To Heal A Lonely Heart

Not The Wedding Night I Had In Mind

The innkeeper scoffed when he saw me. "Took ya long enough."

I glared at him. "Careful who you're talking to," I hissed at him. seemingly he had forgotten what I had done on our first encounter, or he felt brave now that I wasn't carrying my sword.

"Elven bastards don't get to threaten me!" the fat man bellowed. "Besides, your witcher isn't here and you have no weapon. You don't scare me." His arrogant face made me want to punch him even more than the word he added, "Bitch."

I looked around the room, feigning to avoid his eyes in defeat, but in reality reading the thoughts of the people present: they all didn't like the innkeeper, most of them came here because the food was good and the ale cheap. He treated women like dirt, hit his wife, sold his own daughter off to the brothel in the next town when his business was going badly. In short, he made me sick.

Meeting his eyes, I glared at him. "I told you what would happen if you called me that again," I said dangerously calm. Thick tension hang in the air, all eyes were on me, waiting for my next move.

"Pah," the innkeeper laughed out, "And what can you do to me? Eh? You're but a girl. And you don't carry your sword."

I smiled coldly at him, remaining quiet, standing still for a short time. Then, with quick, calculated movements, I reached out, grabbed his head and slammed it down on the bar. I pulled him up with one hand and punched him square in the jaw with the other. He fell back against the wall behind him, holding his broken nose as blood poured from it, dazed from the force of my blow.

"Time you learned your manners," I spat at him, referring to what he had said to me – or more like Geralt – when we first came here.

I turned and left towards the stairs. The eyes of everyone in the room followed me, staring in awe. But I ignored them. I didn't need their praises or whatever.

When I entered our room, Geralt was still sleeping. He looked so peaceful, and, except for the white hair, human even. The potions worked, or he healed even faster than I remembered, his handsome, relaxed features showing no sign of pain or suffering. Still, it would take at least a week for him to fully heal. Even if he said we could leave in two or three days, I wouldn't let him. In this life, hunting alone is dangerous, hunting injured is suicide.

I wish we could stay like this, domestic that is. Not here of course, but a place of our own. Just the two of us living in a small cottage, the garden providing us with everything we'd need, the rest of the world not existing.

But it was just a fantasy. One that could never become reality. Geralt was a witcher, he had – even if he didn't choose it for himself – responsibilities: monsters would not stop existing, and the numbers of witchers was shrinking; the Continent needed every single witcher it had, dreaming of a domestic life with mine was nothing but selfish. I knew and accepted that the moment I realized I loved him. Besides, as weird as it may sound, I kind of enjoyed hunting monsters side by side with Geralt. It was a simple life, full of adrenaline and travelling.

With a deep sigh, I sat down on the bed. It was late afternoon already and the lack of sleep was finally getting the better of me. Last night had been stressful and way too short, I may have slept maybe three to four hours. With a yawn, I laid down on the bed, facing my wounded husband his even, deep breath and soft snores lulling me into a much-needed sleep.

Later, when I woke up, it was dark outside, the waning crescent moon doing little to illuminate the room. Its position and the lack of noise outside and in the tavern told me that it was way past midnight. I tiptoed over to the fireplace and lit it, along with a few candles until the room glowed golden.