For the June of Doom prompts: 3 "Hiding" & "Stalking", 7 "Stumbling", 11 "Collapse" 24 "Stitches" & "Bandages", the Whumper's Monthly Issue No 29 "Black and White" and the Witcher Monster of the Month June prompt "Full Moon" & "Tomb".
Work Text:
The eerie shape floats closer and closer, a ghastly white against the black backdrop of the nightly forest. The perfect white orb of the full moon is the only other colour in this otherwise black world. No, colour is not the right word, you are aware of it. While black is the total absence of colour, of light, white is all colours at once. Yet, the white shape is far scarier than the darkness. For this shape cannot be natural, not alive. A supernatural, unalive being that emanates an otherworldly, spine-chilling, blood-curdling brightness from its inside. A light that will freeze your body and soul if it finds you in your hiding place. And what a hiding place it is. A place that even without the ghastly spectre - for a spectre it must be, there is no other explanation for this ghostly shape - would give most people goose bumps all over, and especially so at night. It definitely was not a good idea to walk past the ancient elven cemetery after nightfall. But your sister's new baby was so cute, and you have done it before. Never has anything happened to you on your way back home from the neighbouring village where your sister lives with her family. The dolmens, cairns and cromlechs are so old, they do not attract ghouls or other corpse eating monsters, nor have there been tales of spirits haunting the burial mounds, at least not tales told by trustworthy, sane people. You press your body harder against the megalith that forms the rear wall of the dolmen. It is a small one and you have to crouch so your do not hit your head against the single cap stone resting on the slightly taller portal stones that mark the entrance of the ancient tomb. The air inside it is moist and stuffy and you feel like you cannot breathe enough. Is it from fear or from running faster than ever in your life? And now you have to suppress your gasping and panting for air so the spectre would not hear you. Not an easy feat when all you want to do is scream for help. Scream like you did when first you noticed your eerie stalker and took to your heels. Yet, you know there is no help to expect. For who would help you against a ghost? Only a madman would. No, your only chance to get out of this alive is if the spectre does not find you. So, you have to calm your breathing and the throbbing of your heart and become as still as a statue, melt into the dark grey stone, and prey to all the gods of the universe that the ghost will pass by your sinister hideout. If not, this elven tomb will soon become your tomb, there is no doubt about it.
Now the white shape is directly in front of the entrance. The temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees and you start to tremble from the cold. And from fear. Has it sensed you? Will it come even closer and suck your life, your soul from your panic-stricken body? Already it stretches ghostly thin armes out toward you, long, spindly fingers of white penetrate the blackness inside the ancient portal tomb. You feel your breath freeze in your lungs and your heart in your chest. Then you scream.
Suddenly, the spectre turns around, away from you. Behind it looms a dark figure outlined by the silver light of the full moon. A man with a silver sword in his hand. He swings his sword at the ghost, but as it swishes through the air, the ghost vanishes into thin air only to materialise directly behind its attacker a split second later. However, having anticipated the spectre's move, the man has already turned around. His motions are so fast, you have difficulty following them. All you see is a black shadow that moves with incredible, super-human speed as the man attacks the spectre with his blade, again and again. Who is this stranger? A knight? A sorcerer? Will he save you? You hope - no, pray - he will as you stare at the scene unfolding before your eyes, transfixed, strangely excited and, at the same time, terrified.
Although the silver blade slices through the ghost several times, it does not kill it, nor does it seem to cause much damage. Well, how do you kill something that obviously is not alive? Can ghosts be killed at all? In the stories you have heard, you would need a priest and holy water to banish a ghost, yet the man who has come to your rescue is definitely not a priest but a warrior of some kind. A warrior who fights relentlessly against a foe that appears to be less material than whips of mist.
Now the stranger throws his free arm out and a flash of light blasts from his hand. It hits the spectre square in the chest - or where the chest would have been if it actually had a body. The white shape is knocked down to the ground and seems to be stunned for a moment. A moment that is just long enough for the stranger to make a weird sign on the ground with his hand. As soon as the sign that somewhat resembles an hour glass is finished, the white shape becomes more defined. Now you can clearly see that it is the ghost of a young woman clad in the usual blouse and long skirt typical of the region, only that there are no colours, just this strange light.
"Stay away from the Yrden circle," the stranger warns, "I'll be back in a minute. Have to burn the corpse."
Burn the corpse? Is that how you kill a ghost? But how will the man find it between the many ancient tombs in the dark of the night? Well, the how hardly matters as long as he does so before the spectre can escape from what seems to be some kind of ghost trap. A quite efficient one to boot as the spectre is not only more defined and corporeal, but appears to be weakened, too, and kind of sick. As you have a closer look, you notice that the young woman's blouse is ripped in two, her breast half exposed. Did she recently die here in this cemetery? Raped and killed by marauding soldiers perhaps? The war is over now, a peace treaty between Nilfgaard and the North soon to be signed, but it has ravaged large parts of the country and so many have died a gruesome death or disappeared without a trace. Come to think of it, the continent must be teeming with vengeful spirits as a consequence of the fighting. It is not their fault that they have turned into evil wraiths. You almost feel a pang of sympathy for this young woman whose ghost chased you through the night. You were so lucky that your village, as well as your sister's, have been spared. Else, this could easily have been one of you, or you both. Still, gazing into the cold, dead eyes of the spectre sends shivers up and down your spine.
Suddenly, the spectre writhes as if in agony. Ghostly flames begin to lick around the young woman's legs and body and she opens her mouth in a silent cry. The stranger must have set her corpse on flame, and as it is burning in the real world, the spectre is slowly devoured by the spectral fire that finally sets her free. Although it is a gruesome sight, this thought gives you a little comfort at last. With a deep sigh, you detach yourself from the back stone of the tomb and slowly step outside, carefully to keep your distance from the ghost trap and the dissolving spectre inside of it. You look around. Not far away, a big war horse is standing by a menhir to your left. From the right, the stranger is approaching with long strides. You can see him more clearly now. He is tall and bald and dark skinned with a black beard and a scarred face that might look frightening. Yet, what is even more spooky are his eyes. Despite the darkness, they gleam yellow-green, not like any human eyes you have ever seen. But he saved you and somehow, you are not scared. He might be some kind of monster and could rape and kill you here and now, you are aware of it. Yet, despite his somewhat unsettling appearance, you feel in your heart that this man would never do anything as vile as this. That this man is safe. He looks exhausted from the fight, though, and, to your dismay, begins to sway and stumble. You rush toward him. Then his knees buckle and he collapses right into your arms.
Shit, this is not supposed to happen! You are the maiden in distress. You ought to collapse into his arms, not the other way around! You stagger from his weight and, carefully, lower the man down to the ground. He groans with pain. Is he injured? Did the spectre hurt him? You can hardly see a thing with only the little light the full moon provides, but his black leather pants, the brown shirt and the silver-studded long waistcoat do not look torn. However, is there a growing dark stain on his shirt under the silver medallion he is wearing? Right where the heart is? Blood? It feels wet and warm and sticky when you touch it. Fuck!
You barely remember how you managed to get the only half-conscious man onto his horse, but you did. Luckily you are a good rider and the horse does not give you any trouble when you mount behind its owner and spur the animal into a gallop. Your little house lies not far from the elven cemetery on the outskirts of the village, just a ten-minutes ride on horseback. You half support, half drag your saviour into the house where he collapses onto your bed. Quickly you light a few candles and cut his shirt open. His chest is slick with blood. However, the two stab wounds where the blood is coming from do not look fresh. There are stitches but they are not completely healed yet and the wounds have reopened in places during the fight with the spectre. Was he a soldier in the Battle of Brenna and badly injured there by what could have been a two-pronged guisarme, or a pitchfork? Judging by what you can see, the injuries must have been almost lethal. Whatever it was that caused them, though, you must staunch the bleeding, and fast. Luckily, you know what to do and have what you need. The man moans softly while you cleanse the wounds and redo the stitches, one after the other, but he lies still during the procedure, his eyes clenched shut tightly. With the stitches in place again, the bleeding ceases and you lavishly apply a healing poultice to the fresh suture. Then you dress the injury with strips of clean linen, the white of the fabric a stark contrast to the man's dark, sweat-glistening skin.
"Thank you," he murmurs hoarsely when you are done.
"I have to thank you. You saved my life. And I don't even know your name," you say, gently wiping the sweat from his brow with a piece of cloth dabbed in warm water.
"Coën. I'm a Witcher."
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"This was the story of how I met your uncle. And now to bed, you little rascals, your mum will soon be back and I don't want to explain to my sister why you aren't sleeping yet!"
"Nah, Aunty, please, one more story! Tell us how Uncle Coën killed the two-headed troll of Trondvik! Please!"
"Yeah, another Witcher story! Troll! Troll! Troll!"
"No, not tonight. But when my husband is back from his latest contract, he can tell you himself. There's still plenty of time before we go to Kaer Morhen for the winter."
"But we want to go to Kaer Morhen, too! We want to be Witchers! Can we be Witchers?"
"No, you can't. But if you all are good little girls now and go to sleep without a fuss, I could ask your mum if you can come visit Kaer Morhen this Yule. That a deal?"
Of course, it is. And it is the best Yule ever.