Collection of One-Shots

》a fated storm

THE STORM RAGING in the night is unlike any you can remember in this lifetime. Rain pounds against the glass-paned windows of the forest lodge, the wind's howl is a terrible howling shriek—only heard in the brief moments of reprieve between peals of thunder when flashes of bright white illuminate the leaden sky.

Candles and reeds flicker with the draft, shrouding the fading inks on the scrolls of parchment detailing potions, tonics, and salves passed down for millennia. You've memorized most—the ones used most often to treat infections, fevers, and morning sickness—but some recipes, like the poultice to draw out the venom and mend the bite of an alghoul, still warrant close adherence to the scrawling of those who came before.

In the lull of thunder and lightning, you can hear the heavy footfalls of iron-shod hooves and the squeal of a horse. Wiping your hands on the front of your leaf-and-berry-stained apron, you open the door of your lodge and are met with lashes of summer rain. The bay mare with four white socks and a white blaze is unmistakable—as is the red-leather hilt of the steel longsword strapped to the saddle. Roach.

But she is without her rider, and there is blood on her neck and saddle. You take hold of Roach's reins and lay your hand on her soaked muzzle, soothing the panic in her dark eyes. "Where is Geralt?" The mare neighs and stamps her hoof into the soft earth. "Take me," you whisper, bringing the reins back over Roach's head. You pull yourself into the saddle and set off to search for a wounded Witcher in the storm.

He lies face down on the side of the path leading from the road, his body contorted in an unnatural way—the puddle around him stained a dark red. A passerby would likely mistake him for a corpse already. You slide from Roach's saddle and into the mud next to him, rolling him onto his back as gently as you can manage—he's taller than you and must weigh twice as much with his leather-and-metal armor. Geralt flops onto his back, and a strained groan passes his lips. It's only momentary relief, though, as you see the gaping wound on his side.

The gash is deep, cutting through thick leather, flesh, and sinew—from breast to navel. It hardly bleeds now but is caked with dried blood and dirt. You need to get him back to your home, quickly. Slipping your arms beneath his, you start to drag him toward Roach. "Couldn't just drop by for dinner and a glass of wine?" His reply is only a quiet grunt when your footing slips in the mud. Roach bends her front legs, easing your efforts to drape Geralt over the saddle. You mount behind him, spurring the bay mare on through the storm.

Roach stops at the door of your lonely lodge, and you slip from her back. Geralt slides off the wet saddle quicker than you anticipate, and you don't have time steady yourself, let alone brace for the full brunt of his weight, and he doesn't have the strength left to stop himself from falling. Your knees give, footing lost in the muddy path, and he lands atop you—cursing incoherently. You stumble trying to stand—hair and muck clinging to your face—but you maneuver him and yourself, pulling him into the dry warmth of your home and onto a low cot.

Geralt recognizes the smell of herbs and flowers and can make out the drying bundles hanging from the rafters. He can hear your familiar voice cursing, too—rummaging through a chest of glass vials. The firelight reflects in his weary yellow eyes when you return to his side, unable to smile for him just yet. The unstoppered concoction smells close to rotting corpses. "Drink this." Geralt does, and he can taste the hints of mugwort and chicory with no honey or wine to reduce the bitterness, but the effects are near-instant. Most of the pain ebbs and his strength to speak returns.

"Attempt to finish me off?" His voice is unrecognizable—quiet and weak and laced with pain.

You start to work the buckles and laces of his armor, first taking off his gauntlets. "There is a bounty on your head last I checked." The townsfolk say he offered offense to the Duke of Brugge at a feast to celebrate his victory in ridding the city of several beasts and more than a few unsavory characters. Geralt had ridden off in the night with the Duke promising six-hundred crowns to the man who could bring the Witcher back to face punishment. A fool's errand. But you'll hear the story from his own tongue soon enough—he always tells you of his exploits. You peel back his armor and ease his tunic overhead. His collection of scars has grown since last you saw him, but those will pale in comparison to this.