The Witcher

SOMETHING MORE IV

Geralt awoke and discovered with astonishment that the stinging pain in his thigh had disappeared. It seemed that the swelling had also diminished. He wanted to check with his hands, but he could not lift them. Before he could understand that the weight of the fur blankets prevented him from moving, a horrible icy anxiety seized his stomach with talons like a hawk's. He extended and relaxed his fingers and repeated silently, no, no, I'm not...

Paralyzed.

“You're awake.”

It was an observation, not a question, made in a voice that was clear and sweet. A woman. Young, certainly. He turned his head and mumbled something about trying to get up.

“Don't move. Not so roughly, anyway. Are you in pain?”

“Nnn...” The sticky lips tore. “Nnno. Only hurts... back.”

“A bedsore,” the gentle alto voice diagnosed, with open chilliness. “Leave it to me. Come, drink this. Easy, in slow sips.”

The taste and smell of juniper dominated the beverage. An old trick, he thought.

Juniper or mint to mask the true composition. He recognized cousataire and perhaps some button-heart. Yes, the button-heart was doubtlessly to neutralize the toxins and purify the blood poisoned by gangrene or infection.

“Drink. Drain the cup dry. Slower, or you'll choke.”

The medallion he wore around his neck began to vibrate slightly. Then the potion contained magic as well. With effort, he dilated his pupils. Lifting his head, he could now see clearly. A woman of feeble constitution, she wore men's clothing. The pallor of her thin face was luminous in the darkness.

“Where are we?”

“In the tar-makers' clearing.”

The smell of resin floated effectively through the air. Geralt heard voices coming from the side of the hearth. Someone threw on some dead wood. The flame rose, sizzling. He looked at her again, making use of the light. Her hair was held back by a band of snakeskin.

Her hair...

He felt a suffocating pain in his throat and his chest, and forcefully clenched his fists.

Her hair was red like fire. Illuminated by the light of the hearth, it looked vermillion, like cinnabar.

“Are you in pain?” She read his emotions incompletely. “Wait...”

He felt the shock of heat from the contact of her hand: the fire flowed down her back, and lower, toward her buttocks.

“You're coming around,” she said. “Don't try to move on your own. You're very weak. Hey! Could someone help me?”

Geralt heard steps next to the hearth; he saw shadows, silhouettes. Someone bent down. It was Yurga.

“How are you feeling, lord? Better?”

“Help me turn him over,” the woman said. “Carefully, slowly... Ah yes... Good. Thank you.”

Lying on his stomach, he could no longer meet her gaze. He calmed and controlled the trembling of his hands. She could sense his feelings. Geralt heard the clinking of bottles in her bag and the tinkling of flasks and porcelain jars. He also heard her breathing and felt her warmth against his side. She knelt next to him.

“My injury,” he asked to break the unbearable silence, “was difficult?”

“Yes, indeed. A little.” A chill entered her voice. “It's often the case with bites. The worst type of injury. But you must be used to them, witcher.”

She knows, she searches through my thoughts. Reads them? Probably not. And I know why... She's afraid.

“Yes, nothing new for you,” she repeated, knocking together her glass tools. “I saw that you had some scars... But I managed. I am, you see, a sorceress... and a healer. That's my specialty.”

Yes, I was right, he thought. He did not respond.

“Going back to your injury,” she continued calmly, “you must know that your pulse, four times slower than that of an ordinary man, saved your life. Otherwise, you would not have survived. I can say that without hesitation. I saw the bandage that you had on your leg. There was something resembling a dressing, but it was a poor imitation.”

Geralt remained silent.

“Later,” she continued, lifting his shirt up to his neck, “the wound became infected, which is normal with bites. The infection was finally controlled. Of course, your witcher elixirs were a great help. Still, I don't understand why you still take hallucinogens. I heard your ravings, Geralt of Rivia.”

She reads, he thought, she really reads thoughts. Unless Yurga told her my name.

Perhaps I said it during my dreams under the effects of “black gull.” Devil only knows... The knowledge of my name could mean nothing. Nothing. She doesn't know who I am. She is completely unaware of who I am.

He felt her apply to his back a cool and soothing ointment that gave off a strong smell of camphor. Her hands were small and very soft. 

“Forgive my conventional methods,” she said. “I could reduce your bedsore with the help of magic, but I'm tired from tending to your injury: I'm not feeling very well. I bandaged your leg and healed it as much as necessary. You're no longer in danger. Don't get up for two days. Even veins repaired by magic can rupture and cause terrible bleeding. The scar will remain, of course. A new one for your collection.”

“Thank you...” He pressed his cheek against the furs to distort his voice and mask his natural tone: “Might I know to whom I owe my thanks?”

She will not tell me, he thought, or will prefer to lie.

“My name is Visenna.”

I know, he thought.

“I am glad,” he said slowly, keeping his cheek to the furs all the while, “I am pleased that our paths have crossed, Visenna.”

“By chance,” she replied coolly, replacing his shirt on his back and covering it with fur blankets. “The customs official informed me that someone had need of my art. When my presence is necessary, I go. It's a strange habit of mine. Listen: I gave the ointment to the merchant. Ask him to apply it morning and evening. Since he says that you saved his life, he can perform that service for you.”

“And me, Visenna? How can I thank you?”

“Don't talk about that. I never take money from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you like, professional solidarity. And sympathy. In the cause of that sympathy I will tell you, listen to one more piece of advice, or if you prefer, the prescription of a healer: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. Hallucinogens aren't curative; they don't heal anything.”

“Thank you, Visenna, for your help and your advice. I am grateful to you... for everything.”

He moved his hand from under the furs and touched the healer's knee. It began to tremble. She took his hand and squeezed it slightly. Geralt carefully freed his fingers to grasp her forearm.

Of course it was the smooth skin of a young girl. The sorceress trembled even more, but did not withdraw her arm. He found the hand of the young woman and squeezed it firmly.

His medallion, hanging around his neck, vibrated in agitation.

“Thank you, Visenna,” he repeated, controlling the tremor in his voice. “I'm glad that our paths have crossed.”

“It was chance...” she answered again, but this time without coldness in her voice.

“Perhaps it was destiny?” he suggested, surprised that her excitement and nervousness had disappeared without leaving a trace. “Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?”

“Yes,” she said, after some time. “I believe in it.”

“Do you believe that people bound by fate,” he continued, “necessarily meet one another?”

“I believe that too... What are you doing? Don't turn over.”

“I want to see your face... Visenna. I want to see your eyes. And you... you can look into mine.”

She made a movement as if she would fall to her knees, but she remained at his side.

Geralt turned slowly, wincing in pain. The light was bright: someone had thrown more wood on the fire.

The sorceress did not move. She turned her face in profile. The witcher noticed then that her lips trembled. She squeezed his hand hard.

Geralt watched her carefully.

There was no resemblance. Her profile was completely different. A small nose. A narrow chin. The woman said nothing. She finally leaned over and met his eyes. Closely. All without a word. 

“Do my improved eyes please you?” he asked calmly. “They're not very common...

Do you know, Visenna, what is done to the eyes of witchers to improve them? Do you know that this is not always successful?”

“Stop,” she said softly. “Stop it, Geralt.”

“Geralt...” He felt suddenly that something had broken in him. “It's Vesemir who called me that. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate the regional accent. Probably to fill an inner need to belong somewhere. Even if the sentiment is fictitious. Vesemir... gave me that name. He also revealed your identity to me. Not without reluctance.”

“Shut up, Geralt, shut up.”

“You tell me today that you believe in destiny. At the time, did you believe in it already? Yes, certainly. You already saw that destiny would ordain our meeting. Even so, it should be noted that you yourself contributed little toward its realization.”

The woman still said nothing.

“I always wanted... I asked myself what I would say when we met. I thought about the question I would ask you. I imagined being able to feel a perverse pleasure...”

A tear beaded distinctly on the healer's cheek. Geralt felt his throat tighten painfully.

He was tired, sleepy, weak.

“In the light of day...” he murmured, “tomorrow, in the light of the sun, I will look into your eyes, Visenna... And I will ask my question. Or perhaps I won't ask, because it's too late. Was it destiny? Yes, Yen was right. It is not enough to be, yourself, subject to destiny.

There must be something more... But I will look into your eyes tomorrow... In the light of the sun.”

“No,” she replied softly, in a voice of velvet that pierced through and summoned up the layers of memory that were missing, nonexistent, but remained nevertheless.

“If,” he protested. “If I want to...”

“No. Sleep now. When you wake up, you will stop wanting that. What good is it to lock eyes by the light of the sun? What will that change? We can't turn back time. We can't change anything. What sense is there in asking me that question, Geralt? The fact that I don't know of any response that will really give you a perverse pleasure? That will give us that mutual destruction? No, we will not look into each other's eyes. Hypnotize yourself, Geralt.

Between us, know that it wasn't Vesemir who gave you that name. Even if this does not change anything and does not undo the past, I want you to know that. Farewell, take care of yourself. Don't try to find me...”

“Visenna...”

“No, Geralt. You're going to fall asleep. And me... I will have been a dream. Goodbye.”

“No, Visenna!”

“Sleep!” she intoned in a velvet voice that broke the witcher's will and tore it like tissue.

“Sleep.”

Geralt fell asleep.