@cealach.
THE SILENCE SITS UPON HIM EASILY, on them, on the entirety of their World. On their Hearts, grieving, anticipating, worrisome. On their worries about the rest of their companions, riding on. On their worries about poor Ciri. In the Marrow of his bones, he knows, his worries are Cahir’s. He wishes he didn’t. He tosses splints of wood into their dying fire and it roars with renewed hope. On a stick peeled of its bark by his dagger, he places three folded-over trout fillets to roast over the fire. The smell of smoke and herbs permeate their small cave.
Geralt unwraps the demijohn from their pouch, carefully bundled up. Somehow it still smells of Regis, of his shack, of Wormwood and Basil and Sage. He smiles imperceptibly. He pries off the swing top lid, takes a swig. His gut warms as he takes a deep swallow and coughs until tears fill his eyes. He gets up to feed the horse, their single horse, with one charred filet. They are fresh out of oats. He pets her neck.
“Eat,” says Geralt, coldly, simply. He offers Cahir a partially cooled filet before throwing the bones of his in the fire. And hands over the demijohn. “And drink, too, if you please.”
He ponders, for a moment. His leg aches, his knee aches, where it has improperly healed in the name of Urgency. Urgency, and yet he is no closer to Ciri than he was in Brokilon. Geralt curses under his breath, inspired in part by the Mandrake Hooch, and rubs at his knee. And he quietly damns it all, again imperceptibly.
“Your head,” he points to the bandaged dressing, finally, “how does it feel?”
