Chapter Text
Blood. Blood on her chin, dripping from her mouth. The same blood on the hard, spiked metal of a gauntlet as he flicks his wrist to let the drops fly, and she follows the red spheres with her eyes until they splash against the dirt. He holds her with crushing strength, and she wants to scream from the pain in her ribs, but she is silent. She teeters in his saddle, pressed to the punishing carcass of his armour. Blackness.
An orchard in bloom: the sounds of birdsong, and of muffled laughter as he nuzzles at her neck, and then - the sunlight and scents and stalks are all crushed under the armoured boots, red armoured boots. Why are they red? Is it rust? Or blood? It turns dark.
She is on the ground, by a huge tree. Tree full of dead people. It is night, but lights are flickering everywhere. Lights, screams, and sounds of battle - metallic clashes and crashed bones. A white-haired man lunging at a creature in red armour, one sword in his hand, another behind his back. Two swords…
Death. The taste of it in her mouth, the salt of tears and tang of blood. It hurts. It is not her who has died, not yet, so why does it hurt so much?
She wakes up with a scream - a wail that scratches at her throat. Not knowing why she is crying - when she has no strength to. Heavy hands land on her frail shoulders, shaking. They could shake the life itself out of her.
“Yennefer!” a grating voice booms in her ear, and she winces.
“Shut her up, or I will. She’ll wake the whole damned village. Not that we’re very welcome here,” another man’s voice nearby.
“Save your breath, Serrit. If you’re pissing your pants in fear of a few hapless villagers, you’re welcome to get the fuck out now. You owe Geralt nothing anyway. He didn’t save your life.” She only hears grumbled curses from the other man, tries to open her eyes to look at - who? Her captors?
The man holding her is huge, two lines stretch from the top of his bald head to meet at a crease above his eyebrows, forming a nearly perfect triangle. She is too weak, even to think, but she sees someone has cut this man’s scalp open, and yet he is alive. All her barely animate instincts scream he is dangerous. He should be avoided, but she cannot move. She closes her eyes, taking laboured breaths, searching for something inside her: there is something she knows, something she can use to protect herself, to defeat men like him. She is certain there is something, but it eludes her, even the very meaning of what it is is beyond her reach. She feels a single strong arm wrap under her arms to lift her up on the bed, while the other stuffs some pillows behind her back to support her. Her head tilts to the side, but she just about half-sits.
“Drink,” the order comes with a nudge on her chin, and she opens her mouth, even if involuntarily. She cannot trust him, she cannot trust anyone. But she is parched. She takes a few sips, and as the liquid soothes her pained throat, she gulps, and splutters, and nearly chokes. The hands straighten her up and dab a rough cloth at her wet face. She opens her eyes, coughing.
Another man - of a much slighter build, with a scar across his nose and a twisted band holding his dirty dark hair, stares at her. When he speaks, she knows he is the one who was so keen on silencing her earlier.
“Not sure’s worth it, Letho. Look at her. She’ll die any time soon,” he shakes his head, but she does not sense as much malice in his tone this time.
“Then I’ll take care of her until she dies,” the bulky one - Letho - insists with a derisive squint at his accomplice. Although she is even less certain of who they are now, and what she is doing in their company. She does feel like she might die, or rather that her current state makes such an assumption quite probable. But the flickering remnants of her spirit say that she is not giving up and dying. She...she thinks it is in her nature not to give up. But everything is too hazy to know for certain.
She turns her head to take in the surroundings: they are in a house which appears to be large - there are stairs leading up and doors to other rooms - but rundown. Layers of dust and grime cover most surfaces, and it makes it easy to see which ones the current inhabitants actually use. There is a window, but the shutters are closed. She is unable to guess if it is day or night, only untidy clusters of candles give off some light. Then she remembers one of the men’s concerns about her waking people up. Must be night then. Her gaze moves to herself half-lying on a bed whose cleanliness is not questionable - it is undoubtedly filthy. That is how she feels herself to be as well. Curiously, or might be quite logically, she seems beyond caring. She is in too much pain: her whole body aches and feels as if it is shattered, her mind is blurred, and there is a nagging suspicion somewhere inside her that something is very wrong. Not only with the state she sees and feels herself in, there is something greater behind that predicament. She is not… complete.
“Drink some more,” Letho offers, his voice still unpleasant, despite his apparently friendly intent. “But slowly this time.” She complies, even feeling that it is strange to do as she is told. It takes her a while to empty the earthenware mug, patiently held by Letho at her lips. Finally, she tries to speak.
“Where am I?” she manages, but her voice sounds false somehow, alien, not her own.
“Dudno, a village in Maecht, if you must know,” Letho answers as the other man - Serrit, it occurs to her - sits on a rickety chair nearby. She does not like him being there. She does not like being there herself.
She opens her mouth to speak, but only a cough comes out, and she lifts a thin, pale thing of her arm to her lips - cracked and bleeding. She stares at the bright red spots on her fingers, and wipes them unintentionally as she clutches at the rags she is covered with. She wants to ask so much more, but her capabilities are too limited.
“Why?” she swallows. Letho sits more comfortably, resting his elbows on his knees, and sighs loudly. Even hunched like this, he is a mountain of a man.
“Because we saved you from the Wild Hunt. Serrit, his brother Auckes, myself,” he pauses, his amber eyes - catlike eyes, she realises - boring into hers, “and Geralt. He sacrificed himself for you, and had to leave with the Wild Hunt. I promised him I’ll take care of you till you get better.” She looks at Letho, then at Serrit, who is watching her intently, nearly on the edge of his seat, as if expecting a particular reaction from her. She repeats Letho’s words in her head, searching her mind for familiar meanings. She only finds the dull pounding of a headache. She swallows hard, her nostrils flare as she takes her next breath.
“Who is Geralt?”