To Heal A Lonely Heart

The Devil of Posada

It took about a week for me to heal enough to use magic again. Once I was strong enough I brewed myself a potion that would shorten the healing process and within another week all that was left from the bruxa attack were three thin white lines across my abdomen.

We continued traveling, Geralt and I, slowly making our way north, stopping in every village and staying there for at least a few weeks. Monsters weren't rare south of my old home, so Geralt had plenty of jobs. After the accident with the bruxa Geralt was hesitant to let me join him on hunts, only letting me come with him when the monster wasn't that dangerous or when he really needed back-up. So I would often stay behind, sometimes selling potions or assisting the local healers.

We earned good coin, enough to buy a horse of my own. The mare was dark grey. Shadow, I called her. She was sassy, much like Roach, and stubborn, but still friendly and well-behaved, or at least did she obey me. I loved her the moment she nuzzled her snout against my hand.

After two years we came to Dol Blathanna, or Posada as the humans called it now. On one hand I was happy to be back, to see the beautiful landscape again where I grew up. On the other hand, though, I was filled with sadness. Everyone I knew, everyone who lived here was dead, killed by the humans. Part of me was also angry, but only few of the humans who took part in the Great Cleansing were still alive. I couldn't be angry at humans who had nothing to do with the murder of my friends and family; it wasn't their fault.

At the end I was glad to be back. Seeing the soft hills, the rich green plants and the deep valleys again, together with the man I loved was worth it. Oh, and how I loved him. Ever since he confessed to me, not a day passed without us telling the other we loved them. When we were alone the usually so cold witcher couldn't stop smiling, warming my heart every time I saw him. When we were resting he would lay his head in my lap, letting me run my fingers through his silvery locks while I hummed to him softly. And when men in bars flirted with me, not knowing I was with the witcher, he would get all protective; one or two times he even pulled his sword at whoever had hit on me. I would only laugh and put my hand on his chest to calm him down, whispering to him softly that I belonged to him, and only him. And then later when we went up to our room in the inn I would show him how exactly. I loved it when he was all possessive, marking me for everyone to see: I was with the witcher.

Now he was seated in a tavern in Posada, at a table in the corner while I was leaning against the bar. As I was the only woman in there wearing trousers and a sword, the people knew I was with the witcher. We had discovered recently that some people were hesitant to approach Geralt. He, uh, seemed just like the kind of person you would be smart to fear – while I knew that in reality he was a sweetheart, sure he was a witcher, trained to kill, but that didn't mean he was dangerous. I on the other hand seemed far more approachable to the townsfolk. They would come to me, tell me what was causing them trouble and I would go to Geralt, tell him what the person just told me, while they were fumbling with their coin-purse, shaking at the sight of the Witcher.

But today was different. No one came up to me or Geralt. A bard was performing in the tavern, strumming his lute and singing. I watched him, amused.

"You think you're safe,

Without a care.

But here in Posada

You'd be wise to beware.

The pike with the spike

That lurks in your drawers,

Or the flying drake that will fill you with horror.

Need old Nan the Hag

To stir up a potion

So that your lady may get an abortion"