I stood there. Gaping at him like a fish on the shore. "I- A-a w-what?" I stuttered out. Sure, I had known about witchers; magically enhanced humans, mutants, emotionless killing machines, and other stuff humans told about them. But I've never met one, at least not that I knew about.
"I said: why do you have a Witcher's sword?" the man growled again.
I looked at him, dumbfounded, blinking at him a few times before answering. "I, uhh, my father left it here, decades ago. I, uhm..."
"Your father? How did he get a witcher's sword, then?" the stranger pressed.
"I don't know. I honestly don't know anything about my father. He... my mother raised me on her own. During the Great Cleansing he found me, got me out of Dol Blathanna and brought me here. He visited every now and then, checking up on me, but he never stayed for long." I took a break, looking at him, intently, thinking. "Can I trust you?" I asked.
The stranger opened his arms in an inviting gesture. "If not, you'd be dead."
Wow, this man really did know how to speak with women...
"Hm," I huffed, "follow me then." I led him inside and mentioned for him to sit at the table, pulling out my dagger in the process. He sat and I went into my kitchen, pouring a pint of ale for each of us. Then I returned to him, set the ale down with a thud and took the chair opposite of him.
"So, how do you know my father's sword is a Witcher's, huh?" I asked him, feeling confident within my walls.
The stranger looked at me as if I was stupid. "Because," he started, "I carry a similar one." He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the hilt of his own sword.
Now I really felt stupid. The dark armour, that almost dance-like fighting style, even the golden eyes... it all came together. "You're a Witcher," I breathed out in realization.
To my defence, it is hard to figure out who another person is, while you are fighting them, or fear for your life.
He only nodded.
I just stared at him, my mind reeling. He was handsome. A face crafted by the Gods. Piercing golden eyes, as he stared back at me. Tall, muscular. That armour and those swords. And... that necklace. A wolf baring his fangs. I've seen that before.
"Your necklace, where did you get that?" I snapped out of my trance.
"Every witcher has one. Why?" he simply said.
I blinked a few times. "M-my father had- my father had one too," I whispered, more to myself than to him.
"Hold up a second! You father is a witcher?" the handsome stranger almost yelled out.
"Shhh," I hissed at him, nearly leaping over the table to cover his mouth with my hands.
"But, witchers are sterile." He looked confused.
"Well, obviously not," I pointed out, gaining an annoyed glance from the witcher sat in front of me.
We sat in silence for a while, each of us deep in thought as we drank our ale. It grew dark outside. Hours had passed when he looked at me again.
"Why do these people hate you so much that they hire me to kill you?" he asked, his eyes sincere and compassionate.
I laughed humourlessly. "They didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"I'm half elven. They're scared of me, even though almost everything I do is to help them."
"Well, that makes two of us." I looked at the witcher, confused. "What? Did you really think witchers are celebrated like white knights?"
"N-no," I stuttered, "I guess you're right." I reached out for his pint. "here, let me..." but he snatched it from in front of my hand and followed me into the kitchen, where I poured each of us a new one.
"It's getting late," he mentioned as he stood in my kitchen and sipped on his ale.
I wasn't sure what he wanted to reach with that, to be honest. "You can stay for the night," I offered, "when they find out that I'm still alive they will come after you with pitchforks and torches. Better you stay away from that town."
"Thanks, but..." he started, but I interrupted him.
"No 'but's. Please, I insist. For sparing my life. I have a bed, food and..." I smelled him. Ew. "... and a bath." I suggested, rising an eyebrow at him.
He thought about that for a moment. Finally he answered, "Well, if you insist. A bath sounds tempting."
I nodded and smiled, satisfied with his answer. I led him to my small bathroom, an empty bathtub sitting in the middle.
"Uh, I don't want to alarm you, but... there's no wat-" he started.
"Shh." I silenced him with the raising of my hand. Then I stared at the empty bathtub and whispered, "pannavinén born" and the tub filled with steaming water. The witcher next to me glanced in my direction, impressed, as I smiled at him. I handed him a bar of soap and left the room. Before I closed the door I turned to him. "If you need anything, I'll be in the kitchen." The only answer was an appreciative grunt as he started ridding himself of his armour.
I quietly snickered to myself as I made my way back to the kitchen and started cooking.
I have to say, I was tempted to go back, to peek into the bathroom and get a look of him without his armour, but instead I focused on the stew I was cooking. Why was I even thinking about him like that? We only met today and he wanted to kill me! By the Gods, Nienna! Think straight!
After about half an hour came a call from the bathroom. "Uhhm, witch?" I heard and walked towards the voice. I peeked my head into the steam filled room.
"What is it, Witcher?" I asked.
He looked at me, an almost sheepish expression on his face. "You don't happen to have towels, do you?" he asked me.
Oh, shit. I knew I had forgotten something. "Uh, yeah, hold on."
I sprinted to my bedroom and grabbed the freshly washed fabric from a basket, before rushing back to that waiting man in my tub.
"Here you go," I said while handing him the towel, stepping back a little, admiring his muscular form. Damn, he was ripped; arms as thick as my thigh. He cleared his throat, ripping me out of my staring. My eyes shifted to his face, as my own face grew hot. He was rising an eyebrow at me, an amused smirk on his face.
"Uhh, right. When you're done, dinner is almost ready," I stuttered out, rushing out of the room to leave him a little privacy.
Another five minutes or so had passed when I heard footsteps coming closer. I was standing in the kitchen, dishing up the stew. Just as I wanted to turn and carry the bowls over to the table I almost bumped into the now clean witcher. He smelled of lavender and strawberries, just like the soap I had given him.
"Here, let me..." He reached out for the bowls in my hands. His calloused but somehow soft fingers brushing mine ever so slightly as he took our dinner from me, sending a shiver through my entire body. Shaking away the feeling I cut a few pieces of fresh bread and put them on a plate, walking over to the table.
We ate in silence. As I was almost done I looked up at him. "You know, you never told me your name," I noticed.
He, too, interrupted his eating to look at me. "Neither did you," he chuckled, before adding, "It's Geralt... of Rivia."
I smiled at him. "Nienna."
We continued eating and once we were done I cleaned up the dishes. Geralt came up behind me, leaning against the wall. "You mentioned a bed?" he reminded me.
"Hmm, yes," I hummed, "over there, in front of the fireplace." I mentioned with my hand over to the main room of my cottage.
He supressed a chuckle, "Not to sound ungrateful, but I think it's too small for me."
I turned, eyeing him and then the makeshift bed. He was right. The bed was way too small for him.
"It's okay. I'll sleep in there. You can have my bed."
"You really don't nee-" he started, only to be interrupted.
"No. you sleep in my bed. I'll sleep in that one," I said firmly, mentioning at the main room with my hand.
He only looked at me, shocked, but I couldn't tell why. Was it that he wasn't used to people, especially women, interrupting him like that? Surely people treated him with respect, even though, or maybe because they were scared of him. Or was it that he wasn't used to people being nice to him?
Once I dried off the last bowl, I showed the witcher to my bedroom.
"Good night, Geralt," I said and left the room, but not before grabbing another blanket for myself. I had not lit the fireplace, the days were too warm for that, but the nights still got bitterly cold.
"Good night, Nienna," I heard the witcher whisper behind me as I closed the door.
Shivering I curled up on the bed, wrapped in the blankets. My mind was reeling now that I had a quiet moment to think about everything. My father was a witcher. And now there was another witcher sleeping in my bed. One who was hired to slay me. But he spared my life. Witchers must have emotions, because I know my father loved me and my mother. And if they didn't have emotions then I would have died today. An emotionless beast - what witchers are always said to be - would have killed me without hesitating.
I fell asleep, still shivering.