Scars (A Witcher Short)

NOTE: The contents of this story may not be suitable for readers under the age of seventeen. Reader discretion is advised. This story takes place in Vergen, Geralt having taken Iorveth’s Path in The Assassins of Kings, and contains elements of inspiration from the short story “Something More” from The Sword of Destiny.

“An echinops,” Geralt told the beautiful young woman as she nuzzled the tip of her nose along the puffed and waxy skin of an old injury before pursing her full lips to kiss the place her nose had touched.

Most women didn’t ask, most didn’t want to know where the scars came from, why he was so battered and broken, but she was one of the curious few and so he obliged her interest, taking great delight every time her dark blue eyes widened with amazement at his confession.

“And this one?” The tip of her finger traced along the sensitive skin of his stomach and he shuddered as it tickled.

“Striga.”

Lowering her lips to the last place her finger touched, his hand twitched, scrunching the bed sheets in his grasp and arching his back with a gasping sigh. Darting her tongue out to tease him, he closed his eyes and felt his nostrils flare as he drew in breath.

“What about this one here?”

“Were…” he hissed, “…wolf”

“Here?”

“Troll.”

“So many scars.” Trailing kisses along the quivering muscles of his stomach, each kiss touched a scar. Every one of them so familiar, he knew the battle in which he’d obtained it before she even touched it. Nilfgaard steel. Harpy claw. Battle axe. Rottfiend. Dagger. Drowner. “Most men would not live to tell the tales of such battles, but every battle you have ever seen is here upon your skin.”

“Mhm,” he moaned softly as her breast brushed across the top of his thigh. “I’m a witcher. I’m not like most men.”

“No,” she purred, drawing her hand up, cupping him through his pants and gently squeezing, “you are certainly not.”

She curled her tongue along the stretched curve of his neck, lifted her leg across his lap and rolled her hips forward, further stirring his desire as she pressed ever-so-gently against him and blew soft breath across the damp flesh before nibbling her way toward his ear. It was just about all Geralt of Rivia could take.

Releasing the sheets from his grip, his hand slid along her vertebrae, sweeping aside the long, waving black tresses of her hair as it traveled. Arriving at the back of her neck, he tangled fingers into that hair, drew her away with a quick, but gentle yank and lifted himself aggressively into her gasping lips.

She tasted sweet, like pears, and there was a hint of acidity from the wine on her tongue as it responded in kind to his advance. She circled her hips again, pressing harder against him and moaning into his mouth as he surged upward to accommodate her seeking warmth. He grabbed the firm flesh of her arse in his hands, kneading as he rolled with expert precision until she landed on her back against the palette with a startled whimper that made him growl low in his throat like a predator on the hunt.

Hands gripping in a frantic attempt to strip away the few bare bits of fabric that separated their bodies, the delightful scrape of her fingernails against his skin made him wince and shudder. He ducked down, swept her leg with his shoulder to tilt her hips upward as he rose again and then he descended slowly into the warmth between her thighs, stretching through her until the sharp bones of her narrow hips collided almost painfully with his own.

Her hair fanned out on the pillows behind her when he rolled her onto her back, the looping black curls of it spread around her head, falling into her face and bringing unexpected flash of memory into him as she whispered his name into the candle-lit night.

“Geralt.”

Summer’s scent, green, dew-soaked grass, blooming lilac and gooseberry mingled with sweat and wood smoke and the sulfur of blazing fireworks exploding brilliantly across a starlit sky. Belleteyn fires, the eternal cycle, a beautiful sorceress in his arms, pleasure, pain, no promises. The never ending sequence of it, the blasphemous King and Queen of May, who despite attempts to bring an end to the disastrous consequences of their coming together could never walk away from one another.

Not really, not forever.

Her hair in his face, strands sticking to his lips when he kissed her gasping mouth as she let out a feverish cry. The taste of her tears…

Yennefer.

His soul. His love. His deepest and most painful scar. The one that no sweet kiss could ever repair, except, perhaps for hers.

Geralt didn’t believe in destiny, he never had and despite several attempts by destiny itself to prove him wrong, he probably never would, but if he ever had a change of heart it would be because of her.

Yennefer.

Who didn’t believe she deserved to be loved, not the way he loved her, and so she pushed him away, time and time again, making him feel as though he didn’t deserve her, when all along what she really feared was that she was the one unworthy of him. That she couldn’t give him everything he needed, but she had. Didn’t she know that? Surely she knew. She poked and prodded through his thoughts, glimpsed everything inside him, even though he hated it when she did that. She curled her fingers around his emotions and plucked the strings of his heart with the same skill Dandelion strummed the strings of his lute.

He had to find her. Needed to hold her in his arms again or he would never be whole.

The body beneath his writhed, the hips circling, rising, drawing him in deeper and deeper until he almost couldn’t feel the pain of that scar anymore.  Lost in the warmth of her, the sweet murmur of her sighs, when morning came that warmth would die. The arms that held him would withdraw and he would be alone again with broken memories that didn’t make sense, fragments of dreams that drew him forward, toward the truth, while still holding him so far from it.

He would kiss the woman who looked like her one last time and walk into the cold, Vergen rain nursing the pain of a beautiful and perfect scar that none but him would ever know he had.

And he wouldn’t look back. He wouldn’t think of her again. Not until the next beautiful woman with raven-black hair and eyes so dark blue they were almost violet found her way into his arms and made him remember the deepest of his scars.

~FIN~

 

 

About erica

Erica North is the fanfiction pseudonym for fantasy/romance author Jennifer Melzer.
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