Summary: You just missed your loving partner, Captain John Price, so much, but getting through the work week was keeping yourself sane for now. That is until your workplace is hit by a terror attack. Now you need to remember all the tips John gave you for this sort of scenario and hope you can make it out so you have a chance of seeing him again.
Inspired by ‘Piccadilly’ mission and my own self indulgent daydreams Post MWII. Self-indulgent as shit.
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, reader is described as wearing a dress and heels, reader gets glass in her feet
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PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader
WORDCOUNT: 4.8k
WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.
A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone.
“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night.
Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash.
“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up.
“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”
Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods.
Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain.
You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches.
Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.
“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.”
Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow.
Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed.
What was…?
Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall.
A heart fills with senseless hope.
A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor.
Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood.
There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression.
There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”
A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale.
The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.
Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.
“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.”
You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years.
Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.
“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”
“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.”
A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.
The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood.
Your wound—you’d almost forgotten.
“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal.
Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest.
“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin.
Lips tighten along a square face.
“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art.
Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons.
Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling.
“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out.
You ease at that.
“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.”
His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.
“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?”
Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips.
“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding.
Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap.
“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”
You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs.
“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?”
Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in.
“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door.
You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside.
Your form flinches.
“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”
Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches.
A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides.
“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.
No, no, no.
Confusion gives way to deep concern.
A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”
He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.
“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.
“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs.
You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.
“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.”
He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly.
“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.
“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.
“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.”
The very blood in your body heats with warmth.
You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”
“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.
“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.”
Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.
“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb.
Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.
Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver.
“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”
You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all.
The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.
“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”
Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him.
Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?
The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle.
Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth.
“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it.
Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut.
“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.
“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.
You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger.
“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”
It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.
Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.”
You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all.
“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off.
You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material.
“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows.
“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”
Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head.
A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing.
You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him.
He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man.
And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.
He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into.
“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.”
You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser.
“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display.
“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”
“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important.
Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern.
“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”
Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet.
“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids.
“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.”
You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh.
But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure.
“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?”
The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek.
Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.
“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.
“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord.
That was really all that matted.
“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.
“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.”
Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night.
“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug.
Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward.
“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?”
Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree.
Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes.
For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger.
“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.
Warnings: A monster fight (rather non-descriptive), a little blood, hypothermia, worried Geralt
Author's Notes: Sorry this one is a bit off my usual and if it is weird. I recently powered through The Witcher on Netflix and had a thought. Writer's block is still rough, but getting better!
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“Geralt—”
It wasn’t his name that cut through him like a jagged blade when the kikimora’s talon hit his chest, it was the scream that came with it. It was the sound of her voice shifting from complete confidence in him to utter terror. The look in her eyes as she fell from the remains of the collapsing bridge, his hand wrenched from hers, the hope in them dying into realization. He couldn’t save her. This was his realization. Harrowing pain ripped through him when her body plunged into the river and her heartbeat, once a constant reminder of her presence, became indistinguishable from the rapids and ice carrying her body downstream. The kikimora took hold of him as her body vanished beneath the water, and a sound he hadn’t heard himself make in years tore from his throat: desperation.
Flung by the creature, his body collided on the other side of the fallen bridge, cushioned by the thick layer of snow. His head snapped back as the beast lunged for him, its blood staining the ground from its severed arm. Geralt’s hands tightened around the sword’s hilt as pain twisted out of his chest and sank into his limbs, turning his vision red and black. His mind didn’t register the fight, only a vague sense of movement as he swung his sword, a burn in his lungs, his muscles moving of their own habits and years of experience. His sense of time dulled as each second pulled out a year’s worth of life from him. He hadn’t heard her gasp for air. The red and black slipped out of his mind when his blade sheathed through the kikimora’s throat, retrieved only to cut off its head. Then he ran.
The rapids sent white mist up into the air when he found his way to the base of the cliffside, the sound of rushing water invading his ears to the point it was difficult to hear anything else. He scanned down the bank, but for as far as his eyes could reach, he saw nothing. No body, no footsteps, no indication she had pulled herself from the icy water. His breath came in short as he tried to focus, eyes becoming wild as he started downstream, his steps becoming quicker with each second passing that he couldn’t see a trace of her.
Focus.
The body goes into shock when it hits the water, forcing you to gasp for breath. If she wasn’t careful, she could inhale water or fall into a spell of rapid breathing, losing control. She would need to control her breathing in under a minute.
After 10 minutes of immersion she would lose the ability to fully use her limbs. However, body heat would be lost faster the more she moved. She would need to flow with the current and glide herself to shore using as little movement as possible. How long had it taken him to kill the monster? How many minutes was that?
In under an hour, her body would become too weak and cold, forcing her unconscious and—
His jaw clenched. It wouldn’t take that long. Still, though he knew in his mind without a doubt, he would find her, he couldn’t settle the cold hands clenching around his lungs. The fear gripped at his chest like nothing else and drove his feet to move faster, his eyes to strain a little farther. It was a fear known only for those who were his.
She was his.
—
Her body struggled when her hand gripped onto the jagged rocks along the bank, her vision spotting as she heaved her chest out of the frozen water. Her lungs coughed up the remnants of the river behind her, limbs collapsing as they lost feeling. The pins and needles once sparking beneath her skin were gone, though her body shivered uncontrollably. It was a good sign, at least, the shivering, but the gust of deep winter air cut around her and she wondered how much longer her body would hold out against it. Rocks dug into the palms of her hands as she crawled further out of the water, her feet at last pulled onto the ground as the weight of her body grew. A cry broke against her teeth as pain erupted up her leg, curling even into her belly.
It had to be broken. Given the height she fell from, she wasn’t entirely surprised. It did, however, shatter her hopes of walking out of there, of finding Geralt. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up and looked around. Cliffs rose on either side of the river, leaving maybe a rod’s distance of graveled land between her and the nearest wall. Ice grew along the waterline, building up along the cliffs and its ledges as snow mounted upon them, and if she hadn’t been frightened of the cold allowing it to exist, it might have been beautiful. Perhaps if her mind wasn’t hazy and her vision growing dark, she would have admired them, but with growing numbness it was all a miserable shade of gray taunting her stubborn will to live. There were divots, though, small, but enough to shield her from the brunt of the wind if she could reach them. It was a bit of luck, she supposed. She smiled grimly, but it quickly dissolved when a shrill sound echoed through her memory.
Geralt. His hand gripping her wrist when the kikimora appeared, the bridge shaking under the creature’s weight, the sheathing ring of Geralt’s sword, the old ropes snapping—and weightlessness. So close to the ledge, to solid ground, and then nothing but a yank of her wrist as his hand was ripped from her by the swing of the kikimora’s arm. The sound that had ripped from his lungs—pain, desperation—she had never been cursed with the knowledge of it until now. Frustration, annoyance, gentleness, and care, those were the sounds she had a loving collection of, but this one—it sent violent tremors through her body. Fear. Fear for him. All at once, the pain in her leg, the weakness of her body and mind were insignificant. She dragged herself to her feet.
She huffed on a choked breath, her eyes squeezing closed against the wind as she hauled her body toward the cliffside. Her cries echoed along the stone when she stumbled against the wall, using its rugged face as a crutch to lean her weight on. Stubbornly, she walked, limping past the pain as she forced her numb legs to move, to find purchase, but all too soon she collapsed. Overtaken by the cold and the slippery, frozen ground, she fell to her knees near the mouth of a small cave, her head colliding with the wall to leave her more dizzy than she had already been. Just as quickly as the strength to stand had come to her, it left, leaving her hollow.
“—ralt…” she mumbled, his name sounding wrong coming from unfeeling lips and a heavy tongue. She huffed in frustration as pain swept over her skin with the wind, collecting the powdery white snow on her clothes.
Her clothes....
Clothes.
Shit.
Limply, her hands clawed at her soaked tunic, attempting to pull it over her head but failing miserably. Groaning weakly, she tried again, the garment slipping from her grasp as her fingers couldn’t hold onto the material, sliding over her body instead and falling to the ground. How long had she been out there? In the river? It was in this she noticed the stillness of her hand, and her heart sank. It wasn’t moving. She wasn’t moving.
When had she stopped shivering?
—
“Fuck—” Geralt cursed, his voice raw like the ground edges of a stone, his wide eyes latched on her collapsed body, snow beginning to pile upon her. His knees dug into the gravel as he dropped to her side. “Dove?”
She was limp, her skin descending into a pale grey-blue as he rolled her onto her back, cradling her head. Clotted blood trailed down the side of her face as his hands flew to inspect the gash along her temple, his thumb sweeping over her cheek. The vines twisting around his chest tightened when her half-lidded eyes shifted, trailing up his body to meet his eyes, empty, lacking a sliver of recognition before they closed entirely. His lips pressed tight as he glanced to the mouth of the cave some distance away, and he hastened.
“Forgive me,” he spoke, laying her head back on the ground as he began to strip her body of her soaked clothes, his hands lingering along her skin to leave a trace of warmth in his wake. He paused at her legs when a purple swelling wrapped around one of her calves. Broken. He swallowed thickly and removed his cloak, wrapping her body within it and pulling her up against him.
He tried not to focus on how cold and limp she was, her nose like ice against his throat, or how still she was, not a shiver trembling within her, her chest hardly moving with each breath. Rather, he leaned his head over hers to hide her from the wind, tucked an arm beneath her knees and hauled her into his arms entirely. Lifting her with him, he rose to his feet and carried her the last bit of distance, into the mouth of the cave. He was quick, feet rushing as the snow storm grew, the afternoon sky darkened by the swells of ice in the atmosphere, spiraling down to the earth like a curse.
The wind howled as he pushed past the dead vines trailing over the cave’s entrance, taking her to the back where the air was still, settling himself on his knees a few feet from the furthest wall. Holding her, he reached out a hand in a sign, igni, and fire erupted violently over the stone. Lacking kindling, the flames soon died out, but their heat remained to act as a furnace. Carefully, he laid her cloaked body on them, an unsettling frustration building in his throat as her body limply settled.
He stormed off, returning after only a minute, her clothes tossed to some edge of the cave as he tore down the vines and bramble, the fallen branches at the foot of the cliff. He brought them beside her, using igni to get the wet wood to ignite, forcing them into a roaring flame. Shifting the sign once more to the rocks, he reheated the floor, sparks and flames blackening the stone. Quickly, his leather jerkin was removed, his tunic to follow before he brought her closer to the flames. Letting the cloak lie beneath her, he settled against her bare skin, his arms and legs wrapped around her with the flames at her back and the warm floor beneath them.
“Come on now, dove,” he said, and it was now, as he was unable to do anything more than hold her and pray, that he was overwhelmed. His nose buried in the crook of her neck, his arms curling around her tighter, his fingers digging into her skin as his jaw set and released. His golden eyes squeezed shut as he listened to the only sound keeping him tethered: the gentle thump-thump dwelling in her chest—too slow to give him any true comfort.
He hadn’t realized he had shifted, his leg sliding over her hip to pull her closer, his arm tucked beneath her head and crossing over her back as he rocked them back and forth. The movement was hardly perceptible, his gentle sways as he tried to soothe the ache growing within him.
“It’s alright, you’re safe now.”
Thump—thump
“You’re too stubborn to give in to some cold water.”
Thump…..Thump
“Come on…”
Thump………..thump
Too slow—too slow, too fucking slow—
Geralt strained as pain ripped through his chest, tearing through his body and escaping him past grit teeth. He curled into her, hands gripped tight enough to leave bruises in their wake, pulling her into him as if he could sink into her, give her every last bit of himself. His warmth, his strength—everything. Again, the desperation took hold.
His voice was wretched and marred. “Come back. Damn you, come back to me.”
He waited. He waited and waited and waited, casting igni over and over until the floor radiated heat like a summer’s day. Sweat rolled down his back, both from the heat and physical strain of casting so many signs. His body ached, his mind warped, but as time collected minutes like gold, he heard it. Her heartbeat steadied, slowly increasing, her body warming. Relief flooded him, and his whole body went lax. Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, his eyes trailed over her. Her skin was shifting back to its normal hue, and her chest moved with every breath now passing her parted lips. Though her brow was furrowed, she shifted, and he didn’t care that the first sound she made was pained. She’d moved. The heavy breath caught in his lungs released, fanning over her cheek as her eyes cracked open.
—
Gold. It was the first thing she saw, two eyes so familiar and close she thought she was still dissolved in a dreamy haze—granted it had been a rather painful dream. The rest of him slowly formed in the blur, Geralt’s face framed by his dirty white hair, sweat beading along his hairline. One of his arms rested beneath her head, his other was wrapped snugly around her waist—her bare waist, she realized. Steadily, so very slowly, her memories trickled in and the fog lifted. A sigh escaped her as her eyes closed, fighting back the tears welling in them.
She opened them again when Geralt’s hand cupped the side of her face, fingers reaching to the back of her neck. His jaw clenched, his body rigid as if the notion of her eyes being closed once more pained him. She could see it in the way his eyes flicked between hers, his breaths shallow.
“Hey there, handsome…” she said through heavy lips and tongue, and Geralt softened, huffing out a short laugh before his forehead leaned in, resting against hers.
“You’re delirious…”
“‘M not.”
“Confused, then.” He smiled, a narrow, crooked sort of thing just touching the edges of his lips with a slight tug. “Are you warm?”
She hummed, shivers running down her spine uncontrollably. “I’m getting there,” she whispered, lifting her heavy arm and resting it along his side, trailing her fingers along his skin. “Are you alright?”
He laughed again, but she couldn’t find the humor in the hollow sound this time. Rather, it sent an ache curling around her heart. A crease grew between her brows as she tried to sit up, stopping sharply as pain spiked up her leg. She grit her teeth, a stifled cry pushing up against them and Geralt was quick to press her back down.
“Don’t move. Your leg is broken.”
“Fuck…” she groaned, allowing herself to fall back against him. Still, her hands trailed over his torso, his chest, leading up his back and over his shoulders and arms. She hadn’t forgotten the bridge, the kikimora, the sound that had torn from him, and yet, she found few remnants of the fight. A light bruise, a cut, but no broken bones were to be found beneath her searching fingers, no true injury.
His eyes never left her even as hers wandered over his body, their intensity caressed her skin like she was about to slip out of sight, and he was desperate to remember every dip and curve. Haunted, like a nightmare on the verge of its precipice. Her breath caught when she found them, wide and gripping, almost as if—
“Geralt,” she whispered, sitting up onto her elbow. Her hand traced over his shoulder before her fingers passed over his temple, brushing back the tendrils of hair falling against his cheek, tucking them behind his ear. His lips tightened as his frightened eyes fell closed against his will, his brow furrowing with her touch—pained. “Are you alright?”
The fire crackled behind her, the licks of flames stirring with her shadow and sending waves of gold and yellow over his features. His hand swept up along her spine and over her neck to hold the side of her face, pulling her closer. The tip of his nose brushed along her cheek, his breath unsteady.
“I’m alright,” he said with a voice laced with something heavy and raw before his lips caught hers for a chaste moment. Like a grounding breath, a gust of fresh air, she was settled. “I’m relieved.”
Her hum was soft, sweet, and it washed over him, enveloped him, but not nearly as much as when she pressed her lips to his again, kissing him and solidifying him in the present. The touch of her hands, her scent, her heart—her heart—beating within her chest. She brought him back from the sharp edges of what could have been, what almost was, and gave him something soft to embrace.
Her thumb soothed the crease in his brow as she parted from him, pressing her forehead to his. And as he held her beside the fire, she grew warm. The shivering slowly subsided, the ache within her bones melted. With time, her lover, a man of too few of words to be able to tell her of his heart, was finally at ease. She could feel it as his calloused fingers ran along her skin, hear it as she laid on his chest, his heart falling back into its natural rhythm.
“No more precarious bridges for you,” Geralt said after some time, and she couldn’t help but laugh. His own was soon to follow, though she felt it more in the tremors of his chest more than she heard it.
She lifted her head, resting it on her hand as she peered up at him with a raised brow. “I would hope it is the last of precarious bridges for the both of us.”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, probably to spout some Witcher madness, but he thought the better of it. “I thought that was self evident,” he said, voice tilted in amusement.
She giggled, and this time, she was able to see the fullness of his smile as it reached out and softened every one of his features. Her fingers trailed up into his hair as she leaned in, kissing the cleft of his chin. His golden eyes held on to her as she tried to settle back against his chest.
“You missed.”
Scoffing, she leaned over him, letting him watch as she rolled her eyes playfully. “Demanding,” she grumbled, and his smile only grew. Unable to refuse him, she brushed her lips against his. “I love you too, Geralt…” she whispered, and at last, she kissed him, knowing well the words he held in his throat, the ones he was trying to convey. She could feel them in his hands, taste them on his tongue.
Even though the snow piled outside, the wind howling as the sun set, in that cave, in his arms, she was warm.
stormborns
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