Two blades crash together with a piercing clang, one that would make any regular person cringe and force their teeth to go numb. But not Geralt -- he had been doing this entire life.
A little swordplay wouldn't hurt him one bit.
Though to be frank, the witcher was very surprised by the stranger jumping from foot to foot in front of him, attempting their best to parry or at least dodge and block his attacks. A rapier wasn't a lot versus a steel, double-edged sword; as well as he certainly had more experience than his opponent. But, he had to admit, the fighter was quite skillful and agile with their lighter weapon, and he was quite surprised, yes, quite surprised indeed by just how much of a fight they had managed to put up and how their energy drained slower than a regular opponent's.
His mind preoccupied with deciphering who could be behind that mask and hood, he executes a half pirouette. He brings his sword above him at lightning speed with the hopes of catching his opponent off guard, but at the same time knowing what would come next if he had the right assumption of the stranger's identity.
They, seemingly having expected the move, dodge and pivot on their left foot to stand behind Geralt. Taking their rapier blade in their other hand and pushing the blade lightly against the witcher's throat, the thin steel hovers on his skin in warning of what could come next.
How the infamous Rivian reacts surprises his opponent greatly: he lets out a low chuckle, gently pushing the rapier away from his throat. They jump back in anticipation of any further attacks, weapon at the ready.
"I knew you weren't aiming to kill," he elucidates, bringing his steel sword over his shoulder and fixing it in place, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides in a relaxed and trusting manner. The stranger effectively puts their rapier at their side before taking a step closer.
"Is there a single person in this forsaken world who wouldn't want to?" The stranger's voice was at such a pitch where it was impossible to determine whether it belonged to a man or a woman, but Geralt only noticed the honey-smooth, mellow texture of every venomous word they pronounce.
"Hard to agree with the latter."
His lips curl into a half-smile and he takes a confident stride forwards. Lifting one of his gloved hands towards the stranger's scarred and battered face mask, he pulls it down and smiles upon seeing the painfully familiar turned-up nose, small yet colorless lips, and defined, heart-shaped jawline.
"I knew it," he says simply, as if talking to no one but himself. His opponent's lips tweak upwards, and she softens her voice back into it's natural high a alluring pitch, returning its almost nonexistent Nilfgaardian accent.
"Of course you did. After all, you were the one to teach me that move. I was only trying to make it more obvious, in case your old age has crept up here and affected your memory too," she replies in a joking tone, pointing both fingers at her head with one at each temple.
"Don't be overzealous, Lucja, I'm only two hundred years old."
"Give or take a century." She adds with a small shrug to her left, almost mumbling her comment through her teeth; but her companion hears it as if she was speaking clear as day, and he smiles in amusement.
"So what brings you back here?" He asks, remembering that he hadn't seen her in several decades for a reason.
"You."
There is a small pause, then Geralt lifts an eyebrow at Lucja and awaits the catch that follows that simple word.
"I do agree that it sounded better in my head, but oh, don't feel flattered," she says pointedly as she begins to walk in the direction where she'd left her buckskin gelding to relax, hanging by Geralt's sleepy mare in the shade of trees.
Geralt nods his head as they draw near to the the shade of a spruce with leaves the color of fire. He grips the pommel of his saddle and mounts Roach, turning her away from her new friend and forcing her to finish chewing whatever grass was left sticking from the corners of her mouth.
Lucja swiftly vaults onto Glidain's back, a sudden movement which he had yet to grow more accustomed to. She digs her heels into her horse's sides and quickly catches up with Geralt, relaxing and letting their horses walk side by side at a relaxed gait.
His raspy voice breaks the momentary silence as their mounts got in beat with each other. "You know, that rusalka was mine."
"You've said that twice, and if you're expecting a thank you for helping me live, then here it is: thank you. For your information, I was also offered to kill it."
"I say we still go collect the gold from its prospective owners, unless they are the same man."
"Good idea," she laughs, though it she'd already been thinking of the same thing.
"Where to?"
"Novigrad. Need to pick up a few things at the blacksmith, as well as get myself a new mask tailored."
She throws Geralt an accusing look, which he halfheartedly takes and the corners of his mouth just barely twitch skyward.
"What about you?"
"The man who asked for my aid lives in a village not too far from Novigrad. That aside, my work is done for the time being, and so I thought to go back to civilization. It often gets boring and lonely when it's only you, Roach and a banshee if you're lucky."
"Geralt."
"What?"
"Both of us are aware that's a lie. I know you better than this."
The witcher doesn't show any signs of being surprised at her observations, but neither shows any signs that would tell her she made the wrong assumption. Deciding to give up her silent pressure for the truth, she jerks out of a thoughtful state when Glidain rears at a rabbit hopping across his path.
"How can one's horse be so anxious?" Geralt asks, and it bothers her as to how close he sounds to laughter.
"You think I would know? His previous owner didn't either, but I was desperate. A spirited guy, I'll give him that. Breaking him was an absolute nightmare."
Another moment of silence hangs between them, less tense and awkward than the previous, before being broken by Geralt once again.
"You're troubled."
His companion looks over. "What makes you say that?"
"Your horse. It's not calm and is trying to slip away from your unsteady hand. What's bothering you?"
"Just thinking."
"About...?"
"Your promise."
Geralt nods his head, vaguely aware of the seemingly simple vow he'd made to her roughly twenty years ago.
"And how do you expect the pay to look like?"
Lucja bites on her lip, thinking of what to answer with. To be honest, she was really angry with the witcher for asking that, but she had to keep her emotions in check - including those she'd been taught to banish by no other than the man riding beside her.
"Something the matter, Lus?"
The assassin snaps out of her daze with a taste of blood on her lip. Quickly wiping her mouth of with her dark sleeve, she turns her attention back to the dirt path that leads to the less populated outskirts of Novigrad.
"Later."
She tries to smile her way out of frustration, but the unpleasant feeling tieing her stomach into a knot makes the task twice as problematic. She knows Geralt sees through her facade like through a clean window, the way he had done all the time when they spent an evening training, or simply discussing whatever came to mind.
They enter the less populated streets outside of Novigrad's heart. The pair separates, Lucja heading to pay a visit to the closest tailor, who was the only person she could fully trust at this point in her life.
"Ah, Lucja! How's the old hag that is life treating you so far?" He enthusiastically greets with, quite literaly, open arms, his more prominent than hers accent coating his tongue.
"Not bad Jeorge. What about you? The shop's looking better since the last time I was here." She comments, engulfing the young redhead in a friendly hug.
"Got the place renovated. More customers dropping in lately too."
He turns around and starts to lead Lucja to the back of the shop where all of his magic happens.
"I assume you didn't only stop to greet me," he begins. "What dropped you onto my humble porch?"
"Is it wrong to visit simply out of loneliness? But you're right, I need a new mask - the same as the old one. That last design was absolutely perfect."
"I appreciate your gratitude. Now that I think about it, I just had a few pieces ready in the back, knowing you might've needed another one soon enough."
His green eyes twinkle with an unrecognizable tease as he leads Lucja to his office in the back, pushing the door open with a familiar creak. The layout and the organized mess look the same as she'd last seen it; the room had simply grown in size. She examines a dress halfway in the making draped over the worktable, designs hanging loosely on walls, and assortments of threads, fabrics and needles in all colors, types and length strewn across shelves and other, more creative places.
The lanky tailor weaves his way to the back of his studio, retrieving the brown leather parts and sitting down at the table to sew them together. Lucja watches as he works, always mesmerized by just how much patience artists like him have. Time flies by, and at some point, the redhead cuts the thread and ties it expertly into a clean and invisible knot.
"Done," he announces, bringing his customer back to reality. She had grown so engrossed in his work that barely noticed that he was finished. Jorge hands it to her, silently urging her to try it on.
She does, tightly tying the strings at the back, moving her mouth and shaking her head around a bit, before taking it off and tucking it comfortably between her thumb and index finger.
"How much do I owe you?" She asks as she reaches for her pocket, but the tailor quickly puts his hand on top of hers.
"Nothing. Consider this a simple welcome back gift."
"Thank you, Jorge," she smiles, giving him one final hug.
"Take care Lucja. I hope to see you around more - it gets boring around here often."
"I'll try. Farewell." The assassin smiles and lets go of his shoulders, making her way out of his studio and nearly jumping out of her skin as the door closes behind her.
"Geralt! Will you ever stop?" She hisses irritably, but can't say anything else as he interrupts her, pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against.
"You done fondling?" He asks, and not trusting herself to lie that she had already visited the blacksmith, she simply nods her head. It takes her a full second to realize the true meaning behind his words before her cheeks tinge with embarrassment and she slaps his arm.
"The sun has almost fully set. We should get going." Geralt notes.
"We can stay at an inn, my treat. You look like you're aching for some clean linen."
The witcher doesn't show any sign that would prove disagreement as they tie their horses up at the back of the closest inn, where they order two rooms. After finally ready to settle in for the night, Lucja hears a knock on her door. Jerking from her comfortable lying position, her hands slide from her stomach to one by each of her sides, quickly fixing up her slightly slipped down clothing and sitting up.
"Come in."
The room opens and Geralt, now free of his usual chain-mail and heavy leather, is donning a white nightshirt and some light, brown pants. He examines the room for a few seconds before heading over to the nearest corner of the suite and sitting down in the reading chair.
"You're angry with me," he says, the words coming out more like a statement than a question. Lucja turns her head to look at the witcher, more or less surprised than in denial at his words.
"And you know exactly why." She comments through gritted teeth, partially from the chill of the evening wind coming through the window, and partially from the flame of rage starting to sizzle within her. Lucja once again bites her lip, wanting to scream and throw something, but reminds herself once more to keep the desired outburst down and locked away; and though she tries, the steam still escapes.
"War took my father. Revenge took my brother. An accident took my mother. A mistake took my judgment. And others' greed took everything I had left...until destiny took you. That's when I realized that I had truly lost everything I had. I stopped being someone. I wear my mask because there is nothing left to hide, so it's better to just cover what I have left: a piece of flesh that locks away a broken eight year old girl, a body that takes lives in order to make one for herself. Nobody cared as to who I had been or who I wanted to become...people only saw me for how my hand could balance a blade."
She stops and lets out a staggered sigh.
"I had no choice Geralt. I became this monster."
Her voice softens, as does her gaze at the white-haired witcher. All she wants to do is to be that little girl again, to run to anyone and be able to cry safely in their arms.
"I forgive you, Lucja."
"And I forgive you too Geralt. For your ignorance. And as much as I want to blame you for not keeping your promise, I know I can't."
She stands up, stepping over the several items littering the ground and planting her feet in the corner, her head turned away from Geralt and towards the door. She uses this excuse to finally let a stray, lone tear slip down her cheek.
"You promised to help me through this mess. You killed my mother, albeit without meaning to, and promised that you would replace all the peer figures that I didn't have: a friend, a comrade, a mentor and guide. You said you would stay by my side, but when I needed you most, you left."
"I can make up for lost time, now."
"Is there a point anymore? Isn't it the reason your question went unanswered earlier?"
Another silence reigns between the two, communicating everything and nothing at once. Lucja fiddles with her fingers, slowly returning back to sit on her bed, and Geralt runs a hand through his unkempt, loose white hair.
"When I first met you, I was surprised with how much care you dressed my wound. I almost believed that was it, and I was dead."
The man's words put a small, sad smile on her face, one which he wasn't able to see in a long time.
"And how the only reason we became friends was because you tried to leave before you'd fully healed, forcing me to practically wrestle and drag you back onto the bed?"
A weak chorus of laughter barks from their lungs, and Lucja shakes her head at the, albeit childish, yet playful memories.
"You know, you actually weren't a bad or slow student."
"You weren't a bad teacher, though it seems you're still the same cranky ass as you were several decades ago."
The witcher's face lights up with the slightest hint of mock offense. He stands up from his spot, and in several long steps makes his way over to Lucja, sitting down on the empty space next to her.
"A cranky ass you say?" He asks, and when the assassin nods slowly with a pleased smile, he pushes her over onto the bedspread by her left shoulder, a mischievous smirk gracing his features at the her surprised squeak and unamused complaints that follow as she gets back up.
"You really know how to treat women I see." She teases, giving him a friendly jab across his arm.
"I did rid your entire town of two monsters in a single day, so I'd say I know the way to any lady's heart." He muses, getting his revenge by poking her side with such gentleness that he's only used to kill a fly or comfort her a decade ago.
"Though...executing a landlord isn't the most morally acceptable thing, I was grateful nonetheless. Now get up and get some sleep, I don't want precious bread go to waste." She shoos, and Geralt halfheartedly ruffles the woman's dull caramel hair as he heads towards the door.
"Goodnight, Lus,"he says, and Lucja bids him the same in a shy and quiet manner.
The door clicks shut behind him and the woman falls back into the springy mattress, hair flying in all directions as her chocolate eyes gaze upon the ceiling. She feels a gentle lick of heat dotting her cheeks and the pit of her stomach, and confused at why the last phrase she said was so bashful she rolls onto her side facing the wall, whispering under her breath.
"Ass."