The White Werewolf || Season One: Ties That Bind

Chapter Seventy-Five

Dragon Mountains, 1262

Geralt bent and slipped under the tent flap. From the outside, it looked like it would barely fit one person, but it was much bigger on the inside.

He'd always appreciated the simplicity of Robin's conjurings. She'd furnished this space with two beds, since it seemed prudent to keep Jaskier close, although Geralt knew there was a good chance he wouldn't come to it tonight. He would want to leave them alone.

There was also a table for them to eat at, and a trunk for their things while they slept, and that was all.

She was pacing in the middle of the rug that covered the floor of the tent, clearly fretting. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and she was wiping fresh blood from her nose continually.

His eyes went wide and he immediately moved to her, grabbing her upper arms. "Little mage, stop," he implored her desperately.

She shook her head. "I can't stop. I have to find out what she's planning. She's not going to give up, Geralt, so I can't either."

"Robin," he insisted, "stop. I am worried about you."

She swallowed and stared at him for a moment, but she seemed far away, like she was thinking something she wasn't saying.

"I was afraid that mountain would take you from me," he continued, "but now I fear it took your senses instead."

She laughed bitterly. "Only my nonsense," she replied.

She was done being distracted by her dreams of a life with him. They were holding her back. She knew that now. Magic was as much mental and emotional as it was based on skill. She had to let go of what could never be, or she wouldn't be able to stop Yennefer.

He wasn't sure what she meant. He swallowed and tried to think of something, anything he could say to bring her back from the precipice she was clearly standing on.

But nothing came to mind, so instead, he moved to the table, dipped a rag into the basin of water that was sitting there, and returned to wipe her face clean.

She started to cry again as he cleaned her cheeks and nose. "I was worthless out there, Geralt. Completely worthless. There is no point to all this power if I can't save the people I care about, and others who deserve to be saved."

It had been so long since he'd heard those words from her, and he hated that she was back to them again.

"You weren't..."

"Don't say I wasn't!" Robin snapped, angry instead of sad now. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her in place. "I can't get her to abandon her plan, I can't read her mind, and I could have done something on that bridge if I'd just kept my head! I'm a useless excuse for a mage! All I'm good for is death! If I could trade my life to stop her plot, I would!"

Geralt squeezed her tighter, shaking his head and pulling her close. He breathed in deeply, smiling slightly as he inhaled and her smell surrounded him.

"Hm," he hummed, pressing his forehead against hers, their noses barely touching.

He cupped her neck in his hands. He could feel her pulse fluttering in it as his thumbs stroked her soft, rounded cheeks.

"That scent," he whispered.

It was lavender and mint in perfect balance, light and refreshing, and it filled his mind with images of her.

The determined look on her face in the graveyard when they'd met and she'd held the cemetaur in place for him.

The concerned touch of her fingers on his neck when she'd realized he'd been wounded fending off the mob.