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The Witch in the Woods
The leaves are turning brown. It’s funny which details stay in your head when you’re totally out of it. The brown and yellow and red leaves fall to the ground in gentle sailing motions, touch the forest floor without a sound. Insects buzz and animals cry. It’s a peaceful autumn afternoon.
I lie on the ground, with my guts in places they really shouldn’t be, more blood outside of me than inside. My mouth tastes like iron. A bird flies by.
I somehow manage to get to my knees, a hand on my stomach to keep anything from getting more fucked up than it already is. Moving like this is slow and humiliating but it’s all I can do right now. I don’t even feel the pain, too many potions still in my system. Somewhere between where I was before and where I remember to have parked Roach I lose my keys. I’m too tired to look for them. I’m too tired to be moving, actually. Maybe I should just lie down and rest. My thoughts are sluggish and weird and slow. Only Vesemir’s nagging voice keeps me going. That, and my unwillingness to die out here like an inexperienced youngling on his first year on the Path.
I crawl through the forest towards the city. The smell of pine needles and slowly decaying leaves, of animals and moss is replaced by the biting smell of car emissions, concrete, and humanity. Modern civilisation.
The world has mostly forgotten about monsters and I like to keep it that way. Sometimes, though, sometimes a person remembers. They ask for help then and I do what I can. When I get hurt during the job, I patch myself up. I haven’t been to a hospital for nearly two centuries. Doctors and nurses have more interest in dissecting me than patching me up when I’m in truly bad shape.
I haven’t been this injured in almost a hundred years. Maybe I’m getting old.
There lives a witch at the outskirts of the city, a wonderous person, or so I’ve been told. The kind that eats children for breakfast and has a black raven with three red eyes, and a dark, twisted soul. The witch has cursed a thousand villages before settling down here, the old lady with the hissing cat had told me. All cats hiss at me.
This witch is the only person currently able to help me. There would be Eskel or Lambert but they’re on some other part of the Continent, hunting together. There’s a lot of work for only three of us, now that the shadows have become the monsters’ mantle. So, some strange hag with a bad reputation it is, if I get there before I bleed out, of course.
At the end of a field stands a lonely house, tall and dark and Victorian. A slur has been sprayed on the black wooden door with white paint. I drag myself up the stairs and, leaning heavily on the porch’s railing, manage a weak knock. The world is turning fuzzy at the edges of my vision. My oversensitive ears pick up on light footsteps and a key turned in a lock. Then the door swings open.
In front of me stands a petite woman, clad in a white blouse and a wide black skirt that swishes around her ankles, hiding the cat whose yellow eyes lock on mine, ears laid back. It hisses. I am too tired to hiss back.
The woman raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me, her violett eyes piercing and her gaze judgmental.
“So?”
“You the witch?” I grunt. She laughs and shakes her head. Long black hair follows her movement. She’s almost irritatingly beautiful.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that? No, I’m not a witch but I can be quite nasty in court if you need me to put the guy who did this behind bars,” she says, waving her hand at the blood, ripped skin, and flesh that is my person right now.
She nods towards the brass sign at her door. She’s a lawyer. Oh. She takes one more look, no doubt assessing how pathetic I am before pointing her hand across the field.
“If you’re looking for the witch, he lives over there.”
I squint against the low afternoon sun, unable to see anything else than a house on the other end of the field. I nod and turn around. There are black spots before my eyes. The door closes behind me. I’m sad the cat hissed at me.
I think I lose consciousness for some seconds on the way over to the other house. I’m not sure why I’m still alive but at this point the only thought that’s keeping me going is the fact that I’m not going to die of the injuries a fucking manticore inflicted on me, not after I already killed the bastard.
The house is painted a soft pastel blue, and when I pass the front garden there’s whole patches of intentionally sown dandelions and buttercups, next to other weeds and herbs. Maybe I’m also making them up. I don’t know anymore. A raven watches me, head cocked to the side. I can’t tell if it has three eyes or only two.
The elegant knocker is the head of a lark, surrounded by buttercups. It promises to sing me the sweetest songs. I blink and then the lark’s beak is closed again. When I let the knocker slam into the door my hand leaves red spots on the metal surface.
The door swings open on its own and a warm baritone voice calls, “I’ll be with you in a second. Make yourself at home in my sitting room, dear. Would you rather like tea or coffee?”
I pass out on the threshold.
Someone’s humming, a gentle melody, something I’ve never heard before. Pots and cups clatter, then the sound of an oven opening and closing again. It smells like a rainy afternoon, like autumn, like pie and books and the smokey aroma of a merrily burning fire in a fireplace.
Then the pain hits me like a truck on a highway. I gasp and attempt to curl around the hole in my stomach. White flashes go through me, accompanied by shudders as the agony spreads through my body.
The humming has stopped. I have no idea why it bothers me that much. I open my eyes and come face to face with bright blue ones, blinking down at me with apparent worry.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I say and attempt to sit. The pain leaves me nauseous, with the world spinning again. Sweat breaks out on my brow and I realise I’m panting only when my chest starts to hurt. The witch stands next to my bed, arms crossed, an eyebrow cocked, waiting patiently until the static noise in my ears subsides.
“I believe that when you’re capable of going for a shit on your own. Now, be honest with me, witcher,” he says.
“Hurts,” I grumble, swaying a little. The pain slowly subsides.
The witch is close now, his warm hands guiding me back to a horizontal position carefully. He smells of perfume, something floral and light.
“Now be a dear and stay like that because if you undo all my hard work I’ll be very cross.”
He turns and gathers some salves and herbs and other utensils before dragging a chair over and sitting down at my side. He lifts the blankets and tsk’s at me for aggravating the wounds. He isn’t shy and I am too old to care about nudity. The bandages he’s put around my torso are dotted with red.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost a week, you know,” he says while cutting off the bandages with his scissors. He’s warmed them in his hands before so I don’t jerk away at the touch. When the bandages come off I can’t keep the grimace of my face.
It’s ugly. Really ugly. At least my organs are where they belong, so that’s something. The stitches are precise but the flesh is puffy and red and there’s blood oozing out at several places. It also stinks of infection.
The witch hitches up the sleeves of his soft but bright orange jumper, closes his eyes and then puts his hands flat on my stomach. I barely keep from cussing. He mutters a spell in Elder Speech under his breath and his hands heat up to the point that they feel like they’re burning my skin. It’s similar to the time an alderman thought it was a good punishment to brand me after I’d killed their vampire but had failed to save his daughter. I clench my jaw and I endure it.
“I know,” the witch says soothingly, “but I promise it’ll get better.”
His hands are steady and when he opens his eyes and lifts them there’s no burn mark in their shape on my skin. I still look like a roadkill but the gnawing feeling of infection in my blood and flesh seems to have gone down.
“There,” he says, reaching for a tin of salve. His touch is featherlight as he spreads it over the injury. Herbs and mosses follow before the witch grabs more bandages and somehow manages to place them around me neatly without having me sit up which I’m glad for, not that I’d ever admit that out loud.
“I’ve never met a witcher before,” he chatters as he works, “but I heard of your healing abilities. The stories really didn’t do them justice. Even with a week’s healing time you already look amazing. I really thought you’d die on my porch that afternoon.”
“I’ve had the Grasses twice,” I say.
The witch fastens the last bit of bandages and turns to inspect a cut at my thigh that I hadn’t noticed up until now.
“This one’s almost healed entirely. It might not even scar. You certainly have enough of those.”
“Comes with the job. Not everyone can be pretty,” I say with a glare. The witch pauses. He’s beautiful, his skin unblemished, almost glowing. I wonder if it is as soft as it looks. Of course every mage is breathtaking, it’s in the way they channel chaos through their body. Many of them look too perfect, though, the use of magic having washed away all character. There’s a mole on his arm, a tiny brown spot on otherwise fair skin. His hair is in disarray as if he’d run his hands through it repeatedly. He blushes prettily. There’s a little red line from where he cut himself while shaving. He’s beautiful.
“I didn’t want to insinuate that they’re hideous,” he says, “and I certainly didn’t want to insult you.”
“Don’t apologise,” I say, locking that weird squeezing feeling away deep in the shadows of me, never to be looked at ever again.”
“Everybody knows witchers don’t have emotions.”
The witch sighs. His hand is still on my thigh. I don’t think he notices how his thumb is gently moving over my skin. The touch hits me with almost as much force as the manticore has a week back.
“I’m not everybody, am I?”
He stands and covers me with the blanket again.
“I’m going to fix you something to drink real quick. Don’t aggravate the injuries.”
I lie there and watch the ceiling as I listen to the witch busying himself in the kitchen. I’m alive. I’m alive and there’s a chatty mage that I probably won’t be able to pay, taking care of my wounds that should have killed me. A raven sits on the on the window sill, looking at me with two beady eyes. They’re black, not red.
“There we go,” the witch says, setting down a steaming mug next to me. He cups the back of my head and I manage a glare.
“Now now, don’t bother with your scary face. That might work on normal civilians but I’m anything but. You’re welcome to drink on your own but don’t complain to me when you’re dead because you keep your injuries from healing.”
I grunt but allow him to tip the mug. The drink burns my mouth but tastes good. It’s sweet and there’s hints of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, and …
“You made me a pumpkin spice latte?”
The witch bestows another of his cute glares on me. He sits back and shakes his head.
“Cinnamon supports wound healing. Nutmeg improves blood circulation, immune system function, and relieves pain. Cloves reduce inflammation, and ginger reduces nausea. It acts as a natural painkiller, too. I thought you witchers knew your herbs and spices.”
“Why the pumpkin, though?”
He grins sheepishly. “It tastes good.”
The witch rarely has customers but when he does he gives them ointments, charms, herbs and spices, talismans, and on one memorable occasion, a tarot reading. He chats with every customer amiably, wishes them a nice day or a good journey.
When he and I are alone he does chores, crochetes, and sews. He’s always humming under his breath.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
I stare at the orange thing with suspicion. The witch smiles at me. It’s a wide smile, one that crinkles the skin around the eyes and bunches his cheeks up. It’s a smile I’ve never smiled myself. It makes me long for things. Witchers don’t long for anything.
“Why, a pumpkin, of course.”
“A pumpkin.”
“Yes, you oaf, a pumpkin. It’s autumn.”
He lights a couple of candles with a flick of his wrist and returns to his sewing.
“You’ve never told me your name,” he says, his blue eyes focused on his stitches.
“Geralt,” I say. “Geralt of Rivia.”
He’s still smiling.
“Nice to meet you, Geralt of Rivia. I’m Jaskier.”
“Jaskier.”
Rain patters against the windows, wind races around the house. It’s autumn.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I stop, bracing myself against the wall with one arm. Jaskier waltzes through the front door, a red beanie on his head, a thick woollen scarf dwarfing his features.
“I’m taking my leave before I overstay my welcome,” I say honestly. “I will be back with payment.”
Jaskier tsk’s again and sets down the box he was carrying.
“My orders were quite clear, dear witcher. Now lie back down in your bed like a good patient. You’re healed when I say you’re healed and not a day sooner.”
His hands are gentle but firm and I hate my body for betraying me as it seeks his help. Jaskier is taller than I thought he’d be, only an inch or two smaller than me. He’s lean but surprisingly strong. He steers me back to the bed and helps me lie down, then removes the boots, the tatters of my clothes that I forced myself into. I suspect he cut them open to get me out of them.
“I won’t be able to afford your services,” I try to persuade him but Jaskier shakes his head.
“I have no idea who you were treated by in the past, but that person should be drawn and quartered for overcharging you and throwing you out while you were still injured. You’re not overstaying my welcome. I quite enjoy your company, if I’m being honest.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds as sceptical as I feel.
Jaskier finishes checking the bandages with a bit more force than necessary and glares at me.
“Yeah. Now stop complaining.”
“I didn’t complain.”
“You have that look.”
I let him have the last word.
Jaskier retrieves the box he’s brought and starts rummaging through it, producing a roll of cash and a change of clothes.
“I allowed myself to collect payment for your job. Nasty beastie, that manticore. Might you want to tell me how you killed it?” he asks, throwing me the money. He then shows me my bag and my keys.
“I figured they belong to you. I’ve also retrieved your swords. Your motorcycle is still there, by the way. Nice ride. I brought clothes but I’d suggest you wear them after you’ve had a bath.”
He places the pumpkin pillow next to my bag and grabs some tools to keep me company while working.
“ Witch,” Jaskier says at the door. He’s leaning against the frame, his back to me.
“Harlot,” a female voice says. I’ve heard it before. She’s the lawyer on the other side of the field.
“I don’t take payment, sweetheart. I’m quite the generous lover. Now, what do you want?”
“Tell me which funny stone I need to put on my forehead to get rid of the headache I’m nursing.”
“You should adopt a healthier sleeping schedule and drink less coffee . But I do have the exact right kind of tea for you.”
He comes back, rolls his eyes at me, and grabs a jar that’s filled with herbs and leaves. He mouths ‘help me’ but I grin and shake my head. Jaskier attempts to look brokenhearted and hurries off to give the lawyer woman his tea.
“There you go, she-demon.”
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
“I hate you, too. Don’t forget about the songbook the next time you go into town .”
The door closes and Jaskier comes back, settling on the chair next to my bed with a guitar. I’ve always heard him sing and hum but I’ve never seen him with an instrument before.
“I also play the piano,” he says wit a gentle smile. “And the violin. Oh, and the lute.”
My insides to a complicated thing that feels unpleasant. Jaskier nods.
“I can get it, no problem.”
He stands and swaps his guitar for a lute.
“Any favourites?”
I close my eyes and shake my head. Jaskier begins to play.
It’s been a while since I heard actual lute play. Jaskier sings along quietly, his clever fingers plucking the lute’s strings expertly. It’s an old song, one that I haven’t heard in almost two hundred years.
The music fades and I open my eyes. My cheeks are wet. Luckily, Jaskier doesn’t comment on it. He continues with a complicated picking song.
“It’s meant to keep a lutenist’s fingers agile,” he explains. “Not many have enough skill to play it perfectly.”
“But you do?”
His grin turns cheeky. “Yes, I do.” Then he picks up the pace to the point where his fingers are a blur on the strings. I grunt and lie back again, closing my eyes. The music lulls me into sleep.
The last leaves have fallen and there’s frost on the ground, clinging to blades of grass. I stand and pull on the jeans Jaskier has b ought as well as a hoodie. The jeans are a bright blue and the hoodie is a dark red but beggars can’t be choosers.
Jaskier is standing in the doorway, watching me critically.
“Are you sure about this?”
I nod.
“Okay. You know you can stay here for as long as you want to, right? Until you’re completely healed. Or even longer.”
“Jaskier.”
He raises his hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright. At least let me give you some ointment to put on your scars. And some food for your journey. Do you have a place to stay for the winter? It’s going to be a cold one, this year.”
Jaskier strokes the raven on his shoulder. His name is Pegasus, he told me, and he likes to roam wild most of the time. Sometimes he comes for head scratches and cashew nuts .
“Jaskier.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say softly.
He steps closer to me. Pegasus takes off through the open window. I can feel Jaskier’s warmth this close.
“You should come by for Christmas.”
“I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”
“Maybe I like your company.”
“Hm.”
He wraps his arms around me, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. He whispers something that I wouldn’t have heard had I been a witcher.
“I’ll miss you, too.” His voice is vulnerable but there’s a smile to it. Something gentle.
“Don’t read my thoughts,” I say. Now I can feel him smile.
“I don’t have to read your thoughts to know you’ll miss me.”
“Hm.”
I return the embrace carefully. Jaskier sighs happily and snuggles closer.
“ I have to go, little witch.”
“I’m not little.”
“No,” I say, sounding too fond to my own ears. “But you’re not big and scary, either.”
“I could be,” Jaskier says with a pout. “Don’t forget the rations.”
I roll my eyes but grab the bag he holds out for me. Then I look at him once more.
“Goodbye, Jaskier Pankratz. Thank you for your help.”
“Anytime, Geralt of Rivia.”
He looks very good like this, in sweatpants and a ridiculous sweater in a thousand colours. His hair is dishevelled again. Before I can stop myself I lean forward and press my lips to his.
Jaskier freezes, before fisting his hand into my hair and deepening the kiss. It’s a kiss that makes my skin crawl and my toes curl in my boots in the best of ways. I force myself to break it and step back.
“See you on Christmas, Jask.”
I walk away through fields of dandelions and buttercups that bloom despite the season. Beneath my feet the frost cracks and the wind bites against my uncover ed skin.
Only when I’m already in my motel for the night I realise that Jaskier has packed one of his selfmade pumpkin pillows in my bag.
I place it back in the bag, vowing to myself to give it back to him come Christmas.