Chapter Text
Geralt stalked through the narrow streets of Blaviken making a beeline for Roach. Thankfully, no further stones were thrown. Those villagers near the fight had been cowed, though their angry, bitter shouts still rang in the witcher’s ears. Those others in the street were suspicious of him, but far too intimidated by his furious demeanor to attempt anything.
He clenched his bleeding hand in a tight fist and put considerable effort into masking any trace of a limp, though Renfri’s blade had cut deep into his right leg and blood was soaking down into his trousers at an alarming rate.
The gut wound, too, remained ignored. He just had to get to Roach and get out of this thrice cursed town. The rest could wait til later.
When he reached the tavern outside which he’d picketed Roach, where he’d met Renfri, he found a trio of boys working up the courage to peek into his saddle bags.
They scattered at a single glare from the witcher.
He untied the horse, checked her tack and his belongings and, finding everything to be in good order, he mounted up.
He took Roach out at a walk, both to avoid putting additional strain on his untreated injuries, as well as to deprive the village folk of the satisfaction of having literally run him out of town.
He had barely made it fifty yards when, to his astonishment, an arrow whizzed by him.
He turned in the saddle, furious at the audacity of the villagers. If he had enough energy left to use the sign of Aard...
...but no. Peeking out from behind fences and a couple windows were the same handful of boys and a few young men. A couple of them had thin, pine-wood longbows, clearly meant for hunting small game. They knocked arrows as he watched and, to his surprise, one of those arrows glanced off of Roach’s flank without cutting her.
Though it would hardly have hurt the horse, Roach was obviously agitated by the projectiles, so Geralt urged her forward into a lope, despite the pain the extra movement caused to the wound in his side.
Just as they were almost out of range he felt a shaft thunk into his shoulder. Under other circumstances he would have congratulated whomever had made that shot. The head of the arrow successfully parted his armor and buried itself maybe a centimeter into his flesh.
It was an inconsequential injury, and Geralt only had one serviceable hand at the moment, which was occupied with the reins, so he left the arrow where it was and rode on out of sight of the town.
Several miles down the road saw Geralt still riding inexorably onward. Roach had slowed to a trot, and then to a steady walk, of her own volition, having received no further input from her rider.
Geralt’s mind was back in Blaviken, relentlessly reviewing everything that had gone wrong. Desperately trying to work out what he could have done differently, what he could have done or said to save her.
Renfri...
He didn’t notice the copious amount of blood soaking into his waistband, or pouring down his leg.
A distant part of him was aware that he should drink Swallow to ensure that the injuries didn’t take too great a toll on him, but the greater part of him simply didn’t care. It wanted him to wallow in loss and blame.
Even when waves of dizziness started to hit, he rode on, heedless.
“Hey!” Something poked his foot, “Hey mister!”
Geralt resurfaced to consciousness with a low growl.
“You’ve fallen asleep on your horse!”
Indeed, Roach was still under him. She had stopped when she felt him about to lose balance and had side-stepped to a nearby tree which was now preventing him from falling the rest of the way from the saddle.
He looked up slowly, searching for the source of the pokes and the comments.
It was a boy, probably an older teen, traveling alone on the road with a bundle slung over his shoulder.
“What’s the matter with your…”
The boy trailed off, taking in the golden eyes that now regarded him coldly, the silver hair, the pendant, the sluggishly bleeding wounds…
“But you’re a...you’re… Ahhh!” The boy yelled and threw the stick he’d been poking Geralt with. It bounced off of Roach’s shoulder harmlessly, but startled her. She took a few steps, and Geralt, bereft of the tree for support, tumbled unceremoniously from the saddle. The arrow in his shoulder snapped when his back hit the ground and the shock to that and his other injuries was enough to bring him back to full wakefulness.
He rolled onto his knees with a soft groan and looked over to see the boy disappearing at a full sprint down the trail. Glancing the other way he saw Roach with her head down, looking at him apologetically.
He shook his head. “Sorry Roach.”
It took him several tries to get to his feet, and he leaned heavily against her.
Lost too much blood...
“Let’s get off the road.”
He walked them slowly toward a clearing beside the road a few yards ahead, then walked them in a ways, til he judged they were out of sight.
“Here we are,” He stopped her, and went to remove her bridle. He tried first with his right hand, but then realized that it was swollen and crusted with blood from the many cuts. He could barely move the fingers, and that with considerable pain. He let the hand drop to his side and worked with his left hand to unbuckle and remove the bridle. Roach's head went down immediately to munch grass.
He patted her shoulder fondly and then set to work on the saddle. It was considerably harder to work the knots free, but finally he had it loose and slid it to the ground, slumping to the ground himself along with it. Roach looked over at him questioningly.
“Don’t wander too far.” He waved her off.
He eyed the saddlebags. He should tend his wounds and make camp for the night.
He sighed.
Later...
He sunk down into the grass and closed his eyes.
...just...
...later.