there's no rhyme or reason to this life, it's days like today scattered among the rest.
the witcher watches eskel silently as he drives.
"someone must stay with the car. watch the road." geralt makes no agreement on who will fill what role when they reach their destination. it is obvious. eskel is wounded, however mildly, and geralt opens the passenger door as soon as the car rolls to a stop on the frozen shoulder, leaving no option to debate. when geralt opens the rear door, the boy (who is all boy now, reverted back from his agitated form by the toxins in the first injection that they had given after binding his hands and feet) begins to gurgle behind the tape, the constriction smothering his shouts into pitiable moans. geralt does not pause to listen—it will not change the outcome and they must move quickly now.
he drags the young man from the back of the car and down the steep embankment to the narrow river of runoff at the bottom of a drainage gulley. the brown water is as high as his calves, cold, and smelling of mud. it will rain for three more days—the entire valley will flood. the man begins to thrash in earnest when geralt dumps him in the water. when the witcher reaches into his jacket and produces his pistol, their eyes meet over the crashing water and the bindings—it is bad luck to look a creature you mean to kill in the eye. cows and sheep, rabid dogs. the beast inside this man killed people from behind. silent but not fast. geralt pulls the hammer back with a press of his thumb and the silver bullet slots into its place.
a single gunshot scatters the starlings that are sheltered in the trees.
the rain has resumed by the time the witcher crests the hill again. he closes the back door of the car, left ajar, and then slides into the passenger seat again. he is soaked—clean, and cold, his ashen hair darkened to sooty silver by the wet. eskel says nothing, just shifts the car into first gear and rolls them steadily away. the screen of the burner phone resting on the console between them dings, lights up briefly, and then goes black. transaction complete.
the drumming of the rain on the roof dampens the silence but geralt can read eskel's unhappiness without it. the boy was young, no more than 25. even if he must be held accountable for the actions of his other half, what happened to him was not his fault. he was made this way, not born. turned. they have done only a monetary justice—but justice is not what they are paid for.
“there's no rhyme or reason to this life, it's days like today scattered among the rest.”
geralt looks at eskel when he speaks. the other witcher is gripping the steering wheel, twisting it in his hands. geralt looks at his hands. he smiles, but the expression does not reach his eyes. "you are becoming a cynic, brother. like me."
they look at one another across the cab. geralt wishes he were a man who could make other men laugh, but he fails at this, too. there is not much in this life that he is good for—apart from what he has just done. eskel looks tired. geralt feels the same, so deep in himself that exhaustion is his marrow. nothing feels worth saying, but he forces himself to speak all the same. "on days like today we have money for food and beer. beds to sleep in. and we are together. that is something—even if there is nothing else."
