witcher: return to humanity - Mordecai x gwynbleidd

[gwynbleidd]

The nudge on his shoulder made him smile in return, knowing that despite all of her injuries and the fatigue spreading through her bones, Ira was still there, ready to crack a good one when the opportunity presented itself. As she turned away and recollected her grip on her mare’s reins, he knew somehow that he would have given her anything should it be in his power to pass on. Gold, diamonds, the last of his crowns and the water at the very bottom of his lambskin—if it was something he didn’t need, then it would belong to her. He watched her shoulders rock back and forth in tune with her horse’s pace for a few seconds more, until he faced the path again and eyed the sky through the breaks in between the spindly branches of the forest around them.


All around him were shades of brightened grey and black, giving him better clues as to their location and surroundings than the sorceress was capable of receiving. Seidhe did his best to maneuver his mount this way and that, a subtle guidance for Ira and her horse as they passed over the bumpy trail and around larger holes that might have sent her dun lame had he not moved them out of the way. The witcher watched and listened closely, ever-aware of what—or whom—was lurking around them, however silently they might have tried to pass by unheard. The sounds of the forest were common, nothing out of the ordinary for the route towards Cidaris, which made it easy to hear Ira when she mentioned the cabin ahead of them, as his attention wasn’t caught by something rustling nearby.


“I think you’re right,” he said, squinting, “there is something up there. Stinks a bit. When we’re closer I’ll go in and make sure it’s clear.” Of anything monstrous, he thought, but didn’t say during the last few minutes of wandering before they were near enough for him to dismount. The witcher landed softly onto the damp ground and lifted his nose, sniffing the air for anything telling, signs of inhuman life within the walls of the creaky, abandoned cabin. The overgrowth of the foliage and the climbing ivy up the sides of the stout building were enough to inform the witcher and his companion that it had been quite some time, perhaps years, since anyone had stumbled upon this place. Seidhewen paused and felt for the vibration of his medallion, and upon realizing that it would remain still, reached for his silver blade and unsheathed it, carrying it ahead of him as he moved closer towards the cabin.


Silence greeted him as he drew nearer, each of his senses alert and prepared for an ambush should it arrive. He made it to the cabin’s door without interruption, and cautiously placed a hand on the rotted wood, pushing it forward. The creak of the hinges was a shrill sound reflective of old age, and as he stepped inside it was clear that the entrance wasn’t the only old thing here. The cabin had a single room, probably five yards wide, with a small fireplace to his immediate left and a moldy pallet made of old hay against the wall to his right. Small slivers of moonlight shot in from holes between the shingles in the ceiling, illuminating shards of the dirty floor beneath his boots. Seidhe glanced about once, and then twice, before turning and poking his head from the cabin.


“It’s clear, there’s nothing inside. We should be safe for the night.”


He approached his horse and gingerly took her reins, waving the sorceress forward and leading his mare towards a small patch of scraggly grass beside the cabin. Hearing Ira land from the stirrups turned his attention behind him, and he narrowed his eyes at the slight limp in her step. Knowing his horse wouldn’t stray, Seidhe moved to where Ira stood and gestured towards her bags. “Do you need anything out of here? I’ll help you,” he offered, reaching for one of the clasps.

 

[Mordecai]

A hand had fallen against her side, mostly to support the bruise there. It ached and aches were the worst. They were always taken to be less than they were and hardly ever thought of without the possibility of the sufferer magnifying their woes. Moving without aches and pains was just one thing she used to take for granted. Every movement of her horse makes her muscles feel as though they have been flash-burned with acid from the inside—just sufficient to make them move like the living cells had been replaced by aging rubber bands, thick and twisted. If it wasn’t for the sight of the cottage ahead of them, Ira wasn’t sure she’d have enough willpower to continue much longer, but her eyes had landed on the small shadow of a building and she willed herself onward without hesitation.


“You really are charming to be around,” she mentioned off-handedly with a soft smile, “Here I am excited about the possibility of a cottage and you’re talking about the smell-“ of course, jest played a note in her tune as she was trying to remain as light-hearted as possible. They managed to make it up to the cabin and Ira swung down from her horse but remained stationary. It must have rained recently because the earth below her boots felt damp and there was an overarching smell of loam hanging in the dark air.


While Seidhe traversed ahead, Ira remained hanging back by the horses—one hand placed cautiously on the leather reins of her own. He vanished in the murkiness but reappeared a few moments later, waving her inside, but not first without approaching her. Sliding her horse’s bridle off for the night, Ira glanced back to her saddlebags as she gestured towards them. It took a moment of thought, but she ultimately shook her head. “No, I think I’ll be alright without for tonight, thank you though.” She imagined they’d be leaving fairly quickly come morning, so she couldn’t be bothered with unpacking everything only to have to pack it up again in a few short hours. All she wanted was sleep, anyways.


Ira gave her horse’s solid neck one last pet before slipping the leather bridle across her shoulder and making her way towards the cabin door. Immediately, she was met with the damp smell of rotting wood and hay. It wasn’t glamorous and a few years ago, she would have detested such a space, but for now it was a sanctuary. An audible sigh of relief passed through her as the line of her shoulders dipped in relaxation as she wandered about the small single room cottage. Through the darkness, she could see the coarse, unevenly sized, grey stones that made up the walls. The occasional flash of colour in the rocks—some blues, other green or brown—emerged from the grey and looked like eyes trying to steal a glimpse of the world.


Unclasping the cloak from around her neck, she let the heavy fabric fall from her shoulders and loosen the pressure on her spine. Letting it fall to the floor in a pile, she turned around and poked her head out of the door once more. “Are you coming, Mr. Siedhe? Or do you plan on spending the rest of the evening with the horses and not here in our charming little home? Hm?” It was anything but charming, and it certainly wasn’t cut out to be a home.

 

[gwynbleidd]

Seidhe watched her walk ahead of him and enter the cabin, shooting his mare a curious glance before he moved from Ira’s bags and slipped the bit from between the dapple grey’s teeth. The horse adjusted its tongue and lips until it was comfortable, and then proceeded to graze lazily on the short grass beneath its feet not far from the nearest wall of the building. He couldn’t readily think of anything he needed from his bags, either, and so decided to follow the sorceress only seconds before she spoke, her silver hair streaming from behind the doorway she peered from. A smirk crossed his lips, and as he approached her he chuckled. “Yes, dear.”


During their conversation only hours ago, in the room she had rented for the week and hardly spent an evening in, Ira’s form had only been lit by the small candle that blazed almost defiantly in the darkness around them. Now, there was even less lighting, but he still saw the slight nature of her body, and wondered if being as small as she was also sapped the strength of the amount of fleeing she could handle. But it was a thought that he didn’t entertain for long, pulling the door closed behind him and wiping his hands on his trousers to cleanse the moldy moss from his gloves. The silver buckle across his chest came undone in a matter of seconds, and he rested his swords against the wall opposite the door, and close to where he assumed they’d be resting. Some of his heavier armor followed suit, like the pads on his shoulders and the thick gloves that protected his calloused hands from the elements and the rough, worn leather wrapped around the hilt of his blade. Relieved of the weight that otherwise had pressed onto his form, the witcher ran his hands through his hair and looked to the fireplace behind him.


“I’d suggest lighting a fire and raising a glass to our escape,” he said as he turned to face her again, placing his hands on his hips, “but I’m not sure sending smoke signals is a wise idea. We’ll have to make do with a decent night of sleep. Is your wound okay?” He’d noticed that she hadn’t said or made much commotion about it, not since he’d mentioned her bandaged side before the hunters had almost caught them. The sorceress must have been in pain, as much as she’d have liked to continue to hide it, he was sure. With a tilt of his head, he tried to gauge the extent to which she was hurt without staring for too long, fearing the quick wit of the woman he was trying to assess.


“If it’s something you can heal yourself then I won’t worry about it—otherwise we need to try to do something to make sure it fixes itself. I know you’re used to this, but it’s never safe to run around with a cut like that. I won’t even do it, even if it costs me contracts and coin...”


His brow furrowed and he looked away, suddenly staring off in silence. He thought about how long ago the injury might have occurred, and by whom, and with what type of weapon—which was likely whatever the hunters they’d come across together had been wielding. Seidhe could only recall the small dagger that had been thrown at him in the alleyway, and the large shining axe that the one in the hall had brandished before they’d made their run for it, and shuddered to think of what else they might have had in store if Ira and himself hadn’t been able to get away.


Bringing himself back to reality, Seidehwen settled in the floor of the cabin and crossed his legs, resting his head and shoulders against the wall beside his swords and closing his eyes, letting a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding escape from between his lips.

 

[Mordecai]

“Probably not the best idea,” she agreed when he suggested starting a fire would not be wise. Damn shame, too. She was cold all the way to the marrow of her bones and she was sure a warm, crackling fire would have done wonders on her. The cold had stalked her into the cabin like a specter, the bitter wind numbing her face and fingers, tearing right into her heart and feeling as though it was turning her blood into icy sludge. Her muscles had already begun to ache and grind like cogs in an old machine. Given the choice between a warm fire and survival though, and Ira was inclined to take the living option, though she quickly sat down on the ground and pulled her cloak into her lap.


The cabin kept out the wind though and heat began to return, slowly. Her cheeks flushed with colour again now that the door had been pulled closed. The air was dusty and heavy, smelling strongly of loam and rot. The oldest residents of the abandoned cabin were the spiders, it would seem, and they existed in plethora within the old walls, but Ira didn’t seem to mind them. Many generations had laced the walls with cobwebs of intricate beauty, though even they were lying in dusty rags. Yawning, Ira stretched out across the floor, balling up her cloak and shoving it below her head as she fell on to her food side and rested her head comfortably into the plush fabric. “Hm?” she blinked up at him sleepily sitting back against the wall, just able to make out the faint shape of his shoulders and head through the darkness.


“Oh, it’s okay,” she said as she scrambled to sit up again, peeling away the side of her tunic and pulling away the layers of wraps to reveal the wound beneath. It looked as though it had been caused by a bolt, as it was a single proliferation right through the stabilizer muscles on the outside of her abdomen. The wound was a mess, as if she had been hit with two different kinds of weapons at once. There was the usual dark red hole that oozed thickly, but also hundreds of different tiny wounds—like shrapnel.


She had been delicate with it, keeping it clean to ensure no infection would follow, but it didn’t seem willing to close up. Even now, there was a gleam of fresh blood tearing just along the side. She would have liked to have hid it from him and to stop his worrying about her well-being, but it was a moot point. He could see every pained movement, no matter how small, and would be able to detect a limp in her stride even if a normal man’s eyes couldn’t. Dropping her shirt back around her middle, she reclined again, stretching out. “I’ll look into it more this morning. It’s a bit older now, the wound, and it hasn’t been keen on staying clotted. Too much movement, I guess.” What she really needed was a few good days of rest and lying down, doing nothing to jar open the tender baby flesh again because that was what was most certainly happening. Just as it begun to heal, she’d have to flee from hunters again, and fleeing was often a rough business.


Before long, in the comfort of knowing Seidhe was only a few short feet from her if she needed him, her eyes closed and sleep dropped like a falling axe. Immediately, she dozed off, her breathing deep and rhythmic as her brain and body steeped in much-needed rest. So deep was her sleep that she didn’t even dream, at least no dream that she could remember, and she’d probably sleep into next week had Seidhe let her. At this point, she probably wouldn’t have even stirred to a hunter bashing down the front door.