Chapter Text
The Korath desert to the south-east was vast and desolate. Dunes of red sand as far as the eye can see, broken up only by tall stretches of rock and deep ravines. Monsters that wait beneath or fly above, waiting to strike helpless caravans traveling the treacherous landscape.
That was home to Sylus. The sun on his skin, the cool nights, the sweat dripping down his back in the early mornings washed away by the oasis.
But no longer.
Shunned by Zerrikania and its nobles after the Day of Fire, there was no livelihood to be found here any longer.
So Sylus traveled west, through mountain passes he was unfamiliar with, over terrain he was unaccustomed to, with only the supplies on his back to sustain him.
He was met with forests and trees and mud. For the first time in his life, the world was green and brown and blue. Water was much easier to come by. Food was easier to hunt for, once he'd learned how. The earth provided things not found within the desert; she was caring on this side of the mountains.
Yet, Nilfgaard was hardly an improvement to the desert. Its people cruel, scowling and cursing and throwing garbage at the Witcher who was once respected and honored by the royal family. The taller he carried himself, the more they hated him.
Even the current emperor, the Usurper, did not want him in this kingdom. Threatened by the relentless black-armored army, Sylus fled north.
Over the months, he faced a lot of hardship. He had to learn how to deal with rain, and the strange terrain of these countries. The people here were no kinder than those in the south, but they offered him jobs - demanded, really. The monsters were new, but he enjoyed learning of them and slaying them; getting back to his roots as a Witcher. Money was harder to come by, and paramount for supplies and repairs, but some vendors could be tempted by a ruby or other jewel he had stashed away.
He was traveling through Redania when his greatest hardship hit: Winter.
In the desert, there are no seasons. It's unbearably hot during the day, and freezing cold at night, all year round. When the snow began to fall, he was woefully unprepared.
-
The snowstorm came blowing harsh from the north, whipping snow around and covering the ground with powder up to his knees. It soaks through his pants, his cloak; seeps into his boots and numbs his toes. While he no longer wore his traditional garb, his current attire certainly was not enough to handle this weather.
He trudges through the snow, damning it under his breath, scanning the darkness for any sign of shelter. A severe gust blows under his cloak, ripping it from his hands and tugging on it harshly. It flaps uselessly in the wind, and rips from around his neck. It would be useless to chase after it. So, he holds up an arm to protect his face, and keeps shuffling forward.
Ahead - barely a flicker of orange. Fire, he hopes. Perhaps a town or a roadside inn; he's too unfamiliar with the land to know.
Invigorated by the potential salvation, he grunts, teeth chattering, onward.
Slowly, the source comes into view: a small cabin tucked within a copse of trees. It's a little lopsided, he thinks. Or it appears to be, anyway. Little windows in its faces reveal the light he saw. The closer he gets, the more certain he is that it's a fire burning within. He prays to the gods he'll be allowed to share its warmth.
Snow dusts his shoulders and silver hair by the time he reaches the front step. He shakes it off, brushing the cold and wet away. His fingers are starting to numb, as well.
As he knocks, he runs through scenarios in his head. Offers of treasure - a mere handful of gems, the last he owns from the desert. Or services of labor - monster-slaying or otherwise. At worst, he will have to move along to find another place willing to house him for the night. And at his most desperate, he considers the curved sword on his back, and how willing he would be to take a life to save his own.
The door opens by a crack. Shadowed eyes peer out from it, uncertain and cautious.
"I need a place to stay for the night," he calls over the wind. He winces as icy snowflakes cut across his cheeks, prickling at his eyes. "I can offer you what riches I have as payment."
The eyes widen. The door pulls open further, allowing snow to sweep inside. "Come inside! Hurry, hurry!"
Of course. Mortals are so tempted by wealth.
Still, he can't begrudge mortal greed when it is allowing him a warm place to stay. So he ducks under the doorframe and steps into the little cabin. Behind him, you strain to force the door closed against the storm, sighing as you finally put the lock in place.
It's... quaint. A cloak hangs by the door, boots on the floor just below, dirty but untouched by the snow. Just inside, a sofa and a well-worn armchair sit beside a fireplace, crackling with a fire. The kitchen sits off to the side, small but full, with the makings of dinner half-prepared. He counts at least three quilts, in various stages of being folded strewn across the space. In the corner is an overfull bookshelf, laden with novels, trinkets, and a blanket in the process of being knitted.
You step past him in a rush, gathering the quilts he can see and stacking them on one end of the couch. "Come in, please! You must be freezing! What are you thinking being outside in that weather dressed like that? Sit down, I'll fetch some more blankets."
He watches you disappear into a hall, out of sight. Slowly, he steps over rugs in his wet boots toward the fire. It beckons him so sweetly. Tendrils of heat that tickle his nose and bite the chill from his fingers. He can't help sighing in relief. He doesn't sit in favor of standing close to the flames, reaching out to soak up more and more of the warmth.
You appear from the hall again a moment later, carrying a few more blankets. You smile at him as you drop them atop the quilts. "I'm sorry I don't have any clothes for you to change into."
He shakes his head, dismissing the notion. "It's fine."
"Still, you should remove your wet clothes and dry them by the fire. Are you hungry? You caught me as I was making supper, but there's plenty for two."
He nods slowly. "If you're offering."
"I am." You flash him another smile and bustle off to the kitchen.
From where he stands, he can see you moving from counter to counter. The steady chopping of a knife on a cutting board fills the air. Potatoes and carrots and herbs are thrown into a small iron cauldron full of broth. He watches closely for anything toxic being added in. Not that it would kill him, but he'd rather avoid the stomach upset. Instead, all he sees is you cubing a slab of meat and dropping the chunks into the pot.
You move comfortably about your house, even with a stranger standing in your living room. You don't even trouble him as you heave the cauldron up by its handle. With a grunt and a look of determination, you carry it all the way to the fireplace. By the time you're able to hang it up on the hook, your arms are shaking, but you don't think to trouble him at all. Nor do you seem particularly bothered turning your back to him. Strange, after all he's encountered.
You stand with a huff. "There! Give it an hour or so and it'll be done. I have some bread, if you'd like something to nibble on while you wait."
"No, I can wait," he says, tone cold.
Unfazed, you ask instead, "How about something to drink? I have water, tea - some ale."
"As long as you don't try poisoning me, I'll take whatever you're willing to give."
You shoot him a strange look - part sympathy, part amused. "Ale it is, then. You look like you need it." As you leave for the kitchen, you gesture at the armchair. "Please, feel free to move the chair closer, if you'd like."
-
Cheeks dry from the heat of the fire, Sylus has finally stopped shivering. He removed what he could - boots, socks, his shirt - and set them near the flames alongside his pack to dry off. Moisture quickly wicked away from his back, soaked up by the soft linen of a blanket and the heat permeating through the homestead. If having a shirtless man in your home caught you by surprise, you didn't show it, hardly looking twice at the scars covering his body or the impressive muscle lining his abdomen.
You ladle a heaving helping of stew into a bowl and pass it off to him. He takes it, but waits to eat. Instead, he watches you ladle more into another bowl and settle onto the couch. You don't seem to notice his hesitation as you scoop out a chunk of potato, blow on it to cool it down, and eat it. If the food was poisoned, you certainly don't show it. It wouldn't make sense for you to taint an entire batch of food just to inconvenience him, anyway.
He scoops up some of the broth and takes a hesitant sip. Salty, savory flavors burst over his tongue, unlike anything he had back in the desert. The potatoes and carrots are soft and delightful. The meat is tender, melting in his mouth. He finishes his first bowl in no time, and you chuckle softly as you encourage him to help himself to more.
"So, stranger, where are you from?"
He eyes you warily. "Why do you want to know?" He doesn't have to reach far from his seat to ladle more stew from the pot into his bowl. He scrounges inside for a large chunk of meat, piling it on top.
You shrug. "I'm curious, that's all. You don't seem like you're from around here."
"I'm not." Your eyes light up with interest as you take another bite. He sighs, leaning back into plush cushions. "I'm from the Korath dessert."
"That far?! What possessed you to come all the way out here?"
"My... tribe disbanded. I needed work."
"Well, it's no wonder you were out in this storm so unprepared. I suppose it's quite different from the weather you're used to."
He hums.
"Where are you trying to get to? We're sort of in the middle of nowhere. The closest settlement is probably Vartburg, to the south."
"I'm not trying to get anywhere. I'm just following the paths wherever they take me. If I'm lucky, I'll find another town in need of my services."
"If you're looking for work, there are some fishermen that usually set up just down the bank, beside the river. I heard some monsters have been coming up from the water. Nabbed up one of their youngest sons, poor soul... I'm sure they'd be grateful if you cleared them out." You turn your spoon over thoughtfully, idly sucking up the broth that seeped into the carved wood. "And there's a bridge crossing just up stream; you might find they need help, too."
He watches you as you speak. You talk so casually, as though he is nothing more than a guest and this is nothing more than marketplace gossip. It's strange. Usually when he asks about monsters, people ignore him, or taunt him, or tell him to fuck off. The few who have been forthcoming with information have been the ones looking to hire, and even then, they're not polite about it.
Yet here you are, offering to take his empty bowl back to the kitchen to wash up, and bringing him more ale on your return. When you sit, you pull a blanket over your lap and reach for a cup of tea sitting on a side table, cooled down enough to drink from. His presence here hasn't displaced or disturbed you in any noticeable way.
"Do you often get Witchers knocking at your door?" he asks bluntly.
You huff a laugh and shake your head. "No - you'd be the first."
He frowns at you.
"I've always been fascinated by Witchers," you admit. Your voice becomes soft, almost wistful. Nostalgic for a time long past. "I think the stories are awful. The things you must have endured to become one. I don't know how true they are, but even still...
"When I was a child, hardly old enough to walk, I fell into a basilisk nest. It sounds impossible - I know. I remember looking up, seeing the hole in the ceiling above me, and thinking I fell into a grave. I thought, 'This must be where I die.' I didn't understand those things yet; I thought our holes were already dug for us when we're born. I thought I'd found mine.
"Anyway, a Witcher saved me. Turns out, I'd fallen right in the middle of a fight between the creature and him. He said plenty of colorful words I'd never heard before. I can't blame him. Fighting a creature like that while shooing a child away from danger, it'd piss anyone off.
"It's a bit fuzzy after that. But I remember his eyes. When I saw yours, I knew I had to let you in." You take a sip of your tea, swallowing down the memories of the tale you unfolded.
He quirks a brow. "Not all of us are as... charitable as the Witcher that saved you. If that is your basis for letting a stranger into your home, you are far too trusting."
You smile over the rim of your cup. "Maybe. Or perhaps you need to be reminded how to trust."
He says nothing to counter your claim, and you don't press him further on his own life. A silence falls over the house, warm and full like the meals in your bellies. You watch the flames flicker in the hearth as you sip your tea. He looks out the window at the piling snow and whipping flurries while he nurses his ale.
Once you've finished, you hide a yawn behind your hand and rise slowly from the couch. "You're welcome to sleep on the couch tonight. There's water in the kitchen if you get thirsty, and more wood there if you wish to sit beside a fire a while longer." You yawn again, huffing a laugh. "I've stayed up too long. Goodnight, Witcher."
He hums and watches you trundle off, sleepy and stumbling, to put your cup in a basin. Just as you go to turn down the hallway you disappeared behind earlier, he speaks.
"Sylus."
"Hm?" You peek at him, lids droopy, trying to give him 110% of your focus despite the exhaustion clouding your thoughts.
He almost finds the sight endearing. "My name is Sylus."
Your lids flutter closed, cheek leaning against the corner of the wall. "Sylus," you test his name on your lips. "Sylus..." You force yourself upright and meet his eyes again. Your name spills from your tongue like honey and sunlight. "Goodnight, Sylus."
You disappear behind the wall, and he listens to your shuffling steps. The opening and closing of a creaky door, and the heartbeat that settles into a warm bed.
"Goodnight..." he murmurs. He takes a slow drag of his ale. Then another to finish it off. The alcohol warms him from within as he awkwardly settles onto the couch, over the fading heat you left behind. He doesn't really fit, too tall to lay comfortably along the cushions, legs hanging over the side. But he draws up a couple blankets and watches the fire burn down to embers, listening to the quiet breathing mere feet away and the force of the wind against the walls. All the while, whispering your name to himself, in hopes he can taste the sweetness and warmth you said it with.
He dreams of your smile.