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Aragorn finds the strange man curled up next to a swamp, a brown mare standing nearby. At first, he thinks the man is deeply asleep, perhaps working through some sort of alcohol overconsumption, although the nearest village is several days away. When he gets closer, however, can smell the stench of old blood. The mare sees him approaching and nickers softly, nosing the strange man’s face as if to rouse him. It doesn’t seem to elicit any reaction whatsoever.
As he steps closer, Aragorn can see that the man’s features are remarkably young for the fact that his hair is bone-white, albeit caked with dirt and blood. He can also spot the source of the smell – a large puddle of blood that has soaked the earth underneath him, no doubt stemming from deep rend in the armour that Aragorn can see from here. It looks like it probably goes down to the bone. It is a miracle that he isn’t dead already, as evidenced only by the almost invisible rise and fall of his chest.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out towards the horse. If he is to help the man, he needs to make sure that the horse isn’t going to bite him or kick him in the head first. She seems to be rather attached to her rider. The mare flicks her ears when he grabs her reins and mutters a few elvish words to help calm her. A pang of longing races through Aragorn’s chest when he lets her smell him and gets rewarded for his patience with a bump of her head against his chest. His own horse died only a few weeks ago, during an ill-advised attack from a few orcs that Aragorn was lucky to escape from with his own life. He misses her terribly, a deep and tearing ache in his chest. No matter how often he loses a steed, it never hurts any less.
Aragorn ties the mare’s reins to a branch nearby, close enough for her to still be able to see them, and hands her an apple from his pack that she bites into with obvious enthusiasm. Throughout the entire sequence of actions the man on the ground doesn’t stir once. Aragorn kneels down next to him, feeling for a pulse. He is surprised to find that it beats slowly – far more so than he would expect of any normal man, although it seems steady enough for now. A surprise, really, considering the shape the stranger is in.
Next, Aragorn begins to divest the man of his armour and weapons, to get a better look at his injuries. His weapons are curious – not one, but two swords, slung over his back. One of them seems to have silver worked into the blade and runes in a language unfamiliar to Aragorn. Strange. He also builds a fire, knowing too well how cold blood loss can make someone. The flames spark and rise high into the sky when he finally manages to peel the last piece of hardened leather off, taking in a sharp breath of air when he sees the full extent of the damage. Lifting up his shirt, the man’s entire torso is dappled in rapidly darkening bruises, and Aragorn is sure that there is a broken rib there or two. By far the worst, however, is the long wound along the stranger’s rib cage, all the way diagonally down his right side, ending right above his hip. It is deep enough that Aragorn can see the glint of bone, and he shudders.
By all means, the man should have bled out minutes ago. Perhaps it was only the slow beating of his heart that had kept enough of his blood inside to keep him from dying just yet.
He heats a pot of water until it boils and drags one of the branches out of the fire and closer to him. The stranger can be lucky he isn’t awake when Aragorn carefully washes his wound, frees it from the dirt and debris and bits of hardened leather still stuck inside it, although there is just the faintest twitch of movement, a frown on his face when Aragorn pulls at some of the metal bits from his armour that were embedded in his skin by the slash. He sows it up as quickly and neatly as he can, passing the needle through the flame before he begins his task, trying to keep what little blood is left inside the man’s body. A paste made of athelas and marigold, to speed up the healing and then a set of bandages, wrapped around the stranger’s body as well as he can, although it’s difficult to manhandle him and bind his injuries at the same time. He tries to dribble some tea down the man’s throat, before sitting back on his haunches.
Now all that is left to do is to sit and wait.
Aragorn tends to the fire, prepares some more tea and eats some dried meat and the fresh apples he was able to find. Then he tends to the horse, makes sure she is fed and watered and rubbed down, for good measure. He leads her around the camp for a short walk, marvelling at what great shape she is in. Occasionally, he checks the stranger’s pulse, still surprised by how slowly his heart seems to be beating. Wherever the man goes in his dreams, it does not seem to be a restful place, or else the pain from his injury is seeping through even into his sleep. He twitches and groans, grinds his teeth and, at one point, moans as if the blade responsible for his wound had cut all the way into his soul.
The stranger finally startles awake when the sun is already beginning to set, and Aragorn has just finished preparing and eating his portion of a more substantial dinner. He gasps loudly, eyes wide and unseeing at first, before they focus on Aragorn. It takes all of Aragorn’s self-control not to flinch back in sheer surprise – the irises are golden, the pupil large and black, much like a cat’s. They narrow immediately with suspicion and the man’s hand pats the ground, evidently searching for his swords that Aragorn had set aside earlier.
“Easy.” Aragorn raises his hands. “I mean you no harm.”
“Where- Who-“ The stranger has spotted his swords and begins to move towards them, abandoning the motion halfway through with a gasp when it pulls at his wound.
“My name is Aragorn,” Aragorn tells him, showing him his empty palms. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
The man’s eyes narrow, but at least he stops his frantic movements, drags himself slowly over to his swords instead until he can rest his fingers on their pommels. It doesn’t escape Aragorn’s notice that he immediately looks for his horse as well, a slight bit of tension draining out of him when he sees her whole and happy.
“Geralt,” he finally offers when he has convinced himself that Aragorn doesn’t seem to be an immediate threat. “Did you-“ he gestures to his wound and Aragorn nods. What a strange name, none that he has heard before. But then, neither has he ever seen the runes on the man’s sword, nor seen eyes like this in a human. It intrigues him, to say the least.
“I am not in the habit of abandoning strangers in danger of dying by the side of the road,” he says. “Besides, it was time for a rest anyway.”
“Thank you”, Geralt presses out, every fibre of his being still tense. Aragorn has no doubt that he could leap into action with only a moment’s notice, injury or not. This stranger is intimately acquainted with fighting – and injury, judging from the various scars Aragorn had seen on his body, a collection to rival even the most grizzled of war veterans. Some of the wounds look like a normal man shouldn’t even have survived them. But then, Geralt has the eyes of a cat and hair white as snow, so perhaps he is no ordinary man anyway.
“Not to worry.” Aragorn makes a small gesture with is hand, to indicate that taking care of him was no trouble. He hesitates, wondering what to say next, before his eyes land on the mare grazing peacefully beside them. “You have a beautiful mare. She seems quite attached to you.”
Geralt’s gaze softens immediately when he looks over to his horse. He holds out a hand and the mare walks over, gently noses his fingers and then his face. He laughs quietly when she headbutts him a little.
“Hey, old girl,” he murmurs, reaching up to scratch her forehead. Aragorn tries to hide the pang of pain that watching the interaction sends through him. He misses his horse with such a fierce ache that it momentarily robs him of breath.
“What’s her name?” He asks, once he can trust his voice again.
“Roach.” The mare’s ears turn when she hears her name, and she nickers softly. Aragorn feels his eyebrows rise. Certainly not a usual name for a horse. The Rohirrim would probably chase Geralt out of the country if they heard a horse being referred to as such.
“You took care of her,” Geralt adds, a moment later, after looking her over carefully.
“Well, she deserved it.” Aragorn shrugs a little. “Besides, I’ve found that I often prefer the company of horses to those of humans, myself.”
Geralt’s eyes light up at the last sentence and Aragorn has the very distinct feeling that he isn’t alone in the voiced sentiment.
“They are certainly a sight more patient than most humans, that’s for sure,” Geralt agrees. “Loyal, steady. A companion who doesn’t constantly attempt to compose songs about every single one of your exploits.”
“Ah, yes.” Aragorn leans back with a little smile on his face, thinking of Bilbo. “You are not the only one who has to listen to his life being involuntarily turned into poetry, then.”
“And here I thought that I was the only one with this particular problem,” Geralt laughs, although he grimaces shortly after at the pain the movement evidently sends through him. Despite his words, his expression is utterly fond, however, and Aragorn is sure that whoever the mysterious composer is, he certainly has his space in the man’s heart. Much like Bilbo.
“Where is your own steed then?” Geralt continues, and Aragorn can feel his face fall a little at the mention.
“Had to bury her not three weeks past,” he says, quietly. “A lucky orc arrow. There was little I could do.”
“Ah. I’m sorry.” Geralt’s eyes are shining with sympathy. Roach, evidently sensing her rider’s distress, comes and headbutts him slightly in the shoulder and he reaches up to pet her. Aragorn looks away, busying himself with searching for and filling his pipe. Geralt’s nostrils flare at the scent, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry.” Aragorn lifts his pipe, moves slightly so that he is downwind from Geralt. “I hope you don’t mind?” It has never occurred to him that anyone wandering the wilds might be averse to pipe weed, it being such a staple everywhere.
“No, it’s fine.” Geralt shakes his head a little.
“I have some dinner left, if you want,” Aragorn offers after a moment, gesturing towards the fireplace. “Feel free to eat your fill. There is more than enough to share.”
“Thank you.” Geralt still seems rather cautious when he approaches the meal, sniffing it thoroughly and giving it a quick taste before he decides that it is indeed safe to eat. It reminds Aragorn of a dog or wolf, especially one who has had bad experiences with humans before. Once again, he decides not to pry. If the stranger wants to share, then he will; if he doesn’t, then it isn’t Aragorn’s place to force him to. As if he hears his thoughts, Geralt looks up at him as he eats, the gaze from golden eyes piercing.
“You haven’t asked me anything about my myself,” he points out, gesturing to his eyes, his white hair.
“Should I?” Aragorn smiles faintly. “Of course, I am curious. But it doesn’t seem polite, enquiring about a man’s body or inner workings when he has just woken up from an injury that would have killed most others. Not even to satisfy my own curiosity.”
“I am not a man,” Geralt says, very quietly. Aragorn takes the news in stride; he had already suspected as much. And besides, he isn’t exactly unused to the company of beings who are just different enough from ordinary humans to not count themselves as part of their number.
“Then what are you? If you are inclined to share.” He makes the offer, waiting patiently on whether it is going to be accepted.
“Where I come from, we are called Witchers.” Geralt frowns and for a moment, Aragorn contemplates whether he should ask about where Geralt comes from. He decided against it, waits him to continue instead. “We were…created…to hunt monsters. To protect humanity.”
A bitter smile creeps on Geralt’s face at the last words.
“Although many of them see us as the opposite. To them, we are the monsters, more often than not. Mutated. Sight, healing, reflexes, all enhanced, although we were never given a choice.”
Aragorn shudders a little at the last words, at the pain hidden inside them. The perfect killing machine. He wonders if those who created Witchers ever stopped and thought about what it had to be like to have a human heart beat inside what Geralt had called a mutated body.
“I do not think a man so beloved by his horse and whose first instinct is to protect others should be called a monster,” he says softly. “There are far more monstrous beings, at least in this world.”
A mirthless smile travels over Geralt’s face, although his eyes are warming slightly.
“And yourself?” he asks. “Why are you roaming the wilds?”
“I am a Ranger,” Aragorn offers. “One of the Dúnedain. In a way, perhaps, not so dissimilar to you. My people live in the wilds, trying to protect what is left of the human settlements here.”
“Ah.” Geralt has well noted the distinction between human and dúnadan, although Aragorn supposes they are not as deep or as far-reaching as in his case.
“I haven’t been here for long,” he offers hesitantly. “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about these lands?”
“Of course.” Aragorn smiles, wondering once again where Geralt has come from, and how he has found his way here.
The evening carries on as he talks. Geralt turns out to be an attentive and intelligent listener, occasionally interjecting with opinions and observations of his own. Aragorn has to admit that he is beginning to feel rather comfortable in the company of someone who doesn’t really seem like a stranger anymore. Geralt regals him with a few tales of his own and Aragorn is surprised at the sharp humour that hides beneath his guarded façade. At some point, Roach ambles over to them, gracious enough to let Aragorn pet her and bury his face in her mane for a few moments, breathing in the reassuring scent of horse. Geralt just smiles when he turns back, offering his mare a few pats himself.
“Perhaps we should travel together. Until the next village at least.” Aragorn is the first one to make the offer, slightly unsure on whether it will be accepted. In truth, he surprises himself with it – usually he relishes the time he spends alone in the wilderness, although he has been without company for a long time, especially now with his horse gone.
“Oh.” Geralt looks into the fire, steals another glance at Aragorn, before staring back into the flames. Aragorn watches him, the light of the fire turning his hair golden, reflecting in those intriguing eyes of his, highlighting the sharp edges of his features. Yes, this is a man that he would like to spend more time with. “I…I don’t think I would mind some company, for now.”
“I am glad,” Aragorn smiles. He rises from his seat to retrieve his bedroll, offers Geralt a hand up when he begins to move as well. Geralt winces a little when the motion aggravates his wound, but his hand stays on Aragorn’s skin for longer than strictly necessary.
The warmth from it seems to linger, well into the next morning.