"Here, beast, come get me!" you scream, almost hysterical, and draw your little knife. If the monster were a human, it would surely laugh its head off at your pathetic attempt at threatening it. As it is not, it roars at you instead, a menacing roar that cuts through the silence of the night and right into your frightened soul. What if it takes the bait and does come to get you?
However, before the werwolf makes a move in your direction, a silver blade swirls through the air and slices its head clear off from behind. The last of the monsters crumples to the ground, its blood soaking into the earth. The shadows are gone. Instead, three huge, furry and very headless corpses are littering the forest track. You blink, hardly able to process how lucky you are, to realise that, against all odds, you are alive and will not die tonight, that the stranger with the silver sword has saved you. Gingerly, you raise your gaze and look over to him. He is standing there, panting, his sword dripping with blood, not much more than a shadow in the darkness himself. He wipes the blade on his trouser leg, sheathes it, then whistles through his fingers. You can hear a horse whinny in the distance. Thank the gods, you will not have to walk all the way back to the village through the night. You almost forgot about it in the turmoil of the fight but you could not possibly make it on foot with your bad ankle. Shakily, you clamber to your feet. It hurts, but you are able to stand.
"You okay?" the man asks, limping toward you. "You weren't bit, right?"
"No, just a sprained ankle, I think," you say, biting your lip as you take a tentative step in his direction.
"Good. Contrary to common belief, it's not very likely that you'll turn into a werewolf yourself after being bitten, but it's not impossible. Consulting with a mage is advisable in such cases."
"You know your monsters, I see." You try to smile at him. It probably looks more like a grimace with everything that has transpired, but it is too dark to really see it anyway. "How come you're such an expert?"
"I'm a Witcher."
A Witcher, it figures. Not the white-haired one from the songs, still, this monster fight would well be worth one, too. There is a problem, though, it suddenly occurs to you. Witchers earn their living by slaying monsters, they do not do it for free. Toss a coin to your Witcher, is that not how the song goes?
"Guess I was really lucky then that you happened to come this way. My sincerest thanks for saving my life. But, alas, I cannot pay you."
"No need. Got some coin in advance. On a contract to kill the beast haunting the old forest mansion. Reckon it was the wolves." You breathe a silent sigh of relief. "I didn't expect there to be more than one monster, though" he adds with a frown. "In contrast to real wolves, werewolves usually hunt alone."
Glorious, just your usual luck then to find the odd haunted house that harbours more than one of these creatures. Well, you also met one of the very few Witchers roaming the continent. So, maybe, you ought not complain, not too much in any case.
"Thank you for drawing the monsters out," he continues with something that could be a smile. With all the werewolf blood in his face and the long, ugly scar from temple to the corner of his mouth it is difficult to say for sure. "This way it was easier than inside the house," he adds.
"Easier?" You stare at him, wide-eyed. One werewolf almost ripped his leg off and the other his head. Any fight that was more difficult would have ended up with him dead, wouldn't it?
"You're bleeding," you then note, your gaze locked on the vicious tears in his left trouser leg.
"Just a scratch."
"Let me have a look anyway," you insist and step up to him. A while back you assisted a healer for a few weeks and what you see in the dim light of the moon is definitely not just a scratch. Before he can object, you take off your silken scarf and wrap it tightly around the injury on his thigh. It is a pity, you'll probably never get the blood stains out of the cream-coloured fabric again and it is the last keepsake of someone dear to you, but it is clean and the Witcher saved your life. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as you tie a knot to keep the make-shift bandage in place.
"Sorry, but I fear you'll need to see a healer. Those gashes have to be properly cleansed and stitched up."
"I have a sewing kit in my saddle bags. No need to wake up a healer. Most are charlatans or butchers anyway," he mutters through gritted teeth. And he is not wrong, you must admit. The healer in the village is not the worst one on good days, not when he is sober, but on a Saturday night he is, most likely, totally plastered by now and too drunk to tell the butt of a patient from their face.
"Let's get you home," he then says. "Think you can get on the horse?"
Ignoring the furry corpses lying in the way, the black stallion has just returned as if nothing at all had happened. He is whinnying softly and nibbles on the Witcher's blood-splattered, curly hair for a moment while the rider catches hold of the reins.
You nod. You are maybe not an outstanding rider but decent enough at it. Your ankle is a bit of a problem and you bite your lip when you have to put weight on the injured foot while climbing into the saddle with your saviour's help, but once you are sitting on top of the horse, you feel better. You pat the beautiful animal on the side of his neck a few times and he seems to like it. In the meantime his owner struggles a little to get onto the horse behind you, but he manages with a grunt. He takes the reins in both his hands, his arms encircling you, and clicks his tongue. The stallion begins to move. Not at a gallop like before, but at a more leisurely pace. You have never shared a horse with a man before and riding like this feels unexpectedly nice and warm. It is strangely intimate, too, even a little exciting after the shock and strain of tonight's events. You close your eyes, suddenly horribly tired, and lean into this kind of loose embrace a little more. You could easily fall asleep like this. However, the Witcher does not let you.
"What were you doing in the forest at the dead of night anyway?" he asks.
You tell him about the foolish bet.
"Two-hundred orens? Just for picking a flower at night?" he asks when you have finished the tale. "Guess how much those misers gave me for slaying the beast? A hundred orens!"
"But - that's ridiculously little for such a dangerous job!" you say, scandalised. "And there were three werewolves, not one. They'll have to pay you another two hundred at least, won't they?"
"No, they won't," he says darkly, "and I won't ask."
"Why?" Now you are really surprised. "I know our mayor is not exactly generous when it is about money, but I'm sure he'll pay you something extra. You have to talk to him."
"You don't understand. Werewolves are not just monsters. They're cursed humans. And usually people don't take nicely to their husbands or wives or fathers or daughters or best friends being killed by a Witcher, no matter that they turn into bloodthirsty beasts and murder other people once a month. I cannot even blame them. And neither the wolves. They don't remember any of their grisly deeds after the transformation has reversed."
"You - You're saying that those monsters you killed were people from my village? And now they're dead?" you ask, horrified. Although you know in your heart that it is true, you do not want to believe it.
"It's quite tragic, yes," he answers with obvious regret in his voice. "Who knows, maybe one of them was your mayor. Or his wife. Or the village priest. Or the nice lady from the bakery. Unfortunately, there is no other way than to chop their heads off. Werewolves have an astonishing ability to regenerate if you don't do that right away."
"Is there nothing that could save them? Curses can be broken, can't they?"
"They can, but with werewolves, it's extremely difficult and very dangerous. Anyway, they were about to kill you. I had no choice. But I'd rather not be around when the villagers find out who's missing and what happened to them come morning."
You nod. You do not like it one bit, but it makes sense. Horrible sense. You fall silent, thinking of the morning to come. He, too, keeps quiet.
Although you are riding rather slowly, it does not take long until you see the first human dwellings. Most people are fast asleep, only from the tavern you can hear some bawling and drunken singing. You live in a small house on the far side of the village. It once was one of those small peasant cottages that held a room or two for the family and, under the same roof, the pens for the pig and the cow and whatever animals the farmer had. You do not keep any livestock, but the stable part is still there in case you decide to get yourself a horse one day. Or a goat. You have never had the coin to turn it into a regular room anyway. And the house is big enough for one person as it is.
You guide the Witcher through the narrow streets of the village as quietly as you can. Finally, you reach your home.
"Will you come inside for a moment?" you ask before you get off the horse. "I can heat some water to cleanse those scratches of yours. You might want to wash before you ride on, too."
He hmms in response. You take it for a yes. Then you dismount. You are not the only one who is reminded of their injury as you do so. The Witcher grunts with pain and has to steady himself against his horse to not fall.
"You okay?" you ask while limping to the door.
He nods, but you are not convinced. In the light of the moon, he looks awfully pale under all the monster blood. With dismay, you notice hat your silk scarf is red with blood, but it must all be his, not the monsters'. He has not moved away from his stallion but is still leaning against him, barely able to stay on his feet.
Shit, there is no frigging way the man is riding anywhere tonight.