A Little Life

Geralt

He will kill them. He will cut them down, one by one. Witchers do not kill out of fear, or hatred, or for revenge. Tonight, Geralt is not a witcher. Perhaps he is a man, perhaps a monster. Perhaps he no longer knows the difference.

He will kill them. He will cut them down, one by one.

The mantra fills his head, makes it swell and churn as he carries Jaskier's limp body in his arms. Blood seeps slowly, sickly along his armor where it escapes from the vile slashes re-opening across Jaskier's back. The stench of infection hangs heavy in the air, and his limbs are growing colder and colder with every step they take. He can't ride back to Aretuza like this. Jaskier won't make it - he can't - they won't-

Geralt stops himself. They don't need to make it to Aretuza, they just have to make it out of Nilfgaard's camp, and they're close when shouts arise from where he left the first body. It spreads like a kicked beehive, igniting a buzz around them in all directions.

They veer and double back, crossing uselessly between groups of soldiers as they converge and form larger chains that sweep across the camp. The witcher turns in a circle, cursing. They are so close to Roach, to the road, but Nilfgaard is awake and crawling between them.

"Give him to me," the boy - Dafydd, he had said as they worked out their plan - whispers. He is afraid, but his chin is set. Geralt snarls, but again the young man does not falter as he steps closer. It takes him gently prying Jaskier from his arms for the witcher to snap back into motion. Unsheathing his steel sword, he holds it flat against the other man's cheek.

"No mistakes," Geralt warns, twisting the blade until its edge touches skin.

"No mistakes," Dafydd answers, meeting the glare unflinchingly. Geralt nods, and he steels himself for the shout that comes next.

"Over here! The witcher is here!"

**

His accomplice flees, and he listens to the footsteps fall away until new ones rush toward him. With Jaskier out of sight, Geralt succumbs once more to that endless hunger. It rises as he lifts his blade, surveying the growing cluster of obsidian soldiers before him - he counts ten, pressed shoulder to shoulder, and knows that more will come. Some of them look out in terror, but some...in some, he sees that ravenous darkness reflected.

"Together! Stay together!" one of them shouts. Their leader, then, is the first to fall when Geralt launches his dagger at the sound and it buries itself in his throat. The rest of them startle, pulling apart and bunching back together like reeds in a harsh wind. He advances and when they step back as one, he laughs.

One of the whelps leaves its pack, spurred on by the joyless sound boiling out of Geralt's throat. He flicks his sword and there are entrails on the ground. The beast ripples with pleasure. Yes. Yes, more. Geralt shifts in the dark, edging closer

Two more men flee, but there are voices at Geralt's back, coming ever closer. He holds his sword aloft with one hand, using the other to draw a line of fire behind himself. It keeps the rest of the army at bay, but now they can see him.

The remaining figures in front of him scatter, then, abandoning formation to come at him from all sides. Flesh and forest blur as he spins around them, faster than they can track him. His blade hits bone, hits steel, sprays warm blood across his face, but the bodies are multiplying faster than Geralt can make them fall. Too soon, they are beating him back. Too soon, he feels the bite of a blade at his shoulder and he falters just long enough for someone to knock his sword from his hand.

Black-gloved hands fly out to grip him all over, forcing him to his knees. Heavy boots crush his fingers into the soil, preventing any movement. Not enough. Not enough time, not enough blood. His head is wrenched upward to open his throat to the edge of a blade - an empty threat.