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Chapter Four
She eyed the fire, wary, as he hunkered down before the flames. The wolf had yet to leave, seeming either to feel a sense of kinship with the witch who'd rescued it, or to be curious of the stranger with hair as snowy as the creature's own fur—and possibly eyes that were the same feral shading of gold. Hermione couldn't quite be certain, as she hadn't really gotten a look at the wolf's eyes, but she'd seen eyes like Geralt of Rivia's on werewolves giving themselves over to the full moon's sway.
Hermione wasn't even entirely certain what had transpired after she'd dropped that choice expletive, but the man's silver brows drew together and he nodded, his expression somewhere between grim and . . . sympathetic, she thought? He might not've understood the reason behind her muttered curse, but he understood the feeling that had accompanied the word obviously enough.
His hands still up in that passive gesture of assurance, he jutted his chin toward the open space behind her—she'd inadvertently created a small clearing by moving that tree. "Perhaps we should get a fire going?"
She backpedaled half a step, completely uncertain of his motivation in suggesting such a thing. "Why?"
Somehow his brows managed to press together tighter still, creating for a dubious expression. Was she daft or simply untrusting? Well, were it the later, he couldn't say he blamed her—he was, after all, a big, scary monster hunter and she was a magic-wielder. Those things did not often peacefully coexist, a fact to which his own personal history stood as testament. Some days it had been nothing short of a miracle that he and Yennefer had survived each other.
"You're shivering and from the look of you, I doubt you'd make it to the nearest village before you lose what's left of your strength and collapse."
Hermione felt her features pinch at his bluntness. He wasn't wrong, but still he was, well, blunt about it. And then, without waiting for further response from her, and clearly mindful of the wolf who still glared at him as though he were personally responsible for that tree falling, he went about gathering up kindling.
She . . . supposed perhaps he was useful to have around. For the time being. Her wounded and exhausted condition might've caused her to go into something of a daze for a few moments—which was decidedly fortunate, as watching him move about in the moonlight-dappled forest was bound to give anyone a certain appreciation for his stature—because the next thing she knew, he'd dug out a shallow bit of earth and dumped in the kindling.
She was rather sure she watched, oddly unfeeling, as he lined the small pit with stones and struck a piece of flint—had he drawn that from a pocket on his leather pants, or from the visibly-hefty pack at his side? She had no idea, despite her now unabashed observation of his actions and movements—sparking the kindling to a small blaze.
Then he'd sat down while Hermione and the wolf remained unmoving. She couldn't seem to will her body into motion, not to move closer to the warmth of the fire, nor to possibly run away from this man. Perhaps because most of her energy—the last vestiges of which she knew were sputtering out as it was—was consumed with trying to tell herself she was wrong. There was no way the initials in that book could be theirs.
No more than coincidence.
When she continued seeming determined to not so much as blink, he shrugged and turned his attention to the flames. "I've honestly no interest in harming you or that wolf, if that's your concern."
Hermione only continued to watch him for a time.
He thought he could feel the press of her gaze on him as though it had weight. Setting his jaw, Geralt gave a small, determined shake of his head. "You've no idea who I am, do you?" He wasn't sure he'd come across anyone who'd seen him, glimpsed his medallion, and had not instantly connected his name, or some story—true or fabricated—to his face.
"No." She looked a little startled by the question. "Should I have?"
Arching a brow, he gave a slow shake of his head. "If that's your answer, then I suppose not."
"Do you always converse so cryptically?" she couldn't help the question. What was the point of asking if she'd heard of him if he wasn't going to explain why she should have heard of him?
Those unfortunately broad shoulders of his moved in a shrug. "Unless I have something of importance to say."
The witch could feel her features pull into an exasperated expression. Hating herself for not having the strength to storm away in a huff, she carefully stepped toward the fire, instead. Settling across from him, she tried not to be pleased when the wolf inched closer to her, yet kept a wary distance from the man and the small pool of flames.
"So," she began, completely ignoring a loud yawn she unleashed right after the word—and ignoring the way he unsuccessfully hid a smirk at the sound, "who are you?"
"Geralt of Rivia," he repeated in exactly the way he'd said it earlier.
Oh, Hermione wished she had the strength to throw something at him. She could tell from his tone that he found himself amusing. "I'm not thick, you know. I do remember your name."
An expression flicked across his face—one which clearly said the thought that she might be had entered his mind—but he remained silent.
"I mean why do you assume I should've heard of you? What's so special about you, Geralt of Rivia?" Aside from your looks, she thought, feeling more than a little chagrined by how distracting she found his appearance.
"I'm a witcher." He looked up from the fire then, clearly waiting to see her reaction.
Her brows drew upward, yet her expression remained blank.
This lured a response from him. "How are you wearing that without knowing what a witcher is?" he asked, pointing toward her chest.
Following his indication, she glanced at her own wolf medallion. "This? I have no idea what this necklace is!"
"Then why are you wearing it?"
That latest question of his came out gruff, which she imagined was something of a feat given how gruff his voice already was. She pulled back a little where she sat, aware of her wolf inching closer still at her reaction.
"I don't expect you to understand this, but it brought me here. I thought it best to keep it close." She tugged at the chain ruefully. "And then it . . . got stuck."
"It what?"
"Magic, can we leave it at that? It brought me here through a magic which no longer works, but if I'm to get back to—to where I'm from, then I might need it to make that magic work again."
"From what I've seen of magic, that actually makes sense." Though the way he grumbled the words, she thought perhaps he hadn't wanted it to make sense.
Maybe that would've made it easier to keep believing she was simply a moron.
"So, then?" she inquired, pulling off her pack and setting it on the ground. Hermione spared a moment to get as comfortable as the unforgiving forest floor would permit and pillowed her head on the nearly as unforgiving bag. "Tell me, Geralt of Rivia, what is a witcher?"
He pursed his lips, staring at her through the flames for a long moment before opening his mouth to respond. After hearing her talk of having a friend who was a werewolf, he though it best he not be blunt just now—she hadn't eased up her grip on that magic weapon of hers. "Someone who hunts evil things."
"Does that mean I can trust you not to kill me in my sleep?"
He nearly chuckled at her directness. "Depends. Are you evil?"
"Would I have saved the wolf if I was?"
Those gold eyes darted toward the animal, who was now nearly beside her. He thought in the morning he'd wake to find the beast curled protectively around her. "Perhaps, perhaps not."
"Well, I'm not." She let out another noisy yawn.
"You always lurk about the woods at night?"
Hermione laughed quietly at that. She had, actually, more frequently in her life than she often liked to think about. "Actually, yes. Are you asking for a specific reason why I was doing it when you found me?"
That brow flicked upward as he nodded.
With a sigh, she explained to him what had happened after she'd . . . found her way to this place. When she was finished, she arched a brow right back, mimicking his expression. "And what were you doing, lurking about the woods at night?"
His frame sloped a little, giving him a sudden air of exhaustion. "Apparently following fate?"
She looked positively troubled by this response.
Gold eyes rolling, he clarified, "A sorceress told me I needed to be here. And here is where I saw you stumbling into the trees."
"Ah." Well, it certainly wasn't the oddest thing she'd ever heard.
Geralt did not like what she'd observed of her captors. "Fuck," he said in a hiss after a moment's consideration. "These men, you said they seemed prepared for a long journey?"
She nodded against pack. "I thought perhaps they were sent to search for something. They certainly had the supplies for it. And . . . it's not my imagination, is it? It's not just that part near the river; there's no vegetation or wildlife in that land, is there?"
A long breath escaped his nostrils. "No, it's not your imagination. I'm going to guess you've not heard of Nilfgaard." She had no idea what a witcher was, and had gotten here 'by magic,' didn't know the history of Lower Aedirn, so it was not a stretch to guess that she'd never heard of that vile nation, either. "Their power is no more, but when they had been powerful, they were terrifying."
Hermione repressed the urge to shiver. He spoke of this Nilfgaard in a tone low and caustic. She picked up, however, that he wasn't speaking of terror he'd felt—he struck her as one who did not often feel fear—no, he was speaking of things they'd done too horrific to allow them to be described otherwise.
"Their troops razed the land, burnt every last settlement and village to ash so that nothing could ever again grow there."
"Like bloody Carthage," she whispered.
His brow furrowed in question.
The witch shook her head. "Never mind."
At his continued look of puzzlement over what her former captors might be up to—which seemed to grow darker and more suspicious with every passing moment—she couldn't help but ask, "So, if there's nothing there, what are those men searching for?"
Again, his frame sloped and she wondered how much more sloping it would take before he actually just gave into lying down, as she was. "I think that's what I'm here to discover. Or stop."
"And part of that involved finding me, you think? Am I supposed to take this journey with you?" She knew he understood her meaning—that she might find her way home in whatever they discovered out there, in the ashlands of Lower Aedirn.
"Hermione of London," he said, his tone a bit curt. "There are two things I have learned in this life, both which have vexed me greatly. The first is that when a sorceress tells you to do something, it's best to listen. The second . . . is that those connected by fate will always find each other."
Her features tightened in a look that was somewhere between disbelief and irritation. "I don't believe in fate."
Unfazed, he nodded, his attention shifting back to the fire. "That's wise. No one should believe anything until they've seen proof of it."
Feeling the conversation had ground to a halt with those words, she closed her eyes. She'd battled her exhaustion long enough.
"You'd better still be safe when I get back, Ciri," he murmured, the words clearly meant for his own ears.
Yet, in her half-asleep state, Hermione had no sense of boundaries. "Who's Ciri?" From the tone he'd used, she guessed, "Your daughter?"
He smirked and shook his head. "I must remember you don't know anything about witchers. But, I suppose, yes, in a manner of speaking."
She forced open her eyes, looking at him once more. "What's that mean?"
"Witchers are unable to father children," he said, in an almost disturbingly matter-of-fact way.
"Oh, and you're at peace with that?"
He frowned at her. How could it possibly matter if he was 'at peace' with it? It simply was. This Hermione was a strange woman. "Of course. Now rest. You need it."
She forced a quiet gulp down her throat, relieved. This was proof that there was no way they could be at the root of a family line—insufferable pure-bloods or otherwise. Comforted by the dismissal of that wild notion, she found herself drifting off.
She watched him across the flames in a daze of one falling into sleep as he pulled a book from that hefty pack of his. The way he flipped open the cover before extracting a writing implement offered her a look at the front, at the spine.
It was the book she'd touched in the Malfoy Manor family archives.
Her body was so worn out, however, that even the thrill of alarm that coursed through her at the notice did nothing to stop her from sinking further into the black of sleep.
