Chapter Text
Your ears come out to a slight point, but are not entirely without a human roundness. On one, at the edge, is a scar, thick and paler than the rest of your skin. You resent the human in you; years ago, you tried to cut it away into a full point, rid yourself of that which reminded you of your humanity, make yourself into a true elf. But the pain was too great and you could not finish it.
You are not angry with your father for being human, but you’re not exactly not angry with him either. Humans took both your father and your mother from you when you were too young to remember much of them, so that now you aren’t able to feel anything in particular if you try and call them to your mind. And you are riotously angry for that, that you were never able to know them, that humans stole that privilege from you by burning your village to the ground after slaughtering its people as you watched in mute-horror hidden at the edge of the woods. All you retain of that night is the scent of coppery blood and screams and flickering fire. And laughter.
You stayed in the charred wreckage for days, sleeping in the ashes of what had been your home, until a trader and his wife rode in expecting a bustling market day but instead found you, tiny and starving. They brought you to the nearest village and left you there on the street, not wanting to cart along a toddler half-elf. All you had left of your family and childhood was your mother’s embroidered shawl, which you were not supposed to wear outside of the house but took anyway; it was cold and you had wanted to gather winterberries and the shawl was warm and beautiful. You are glad you took it.
You have worked in the tavern of the town ever since. You no longer know how many years it has been. Two decades? Three?
The original owner of the place was not exactly kind to you, but he very rarely ever hit you. You’re sad, in a way, that he died, because his son Lyden is not as tolerant of your kind. He strikes you over the smallest of things: a few drops of spilled ale, a customer complaining of your elven blood, a customer desiring you for that very same reason. But you’re thankful for that last one, that he refuses to make you join the pretty girls upstairs. You have instead earned your position as a barmaid, and if you have to avoid the pawing of men wanting to fulfill a fantasy, you will. Anything to not be a girl faking moans into the night, being pinned night after sleepless night into a hard mattress. Not that you catch much sleep, either.
You do not like your empty, lonely room at the end of the upstairs hall. Rather than sleep there you slip out into the woods, and creep back in before dawn. The other girls know this, and most are kind and do not tell on you, but sometimes you are unlucky enough to sleep in and come through the back door when the owner has already risen from his bed and crossed the street from his home to the tavern to rouse the girls and collect payment from the men who stayed the night.
On those unlucky occasions when you are caught you are beaten worse than usual. If ever you catch a glimpse of your back in the mirror after a bath, you try not to think of the sound of his belt meeting your skin. Your keeper does not like that you have some secret place to go in the night.
Even if it is just the stars and the moon that you are looking up at from your bed of moss, wrapped in your mother’s shawl.
Out here you don’t feel as though you’ll suffocate, the open air gifting you with wind, cicada song, animals rustling. Sometimes, if you lay still enough, deer will walk near you, regarding you with soft eyes.
Tonight though, you hear none of these things that you love. It is unnaturally quiet and still. When a twig cracks nearby your body is already coiled and ready to jump up. You scan the trees, not able to see much from the light of the sliver of moon, until it gives you the flash of eyes in the dark, and then you can see the man walking towards you, fast enough to make you nervous.
“Get down,” he rumbles, but in the next moment another stick snaps behind you and you whirl around in time to see too-long teeth and a clawed hand swiping at you. You stagger back but it’s too late, those claws tear through your arm and there is only pain, white hot and searing. You think you would rather the dull ache of bruises. You think you would rather death. You think nothing and hear the unnerving sound of something sharp sinking into something living, the thump of a body hitting the forest floor. You hope that the beast will kill you quickly and be done with it all, but you feel nothing but the persisting agony of your arm and then a soft touch on your shoulder.
A voice full of gravel tells you that you will be alright.
You wake under the cold blue sky, blink hazily at a sun that is already halfway to setting. You’re laying on something soft -- a fur blanket? -- with a heavy cloak thrown over you. Your arm is hot, a stabbing, throbbing pain. You wonder idly at what happened to it, and then remember throwing your forearm up to block that creature from anything vital.
And then you process that it’s noon. You cannot even imagine the beating that you will get. You bolt up, crying out at the searing pain, but struggle to your feet anyways, letting the cloak fall off of you. But then a man is in front of you, golden-honey cat eyes wide.
You sway on your feet, dizziness overcoming you. “I have to get back,” you say, “Or I think he might kill me.”
“Fuck,” he says, before you tip over. He catches you easily, but one hand presses into your bandaged skin and you scream.
“Fuck,” he says again.
When you next open your eyes it’s sunset and the man is sitting right beside you, his cloak once again thrown over you.
When he sees you stir he places a hand on your shoulder, a gentle pressure, and says, “Easy, little elf. You lost a lot of blood.”
You don’t have time to worry about that. You sit up despite the hand meant to keep you down and ask, “How long have I been asleep?”
“Somewhere you need to be?”
“How long.”
He grunts. “Almost two days.”
Two…? Shit. Fuck.
You try to get to your feet again, but he just grabs the hand of your good arm and tugs you back down to sit, which is when you notice you’re no longer wearing your dress. Instead you are practically swimming in a shirt that smells of pine and horse, and your shawl is wrapped around your shoulders.
You look down at the shirt, then at him.
Unfazed, he says, “Your dress was soaked in blood. It’s nearly winter; you would have frozen.”
You can’t say you wish he’d left you in a blood-soaked dress, so you let it go.
Next, he asks, “Who do you think is going to kill you if you don’t get back?”
You don’t want to tell him. You don’t know this man. You grip the shawl tighter around you and look at the ground.
“Is it the same man that bruised you up and left scars on your back?”
Now you look at him. No one has seen them before. Lyden never hits you where it will not be covered by your clothes. He likes to kick you once he has you on the ground, so your back is nearly always painted black and blue, not to mention bloody when he lashes you; you often have to sleep on your stomach.
And now, with this new wound that has already seeped through the bandages…
“How bad is it?” you ask. “How deep?”
He shakes his head.
Fine. You pull at the knot tying it together and unravel the stained cloth before he can stop you. For a moment you worry you’re going to faint again, but the feeling passes. It is four gashes into the meat of your forearm. The worst two are stitched fairly neatly, but the edges still tug apart slightly, just enough that you can see more of your own inner anatomy than you would care to. You are careful to keep your arm palm-up so you don’t brush anything along the ragged cuts.
“Please cover it again,” you say. “I shouldn’t have looked.”
He sighs and reaches into a bag laying next to him, procuring a fresh cloth. As he re-binds you, you can’t help but think that like this you won’t be able to fulfill your duties as a barmaid. The only work you will be able to do, that requires no lifting, is on your back, under the weight of a man.
You do not like the feeling of fear, of powerlessness, but now it seems to ooze from your heart. Your eyes are still on his face but your vision unfocuses, blurs. You can’t remember the last time you allowed yourself to cry, to give in to hopelessness.
“What hurt you? Left you so beaten?” The heaviness in his voice requires an answer.
You choke out a laugh that is more like a sob, tell him, “Not what. A man. A man who will now have no use for me other than to fulfill the perversions of his customers.”
This man, who saved you and has cared for you even though he knows you are elven, shakes his head and growls, “Then that is no man. He’s worse than the beast that tried to kill you. He chooses to hurt.”
You nod and wipe at your wet face, more angry than scared now and annoyed at yourself for crying in front of a stranger.
“If you truly need to return to him I won’t stop you,” he says, but you don’t make a move to leave.
The dying sun, in a last burst of light, glints on the pendant that hangs from his neck, and something in your memory clicks. The wolf pendant, silvery hair, gilded eyes...
“You’re the Witcher, aren’t you?”
He hmms, and nods.