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Geralt rolled over, cradling his arm in a futile attempt to prevent it being jostled. He bit his lip against the pain that brought tears to his eyes. He needed to meditate: to heal. He was exposed here but he couldn’t settle enough to allow the pain to subside and his brain to quiet. He cursed, low and long, a string of invective he’d learned from Lambert. Then he began humming. Eskel’s lullaby sprang easily to his lips, rusty as his voice was and he allowed himself to drift on the fantasy of his lovers around him, easing his pain.
Eskel propped his back against the tree and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun. The afternoon was almost perfect. Tiny clouds scudded across the sky and he sighed in peaceful bliss. His sword rested across his thighs wafting the scent of conditioning oil towards him on the light breeze. He hummed and popped another berry into his mouth, letting the juice burst tartly across his tongue. The only thing that would make his day better was the presence of Geralt and Lambert to share it. Afternoons picking berries and arguing about sword oil were solely remnants of training, however.
Lambert sank deeper into the shadows by the hearth. The innkeeper had been nothing more than slightly wary so far, and he didn’t want to risk that. He desperately needed the chance to rest indoors. He breathed deeply, enjoying the woodsmoke that reminded him of lying on Eskel’s chest in the depths of winter near the roaring fire. The quiet clicking of an old grandmother’s knitting needles allowed him to pretend that Geralt was relaxing nearby, working on yet another pair of socks he would squirrel away into one of their packs before spring. Soon. He would be home soon.