Chapter Text
It's late, and Phainon is still bleeding by the time he gets back to the inn. It smells like stew and sweat and beer, and it's hot where outside it had been frigid. There's a bard playing, armed with a lute and a voice like sour milk, and it's not a home, not even close, not even a fair substitute on the road.
The flimsy strip of bandage Phainon has pressed to his torn calluses has already soaked through, and now it's threatening to drip from his cupped palm. It's been a long night, and he's already overstayed his welcome. One more day, maybe two, however long it takes to scrape up enough coin to make it to the next village, and then he'll be off.
He heads back to his room first, despite the way the smell of food makes his mouth water and his stomach roll with hunger. He's spent the last few days as a hired hand, hauling and chopping wood, shoveling manure, fixing leaks and holes in walls. Usually this goes well enough, but tonight he'd swung his axe in exactly the wrong way, ripped the calluses right off his palm, and been sent away with the gloves he'd ruined instead of coin as payment, even though they were already worn and can't have been worth half of what he's due.
It's with a sigh that he starts to clean himself up. He'd love a bath, but he'd hate to pay for it, so he settles for wiping himself down with a rag and a pitcher of water, taking extra care with his wounded hand. It hurts to move, more to touch. He has to peel the callus off, lest it snag on something and tear open further. The whole process is done with unsteady fingers and the inside of his cheek pulled between his teeth.
When he's done, clueless as he is about anything medical, there's more blood and his hand stings like he'd shoved it in salt. He curses as he digs through his bag with one hand for his bare bones supplies, trying not to spill and getting red drops on the wooden planks of the floor regardless.
By some miracle, he manages to bandage the wound, wash, and dress himself. He finds himself with only one functional hand, though at least the injured one isn't his dominant. He's not sure how much work he'll be able to do like this. How much worth he'll have as a hire to the unhappy, stingy people here. He wonders if there's any use in lingering after all.
He sits for a little while after that, exhausted from the day or the work or the dull throbbing in his hand. And then his stomach grumbles and he remembers how hungry he is, how parched, and he drags himself up on sore legs to head downstairs for a meal.
The stairs creak beneath him, worn and wooden. It's strange that he hears that as much as he feels it. The music and chatter from the inn have stopped. He pauses at the entrance to the hallway, scanning the tables, the stools at the bar, the group gathered around the fireplace, the bard at the front of the room, fingers frozen on his lute.
They're all looking at a man in the entryway, the door groaning shut behind him, each of his footsteps audible as he heads toward the bar. He's tall, perhaps Phainon's height. His hair is ragged, messy and stained red like blood at the tips, blond at the roots. His face is unsmiling and severe, though he has little reason to play at pleasantry with a reception like this. His hands and legs are armored and he wears a sleeved robe on one arm but not the other, and perhaps the most notable thing about him, the thing that draws stares to him like moths to flame, are the markings on his bared skin, down his arm and up his neck, creeping over his chest and back.
Phainon's breath stills in his throat.
"A drink," the witcher says, tossing a coin onto the counter. The sound of it is crisp and clear, cutting through the silence as it lands. The innkeeper doesn't even look at it.
"We don't serve your kind here," she says, bitter, though her voice trembles. The witcher's chest rises with an inhale as a man sitting on a stool rises and spits at his feet. It lands on his boot, and when he turns his gaze, the man stumbles a step back.
"There's no work for you here, freak," he gets out, terrified and still foolish enough to provoke.
The witcher looks down at his armored shoes. Phainon waits for a fight or an argument, but there's only an exhale.
"It seems not," the witcher says, and turns his attention back to the innkeeper, pushing the coin closer to her. He takes the man's stool, and it seems spitting is as far as his courage extends, because he doesn't utter a word in protest, just opens his mouth and closes it again. "A drink," the witcher repeats, firmer this time, and there's a long pause before the innkeeper furiously snatches the coin. But she gets the witcher a drink, setting it down with enough force that some of it spills, and no one is brave enough to say anything else.
Watching him sit there and drink, Phainon finally unfreezes, taking a breath and heading to a table with a couple of young men he'd worked alongside the day before. They're not quite friendly—none in this town are—but they've been nice enough, even if they won't laugh at his jokes.
"What is a witcher doing here of all places?" Phainon asks, pulling a chair out and taking a seat.
One of the men looks up, idly stirring his stew and glancing in the direction of the bar before he quickly looks away. Another makes a face like his stomach is upset. "I haven't the faintest idea," he says. "I just hope it leaves soon."
Phainon is reminded of his hunger. His stomach growls, but he's not sure asking for a bowl will be productive at the moment, with everyone on edge. "Do you ever get monsters here?" he asks instead. "Ghouls and stuff?"
"No," the last occupant of the table scoffs. He's older than the rest. Angrier too. Phainon has never been to such a rotten town. He'd have left after his first day here if he weren't worried about his finances. "We don't get monsters here, and we certainly don't need a monster to clear them out. What happened to your hand?"
"Ah." Phainon looks at it, bandaged and resting on the table. "Just an accident chopping wood; I'm alright." The look he gets gives him the sense that he wasn't be asked out of concern. He laughs a bit awkwardly, tangling the fingers of his good hand in the hair at the back of his neck.
It's still so silent. The bard never picked his music back up—not that Phainon is complaining—and conversations take place in hushed tones. It's strange. He knew people hated witchers. He understands the fear, but this...
"I'm... going to see if I can get a bowl of stew," he tries, standing. A hand grabs his wrist.
"Are you daft?" the oldest of the group says, halting him. "You want to walk over there?"
Phainon glances over his shoulder. A broad, muscled back, those red markings converging at the spine. The witcher isn't covered in blood and gore, and he doesn't wear bones or trophies from his kills or anything else to make him seem monstrous. He isn't even carrying a visible weapon, just a satchel at his side, a belt with a dozen pockets, and those gauntlets. His head tips back as he drinks deeply, uncaring about the disturbance he's caused.
"I guess not," Phainon concedes, hesitating and pulling his wrist free. He sits back down, not quite certain if what he's feeling is fear or awe or desperation at the sheer opportunity in front of him. He needs to talk to the witcher, but it wouldn't do to approach him now and earn the ire of the entire town. At least, not until he's had a chance to fill his stomach.
So he lingers a little. Tries to make small talk with this group of men who seem allergic to small talk. He observes the witcher the whole while, watching him down two beers, a slab of roast lamb, and a bowl of stew. He doesn't seem to care about the eyes on him. And are there eyes; the entire time he's watched by half the inn, like they're all scared he'll get up and start a slaughter. But he doesn't, and he seems long used to this kind of attention, disdain, terror. Phainon realizes he's part of the problem too.
A few more minutes pass, his stomach grumbling all the while. He picks at the bandages on his hand as he listens to one of the men telling some alleged story about a witcher bleeding babies for potions. Then there's the rough scrape of a stool on the ground as the witcher stands up. The room goes silent again, all eyes turning warily toward him. But the only things he does are leave his dishes and push his stool back in before he leaves without a word. The door brings a breeze as it shuts. It stays quiet for a dozen heartbeats before tables erupt in conversation.
Phainon smiles tightly and sets his hands on the table. "Well," he says, "I suppose I should be safe to get a meal now?"
They don't laugh. One man spits. "Good riddance to the witcher."
Phainon gets himself a bowl of stew, regretfully parting with some of his scant savings to pay for it. But a hot meal is a hot meal, and he's spent too many days on the road sustaining off of stale bread, dried fruit and meat, and whatever he manages to forage or hunt, so it's difficult not to allow himself a small bit of indulgence. The way it warms him through is worth it, even if the taste is nothing special. They haven't reached winter yet, and he keeps warm in the day with hard work, but the nights have been getting cooler and cooler, and the rains they've been having soak a person through and steal heat straight from their bones.
He eats far too fast, and then it's gone, and his stomach is still rumbling, and he'd rather not fork over the money for a second bowl.
Conversation is unsuccessful, and the sour milk sounding bard starts to sing again, so he heads back to his room. It's late enough that he could sleep. His body is certainly tired enough for it. Or, he thinks as he bends to peer between the window slats, he could look for the witcher.
It's long since grown dark outside, and while he's heard that witchers have some level of night vision, even they need to sleep. He'll probably camp somewhere tonight and set off to find work in the morning.
The problem is this: Phainon doesn't have the faintest clue where he might go to build a camp. Somewhat far from the town for sure, so he won't get harassed, but close enough to be convenient.
Phainon reaches for his coat, discarded on the bed, stained with mud and bloody at the end of the sleeve where he'd torn his hand open. He'll just go out and look a bit. There's a decent chance the witcher will come back in the morning for another meal before he sets off, or to ask around a little more for work.
There might be some. He could see people hiding it, pretending there's nothing because to go up and ask for help with a hundred disdainful eyes on you might as well be social suicide. Because for all the lives they save by hunting down the monsters any regular human couldn't handle, witchers are treated like dirt more often than not. Phainon has always found this strange. Most people find his views—his destination—stranger.
He struggles into his coat, closes the shutters on the window, and heads out. No one says a word or spares him a glance, so he steps into the night with a lantern, finding it colder than he expected it to be. Perhaps he's just used to the warmth of his bedroll at these hours, or he's unadjusted after being spoiled by the fireplace inside, but he pulls his sleeves as far over his fingers as he can and tucks his injured hand into his coat pocket.
It smells like rain out here, sweet and sticky. The cobbled pathway leading to the entrance of the inn reflects the light of his lantern with wetness, though it's dry under the eaves of the building. He's the only one out here. The sound of music bleeds through the shut door behind him. A breath, his exhale fogs the air. He sets off, following the path without so much as a plan as to where he'll even look.
Stone turns to packed down dirt, mud in places where water has had a chance to accumulate. The further he gets, the more the music is replaced with the soft sound of rain, falling so gently he barely feels it. Maybe it speaks of more to come, maybe not. Either way, it'll soak him soon enough. Not even five minutes into this, he's already starting to regret it.
What is he even going to say if he manages to find the witcher? He tries thinking it through, playing out a handful of different scripts and scenarios in his head. He can't remember what the witcher's voice sounded like. He imagines it raspy and deep and pissed off, and it makes him laugh, just softly, just to himself. He shivers in his coat. Holding his lantern out, he hasn't the slightest clue where he's even headed. Just walking, it seems. It's too dark to make much of anything out.
Cold and tired now, he turns back, retracing his steps through the mud until the inn comes back within view, spilling light from its windows, plumes of smoke from the chimney. He's well aware he's a bit of a fool at times. Now especially. He should've gone after the witcher when he had the chance, but now he just looks forward to being warm again and getting a good night's sleep. The rest, he'll worry about later.
Dirt turns to stone. A twig snaps, and Phainon puts his hand on the knife at his waist, whipping around and circling the hilt before he remembers his injury, pain stabbing through his palm. Quickly, he trades his knife and lantern to opposite hands, half aware he's likely being paranoid as he scans the darkness, but he's been paranoid for a long time now, and he doesn't know how to stop.
A moment, two. Nothing but the sound of rain, a little heavier now, weighing down the ends of his hair. Phainon lets out a breath, and when still nothing comes, relaxes. He turns back to the inn, tucking the knife back into place, hidden in his belt.
"It's dangerous out," comes a voice, deep and gravelly. "Or did you already know that?" The hair on the back of Phainon's neck stands on end. He fits the hilt of his knife back in hand, and finds himself face to face with the witcher. In the dim glow from Phainon's lantern, his hair is wet and blood red at the tips. His markings seem to reflect the light back, that or they glow by themselves. Same with his eyes. He'd seemed so close to human from afar, but up close it's clearer that he's a little bit off.
"I know," Phainon says. He stands tall, as best as he can. He isn't afraid, not quite, but he'll admit to a bit of wariness. Awe that translates into caution. Still, he holds the witcher's gaze, finding them a shade of amber near to gold. A witcher's eyes are always a sickly, wolfish shade of yellow in the stories, but these aren't that. He doesn't smile, but no one here seems to smile, and after seeing the way he'd pushed in his chair and ignored provocation, Phainon doesn't think he has a thing to be afraid of. "But I like to think I can handle myself."
A slight cock of the head. He watches the witcher breathe in, bare chest rising, and isn't he cold? Damp and half naked, he must be, but perhaps his constitution means he isn't bothered. "I've felt your eyes," he says. "Do you have work for me, or are you simply gawking like the rest?"
Work. Monsters to be vanquished or demons to fight, protection to be given. One doesn't hire a witcher unless they're desperate. And Phainon, well... He hardly has a few pennies to his name and, despite his trying, has yet to encounter anything more dangerous than a particularly angry cow. Recently, anyway.
He shivers again. His fingers grow numb, and the lantern puts just enough pressure on his hand to send the slightest ache through his wound. He leaves his knife in its sheath at his waist and switches the lantern to his other hand, tucking the injured one back in his pocket.
"Not work," he says, watching the witcher blink, breathe, study him. From his mannerisms alone, he reminds Phainon of a half-tamed animal. Alert, keenly aware of everything. They say witchers can smell fear. What, then, does he smell on Phainon? "But I have another request."
"Speak, then."
He inhales, swipes his tongue over his lips to taste the rainwater on them. He's nervous. This could be the opportunity of a lifetime, a shortcut to every goal he has, something he's unlikely to find anywhere else. Witchers are few and far between. "When you set off," Phainon says, "take me with you."
For a moment, the witcher just looks at him, incredulous or expecting a joke. And then he laughs, loud and rough and... not what Phainon had been expecting at all. "You want to travel with a witcher?" he asks. "Are you out of your mind?"
You're human like the rest of us, Phainon doesn't say. You aren't some scary monster. "Maybe," he admits, unable to help folding his arms around himself as he shivers. His hair drips into his eyes. He's sure he looks like some wet rat, hardly a worthy traveling companion, but it doesn't matter. "But I'm strong, and I can hunt and fish, and I have some knowledge in foraging. I wouldn't be a burden."
The witcher's gaze lands on Phainon's left hand tucked into his pocket. "You're injured," he says.
"It's barely an injury at all," Phainon tells him, despite how much it bled, despite how much it hurts to so much as open and close his fingers. It's new, so of course it's painful. He's always healed fast. "I'm still capable of all of those things regardless."
"And do you have the strength to journey as I do? I don't walk slowly, I don't stop often for breaks, I walk well into the night and rise with the sun. You would only slow me down."
"I can travel as you do," Phainon insists. He might have a taste for small luxuries, but he's well accustomed to living without them. "You underestimate me."
"You're shivering," the witcher says, like an accusation. "Right now, there's little you'd rather do than return to that inn where it's warm."
"So I'm capable of feeling discomfort," Phainon agrees, "But I'm good at enduring it, and I won't ask you to accommodate me."
He seems to study Phainon more thoroughly now. The set of his shoulders, the way he straightens up for the appraisal. His build isn't obvious beneath the coat, but Phainon has always been strong. Perhaps he can't compare to the bulk of a witcher, but he's far from weak.
The cold bites. The rain grows heavier, puddling in the cracks between the cobbles, dancing in the dim lantern light. "My work is dangerous," the witcher says. "I am dangerous. What makes you so certain you can handle yourself?"
"I'm trained in the sword," Phainon answers.
"And yet you don't carry one."
"...I had to sell it, but the moment I can afford another..."
Something like a laugh. "You're better off with a caravan to get wherever you're trying to go," the witcher says. "You wouldn't be able to keep up with me, human."
"Phainon," Phainon corrects him. The witcher merely blinks, cocks his head to one side. Phainon swallows around a dry throat. "My name," he explains, finding himself far more angry than afraid. "It's Phainon."
"You wouldn't be able to keep up with me, Phainon," the witcher amends. His nostrils flare. His gaze turns to something over Phainon's shoulder. "My answer is the same."
"There's no need to wait up if I slow you down," Phainon says. "But you'll find that I won't." Far behind him, the door to the inn swings open, bringing a thin stream of light and a round of laughter and bad music. The witcher takes a step away.
"Head back, now," he says. "You wouldn't want to be seen talking to a witcher."
"'A witcher,'" Phainon repeats, lips growing numb, hair wet enough to paste to his skull. A drowned, frozen rat. He barely feels the cold, growing more and more frustrated. "Don't you have a name?"
"You have know need to know it," is the reply he gets. The door shuts, taking the light with it. Phainon can hear the drunkards stumbling home. The witcher turns away, and Phainon thinks that if he lets him out of reach, he'll never see him again. He catches the witcher's wrist. A dangerous move. He can feel the tension under his hand, the way he could end up thrown so easily, but he doesn't care.
"Humor me, if we're going to travel together," he says.
"We aren't," the witcher says, pulling his wrist free. "Go."
It climbs up Phainon's throat. "Please," he tries, and earns a strange, unsettled expression, and then a sigh.
"Mydeimos," the witcher finally says.
"The Undying," Phainon breathes. He cracks a smile, as wide as he can muster. "It's a pleasure."
Narrowed eyes, a pinched mouth. Behind, drunken laughter. Mydeimos' gaze lands back on him, considering, contemplative. Nervous hope settles in Phainon's chest, but, "You'd best go," is all Mydeimos says.
He turns his back to Phainon as he walks away, soaking wet and still somehow imposing. Phainon needs this, but it wouldn't do to chase him down again and again. Phainon wants to grow on him, not plague him. So instead of making a fool of himself and begging, he just puts on a smile and says to Mydeimos' shrinking back, "I'll see you in the morning, then, Mydeimos. I'll be up early, so there's no need to wait around!"
Not a word of acknowledgment. The feeling that stirs in Phainon's stomach is like a sickness. Maybe he'll never see Mydeimos again, and he'll be back on his own, trekking without a soul for company and nothing but a small handful of coins, those ruined gloves, and the shoes on his feet. He turns back to the inn, nearly shaking with the cold as he pushes past those drunkards to make his way back inside where its warm. It's so helplessly human of him. He thinks of the witcher in the cold. His socks squelch in his shoes as he heads back up the stairs to his room.
No hot bath awaits him, but he towels off and changes into his last set of clean clothes. The rest he'll have to launder before he sets off. He doesn't see himself getting much sleep tonight anyway. He dresses and wraps himself in his blanket, extremities half frozen and his nose running as he struggles to change the bandages on his hand with stiff and clumsy fingers.
His stomach growls. All his bones still ache. He has a feeling this is going to be a long night.
△
He barely sleeps. By the time he's done washing his clothes and hanging them to dry, packing up what scant amount of stuff he has, and worrying, the night has gone by. He lays in bed, wrapped in blankets and staring at the ceiling until the first hint of sun breaks the horizon, and then he gets up.
It's strange, the mix of bone-deep tiredness and nervousness. He's restless but he wants to rest. Should he somehow find Mydeimos today, then conquer the slightly more impossible task of convincing him to take Phainon along, he's hardly in ideal shape for a hard day of traveling. He's certain he's stubborn enough to do it, but he doesn't enjoy suffering. He can only hope the witcher was exaggerating how roughly he travels.
All this assuming Phainon even sees him again.
Downstairs, he orders a bowl of porridge as something like a farewell to this rotten town. He spends a bit extra on sugar and raisins—though he probably shouldn't—and finds himself about half as hungry when he's done as he was before he started. That is to say, still very hungry. He returns his room key and heads out to town for provisions. He's setting off regardless of whether he's alone or not. Still, he keeps a close eye out because he's certain Mydeimos isn't going to come to him.
It's still chilly this morning, still early enough that the sun is only just properly rising, painting the sky with red and orange and pink. His coat is still a bit damp, not having had enough time to dry overnight. He shivers, but it isn't windy so it isn't too bad, and the clouds have gone so he's safe from the rain.
The town is already busy with people heading to work. The air is clean and fresh when Phainon takes a breath, still humid from the rain the night before. He has to take care to avoid puddles as he walks, and when the cobbled pathway turns to dirt, he finds it churned to mud by wagons and feet and hooves alike. He's careful not to sink too deep into it and ruin his boots as he makes his way to the market to buy some supplies. More bandages, for one. More long-keeping rations. A small bit of cord to replace the one he'd lost to the wind when he'd tied up his tarp for a makeshift tent. Little by little, his savings drift away. All because he hadn't been paid for the work he did yesterday. On the bright side, he manages to barter a bit, seeming to have charmed the young woman working at the general store.
Pack full but not so heavy as to be a problematic burden, Phainon walks a lap around town. He follows the whispers of witcher, and monster, and bad luck to have one of them here, and finds... Very little. The lap yields nothing. So does asking around. Everyone claims to have seen him, no one seems to know where he went.
Mydeimos the Undying. The Blood Crown. They say he killed the king Eurypon and slaughtered a dozen other men with his bare hands. Phainon has never known what to make of the tale. Perhaps there's some truth, twisted and warped into something not quite right. Perhaps it's all true. Perhaps none of it is at all.
As he heads back in the direction of the inn, he spies a man on horseback. He watches, feet aching from all the walking he'd done before he stopped in town, muscles aching from all the work he'd done since he stopped in town, and imagines for a brief moment how nice it must be to have a horse. Sure, there's care involved, but he wouldn't have to carry his own bags, and he could alternate riding and walking depending on what part of him hurts. He could never save up for such a thing, though.
He watches a little longer, the horse and rider in no hurry, hooves clomping rhythmically. The horse is a reddish-brown creature, well groomed and strong, muscles rippling as it walks. Phainon's gaze trails up to its rider. Well built, armored from the thighs down, gauntleted, basically bare from the waist and covered in deep red markings. His hair looks dipped in blood, and even from here, it's obvious he hasn't smiled in a long while.
Phainon starts running, feet slipping in the mud, the cold and exhaustion forgotten until he comes to a stop, and then a fast walk alongside Mydeimos' horse when he shows no sign of slowing. "Hey," he tries, and finds himself breathy despite barely having run more than a few dozen meters.
One gauntleted hand tugs softly on the reins, the horse turning to block Phainon's path, forcing him to halt, foot landing in a particularly muddy spot. Amber eyes gaze down. Mydeimos' mouth turns into a frown. "You again," he says. Exasperatedly, so exasperatedly. His horse gives a huff and flicks its mane.
"Me again," Phainon confirms. He offers a smile, wide as he can muster. He's nervous suddenly. Not so suddenly, considering the way he'd spent the entire night tossing and turning. Mydeimos glares down like he hasn't the slightest idea what to do with some stranger dead set on following him. But uncertainty means it's possible to wheedle a yes out of him. Phainon can be quite convincing, when need be. He pulls his foot free from the mud and stands tall, squinting a little through the sun shining over Mydeimos' shoulder.
"I'm ready to set off whenever you are."