WOLVES WITHOUT TEETH ( geralt of rivia.. )

006. clandestine marrow..

The gravestone thorns bloomed in the longer winters, where the barrier of night pushed over and invaded the creeping light, begging for a fracture of attention, of space and warmth. Behind Azaras' resting place, with a torn cloth tangled into it, the rusted bush had grown so much it cast a snaking shadow on the disturbed snow and ice below. Wind hit it against the stone still stained from a sweetly strong wine that painted red deeply into the punctures of time and stark structures.

Azaras' back hurt. 

Horse riding, uncomfortable beds and plenty of rolls and throws in fights have finally bruised inside so much that even moving became a pain comparable to the womanly monthly days she once had. Hearing of her pains had not been easy for Geralt, because for the past few days in which they had worked together to earn some coin wherever Witchers were not yet shunned away, even during fugitive lessons and breaks of air, Azaras hadn't complained.

Not until she was tossed on the ground as a ragged doll by a Fleder. Then, she couldn't stand up on her own anymore and Geralt knew for sure that something was wrong. Even teary eyed from the sudden pains, Azaras tried to deny it as much as she could, testing ever single nerve of patience on the edge of concern that the Witcher could muster.

The Fleder couldn't die sooner and he couldn't care less about getting back to obtain the bounty off of it, because he'd rather focus on kneeling beside Azaras, taking her hand. A small debate happened in the silence of his reaction: if she hurt her spine with the fall, surely she would heal sooner, but much slower were he to move her in order to check.

"Ease the frown, Geralt," she then laughed, as tiny as he condition allowed her without gasping away a grimace. "Backpain comes and goes, I just need a moment to catch my breath."

"Hmm." Hearing Geralt's usual uncertain reply eased her into a abrupt sigh, from which she did not expect to feel his grip on her hand tightening. Geralt pulled Azaras up, in a spur of deciding that she would be better on her feet, just to see how bad the injuries were. 

Observant, he watched the amount of pain her expression held, then patted his free hand on her back. "How long did you have that pain for?"

Azaras stared in shock at his face. She'd been plenty weary about just how long their peace would last in this synergy of being part of each other's lives. Between the overall enjoyment and safety she experienced each second by his side, Azaras had a constant dread it will be gone were she to become a burden. 

Though Geralt had not ever undervalued her company, weren't Witchers supposed to be travelling alone? She worried, that sooner, rather than later, they will be forced apart and it will end up hurting her more than it hurt him.

Seeing that hint of genuine fright dance upon the ambers of his eyes was an easy read that calmed at least half of Azaras torching spirals of doubt. "It's winter and it's cold," her voice softened too, reassuringly. "A draft must have tensed my muscles."

Geralt did not find her words too convincing though, because he propped Azaras wordlessly in Płotka's saddle, threw his heavy cloak over her as a fleece as well, then proceeded thinking about what he was about to share. All the coin he claimed for the exterminated monster which terrorized this city's outskirts got spent away in no form of hesitation at yet the best place Geralt learned on his own could turn to steam any cramps or soreness from the daily battles.

He, himself, found the need from time to time to just sit in a public bath, relax on warmed stones and inhale impossible heats. Witchers rarely needed medical attention, as their mutation tended to enhace their healing speed, so he was sure, laying naked, save for a towel, would unlock the flexibility of Azaras's muscles faster.