A/N: This series is based almost solely on the game The Witcher, with some information from the wiki and the author's site, purely because of the fact that the books are almost impossible to find over here (I have to import them, and they haven't arrived yet) and I don't read Polish. So for the book purists, I'm sorry, and I hope you'll enjoy this anyway.

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Is there a point when you know your life is on an axis? A point where, in later years, you look back and say yes, that is when it changed. That is when it happened. After that, everything was different – for the better, for the worse.

Although, the only thing worse than change is stagnation.

Which was precisely what I was afraid of. Stagnation. To rot, still quick, in a half life of sameness day after day after day. To feel the endless, crushing weight of monotony smothering and suffocating without relent. To have no future, no brighter day, no new morrow's dawn to spark hope and anticipation.

So it should not surprise, then, that I grasped at the first avenue for change that came my way.

It was a miserably rainy afternoon, as all days seemed to be, but I did not have the luxury of escaping the cold and wet. I was a woman widowed, next to penniless and marked as barren, an outsider amidst my community. Add to the fact I had some learning and skills of my own, my only legacy from my father, and the rest of the village scorned and reviled me. Some called me witch. Sometimes I wished I were.

So instead of relaxing before a fire, chatting amiably with my husband and child, eating and enjoying the reprieve from work, I was out in my meagre plot of land – one could scarcely call it a field – attempting to salvage what I could out of this season's crop. It was a wretched failure of a task. The cold and the wet had rotted the poor roots in the weak soil. I sighed and kicked at the sod despondently. There would be naught gained here.

The light was fading fast into twilight and the rest of the village was deserted, lights flickering behind clouded window panes. I raised my face to the grey uncaring clouds and closed my eyes, letting the rain sluice sweat and grime away. Chill droplets pattered on my face. If I had the energy, I would have cried from sheer desperation and frustration. All I could do was heave a sigh and wish briefly, fervently for something to go right, just once.

When I opened my eyes again, there he was. A tall figure, garbed in leathers, close fitting and dark; leaning against the rough drystone wall that fenced my sorry excuse for a field from the brushes beyond. His hair was long and pale, plastered to his skull by the wet. He stared at me broodingly and I took an involuntary step back, clutching at my hoe. As if that would do any good.

We stared at each other in the lowering light. Through the gloom and drizzle I could make out the polished hilts of two swords over his shoulders. What kind of person carries not just one, but two swords? I wondered. What kind of person sheathes his sword on his back instead of at his side?

How long had he been standing there watching me? I flushed, cheeks burning against the cold rain.

Did his lip quirk at that or were my eyes failing me in this damnable light?

"You should get inside, m'lady," he said, and I started. His voice was a deep, gravely rumble, undeniably male, powerful and resonant. It reverberated through me, making me shiver. Making me remember that I was a woman, alone in the dusk.

"It's not safe out at night."

I drew my hoe up defensively. His lips definitely quirked at that. I was unaccountably annoyed with myself. "I… thank you, m'lord."

I backed away, then turned and walked towards the door of my hut. Walk, don't run. I half anticipated a rough hand on my shoulder, but I reached the threshold unscathed. My hand on the latch, I turned. He was still there, unmoving, watching me. I caught the glitter of eyes under lowered brows, then ducked my head and went inside, shutting the gloom out behind me.

Inside I hurriedly latched the door and sank back against it, my breathing harsh, my heart pounding uncomfortably. I looked down: the silly hoe was still in my hands. I laughed shortly, and propped it in the corner. I was not going out again tonight to put it in its proper place.

I wiped the back of a hand against the trickling rivulets of water on my face and grimaced, finding bedraggled tangles of hair knotted on my forehead. Along with the mud on my cheeks and the hollows under my eyes, I must have looked a fright. I laughed again, longer this time. I was a widow scorned; I had no business concerning myself over my looks. Save that for women who could get a husband.

My laughter died and dejection settled its familiar weight around my heart again. I sighed and pushed off from the door. I was cold and wet and hungry, but I was alive, and though I despaired, giving into hopelessness was not in my nature.

I stoked the fire and lit a lamp, and began to look for something to fix for supper. The warmth from the hearth reminded me of my sodden clothes, so I peeled them off and let them drop to the floor, a small act of rebellion that only I would see. I'd wash them after I'd washed myself.

Naked, I padded over to the wooden half tub. I had half filled it earlier today in anticipation but the water had turned icy. I dipped out kettles and pots and placed them over the fire to heat, then found some bread and a slice of ham and huddled in front of the flames to eat it, turning to toast my skin. My hair started to dry and wisp up and I patted it back, knotting it at the back of my neck.

I was comfortably warm and full by the time the water had heated so wasted no time in adding it to my bath. I drizzled a few drops of my own scented soap into the water – celandine and ginatia blossom – and breathed in the sweetly scented vapours. They were both relaxing and uplifting and my heart eased somewhat as I inhaled. Then I lowered myself into the warm water and lay back in the tub.

In my warm, perfumed tub before the fire it was easy to forget the harsh world outside. I cleaned myself, sponging water over my back and shoulders, rubbing the soap through my hair and bending to rinse it clean. Then I lay immersed in the warm water, breathing gently and watching the hypnotic swaying of the flames through half closed eyes.

I must have dozed off because I woke with a start to the echo of a loud bang. I jumped, splashing water over the tub's rim. Droplets sizzled as they fell into the fire. Gripping the sides of the tub, I sat and listened intently, but the noise did not repeat itself. I contemplated staying in the tub, but the water was cooling, my hands were shrivelling, and I still had my clothes to wash. Regretfully, I stood up and reached for a cloth to dry myself with, when I heard a muffled noise at the door.

I whirled and froze, listening intently. Yes, there it was again. A voice, I was sure of it. There was a thump on the wood and then a scraping noise. I bit my lip, closed my eyes, and steeled my nerves, and went to the door. Breathing a quick prayer, I gripped the hoe and flipped the latch, opening the door to the cold night air. There was no one there. I looked around – nothing to be seen. Raindrops prickled on my skin, making me uncomfortably aware I was mostly naked, with only a brief cloth clutched to my chest, and brandishing a dirty hoe at an empty doorway.

Snorting, I took a step back, then looked down and stiffened. He was there, the man from the fence, sprawled across my doorway. Blood matted his pale hair, diluting and rinsing out in the rain. His hand was open, face up across the step, fingers curled towards the palm. He was shuddering uncontrollably in the cold, and the back of his leather jerkin was sliced open, revealing bloody, bruised flesh. I reached down and gently touched his hand – he was chill to the touch and he didn't react to me at all. I folded my lips.

Putting the hoe back in its corner, I reached down, hooked my hands under his armpits and struggled to drag him inside. He was a dead weight, scraping across my floor and leaving a trail of water and blood behind him. His weapons trailed behind him, scoring tiny lines into the stones of the floor. I grunted, heaving him through the doorway, and panted with the exertion. I was strong, I had to be; but he was several hundredweight of muscle lying inert on the stones.

I rolled his legs inside and got the door shut, latching it securely, then looked down at my guest. In the firelight his skin was pale, with livid red scars etched into his face. His hair was dead white, soaked in blood and looked unwholesomely rosy in the glow of the fire. His leathers were sodden and filthy, covered in mud and gore. I sighed and kneeled next to him, reaching for a buckle.

As I touched him he roused suddenly, his hand flashing out and grasping my arm. He'd moved so fast, even in his state, faster than I could see. I gasped in fright and he looked at me directly, eyes flashing golden in the light. He bared his teeth and then looked me over, eyes widening.

"Well," he smirked. "I can see I've come to the right place." And he stared at me openly and appreciatively.

I hunched over myself, holding my threadbare shield of cloth up protectively, and his smirk deepened. I couldn't even remember how long it had been since I'd had a man look at me naked. Let alone a strange, exotic man half dead from cold and wet and wounds. I felt an unravelling in the pit of my belly, a quivering; and I firmly quashed it down.

He was still holding my arm, tightly but gently. His fingers froze me to the bone. "You knocked on my door. You were hurt. I brought you in."

He studied me intently with his strange eyes. "Then I must thank you, m'lady."

I pulled on my arm, but his grip was like iron. "Please," I whispered, feeling the quivering in my belly being replaced by the first bitter tendrils of fear.

His lip twisted and he dropped his hand abruptly, wincing as the movement caused one of his cuts to burn. "I'll not hurt you, m'lady," he said harshly. "I… need your help," he added grudgingly.

I sat back on my heels, cradling my arm.

He glanced at me sidelong. His eyes still glittered gold in the light and with a start I realised that was because they were gold – golden as the dawning sun on a clear day, golden as the yolk of a fresh egg, golden as an oft-polished oren jealously hoarded by a farmwife. I gaped at him, and the derisive twist came back to his lips.

"I am a witcher, m'lady. Will you still help me, or not?"

A witcher? Here? How? But… I gathered myself, shaking my head. Witcher or no, he needed my help, else he'd be out in the cold bleeding his life away like any other man.

"Of course I'll help," I said softly.

He looked at me for a long span of seconds, then nodded once, and relaxed back on the floor. With his eyes closed, he spoke again, gravely voice wry. "I suggest you put something on, m'lady. I'm not dead yet."

I flushed and stammered and got up and put on a clean shift. It clung to my damp skin and I was glad he still had his eyes closed. Though a small, treacherous part of me wished he'd open them again and look at me. It had been so long…

Sighing, I cleared my thoughts, gathered clean rags, my sewing kit, and herbs from the shelf, and put another kettle of water on the fire to heat. I knelt back beside him and studied his wounds. He had a long gash on his forehead extending back into the hairline which was still sullenly seeping blood, scratches on his face and neck, but nothing else on the front. Only the gashes on his back.

Timidly I reached for the buckles of his jerkin again. This time he made no move to stop me. I wrestled with the water soaked leather, eventually pulling them free. His linen shirt was matted to his chest and I couldn't help but notice his superb physique. He was broad and muscular but not bulky, built for stamina and grace as well as strength. I swallowed. Stop thinking about that.

His skin was icy and clammy and as I watched he shivered absently. I frowned. I needed to get him warm, and soon, otherwise he'd catch a fever. I peeled his soaked gauntlets off, draping them over a chair back from the fire, and then reached for the buckle of his belt. His eyes snapped open at my touch and their golden depths pinned me, but he said not a word. I flushed.

"I need to get you warm," I explained.

He nodded once, then closed his eyes again. Suddenly freed, I breathed a small sigh of relief and set to work again. The belt leather was swollen and I swore under my breath as I worked at it, banging my fingertips on the tang of the buckle. Eventually it slithered free, and I undid the laces of his trousers, blushing furiously and trying not to touch anything there. Though I couldn't help but look, as I peeled the wet leather down over his slim hips. Oh but he was impressively made, even chilled as he was…

I peeled his trousers down his legs, and then sat back and swore at myself, because of course he was still wearing his boots. I could have sworn I heard a low, deep chuckle, but when I looked up suspiciously, he was still and silent.

His boots were no mean feat to remove. The laces were knotted and swollen and took forever to untangle. It would have been quicker to cut them, but he didn't suggest it and I didn't want to. Eventually I had both of them off and his white feet lay bare on the floor. Quickly I skimmed his trousers off and draped them up where they could drip in safety.

I crouched back down next to him and tried to lever him up. He looked at me, startled for a moment, and I noticed his eyes were slightly glazed. I pursed my lips and encouraged him up. There was no way I could lift him into the tub. Together we managed to get him to stand – he was unsteady on his feet and new blood trickled down his face, droplets splattering on his chest and on the floor, but he managed to get into the tub. He hissed as the water covered his wounds and settled. In the exact same spot I was relaxing not very long ago.

I swallowed, and busied myself removing his undone shirt and jerkin, leaning him forward to slide the sleeves down his arms. As I removed the fabric a small pendant fell out of its folds, curiously carved like a wolf's head. I reached out to touch it and he rumbled. No, he growled. I snatched my fingers back and looked at him.

His eyes were open, golden and terrible. "Leave it be," he said quietly.

I swallowed and nodded. His lids slid closed and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I turned and looked at the wounds on his back – three large parallel gashes, one quite deep, possibly down to muscle; the others surface wounds only. They were puffy and angry looking in the firelight.

I touched them softly – they were warm, far warmer than the rest of his skin. Not a good sign. Gently I leaned him back in the tub. He shifted until he found a comfortable position and then relaxed. I got up to fetch my herbs and the heated water.

Kneeling back down beside him, I pulled out a small bottle of tincture of white myrtle and poured some on a cloth. His nostrils twitched as the astringent odour rose on the air. "White myrtle?" he queried.

"Yes," I blurted out, startled. "How did you…"

"It's my job to know these things," he said. "White myrtle is fine to use. You may go ahead."

I frowned at his arrogance, but did as he bade. He drew in a sharp breath as I dabbed at his scratches, but otherwise made no sound. I cleaned up the blood and filth from his face, rinsing my cloth in the warm water. Leaning in, I studied the gash on his forehead. Though it was long, it had already started to knit, and it was shallow and fairly clean from the blood flowing out of it. I didn't think it would need stitching. First, though, I needed to get his hair clean. It was disgustingly filthy.

I got up and grabbed another pot, this one empty, and set it at the base of the tub, under his head. Then I tilted his head back over the rim of the tub and scooped water up over his head, rinsing his hair.

When it was thoroughly wet and the worst of the debris was rinsed out, I lathered up some of my soap and applied it to his hair, taking care around the cut on his forehead. His nostrils twitched again at the scent.

"Ginatia?" he said disbelievingly.

I bristled. "Would you prefer to stay smelling like whatever it is that died in your hair?"

He snorted. "No, I suppose not."

"Well then," I said tartly, and continued.

His hair was silky soft in my hands, long fine strands that shimmered palely in the light and caught on the rough skin of my palms. I marvelled at its texture – surely men were not supposed to be granted hair like this?

I took almost sinful pleasure in getting his hair clean, massaging the grime away from his scalp and running the long strands through my fingers. The tight muscles of his face relaxed as I rubbed and soothed. Eventually, though, his hair was unavoidably clean, so I gave it a final rinse and then twisted the worst of the water out of it.

Hair clean and rinsed, I rummaged in my herb bag, pulled out a salve and gingerly smeared it onto the cut on his forehead. The creamy ointment sank instantly into his skin and I slathered on more. He sighed as it disappeared, easing the pain of the wound.

That done, I rinsed the last traces of blood from him and stood up. "Come on," I said, "let's get you lying down so I can see to those wounds on your back."

He grunted, eyes still closed, and grasped the edges of the tub, levering himself up laboriously, water sluicing off him and splashing onto the floor. I held onto his shoulders and he leaned on me, making me buckle slightly with his weight, as he lifted first one leg out and then the other. He groaned ever so slightly as his back flexed and I led him over to the bed. He was wobbly and wavering on his feet, making his steps shaky, but we managed. I pulled back the cover and lay him down on his belly, arranging his arms to the side where they wouldn't pull at the wounds.

I have a naked man on my bed. The thought flashed through my mind unbidden. Well, a naked, wounded, half unconscious, slightly delirious man on my bed. I know I'd asked for change but… I pursed my lips and turned to get my kit, bringing the lantern over to light the area better.

Settling down beside him, I studied the wounds. I would definitely need to stitch the deep one, and possibly the other two as well. I touched his back softly; the skin was still cool away from the gashes, but no longer clammy, just damp from the bath.

"I'm going to pour some tincture onto these wounds, and then I'm going to have to stitch them for you."

He grunted once in acknowledgement. Uncommunicative male.

I took a deep breath and poured the liquid over his back. He hissed and tensed as it penetrated the wounds, the muscles of his back flexing impressively. I admired his resolve. I knew from experience how much the formula stung on an open cut.

Setting the bottle aside, I dabbed away the excess fluid and then took up my needle and thread. "Are you ready?" I said softly.

"Yes," he said tersely.

With steady fingers I pushed the needle into his skin and slowly began to sew up the gaping wound, pausing to wipe it down with the tincture as I went. I noted with sympathy how his fingers clenched the bedsheets, but did not pause. The wound had already been open for too long.

The lantern was starting to gutter by the time I had finished my stitching, my fingers were cramping, and I was nearly out of white myrtle tincture. I gave the area a final wipe down and sat back to admire my handiwork. The gashes looked much better stitched up neatly and cleaned. I reached down for my salve and smeared it liberally onto the wounds, then covered the whole thing in a soft, clean cloth.

His back muscles were still knotted and quivering so I stroked his shoulder soothingly. "It's over," I said softly. "Relax." Gradually he did. His fingers loosened their death grip on my sheets and his breathing slowed and evened out. I soothed his shoulder until he'd relaxed completely, pulled the covers up over him, and then got up, stretching out the kinks in my back, and started to clean up the mess.

I emptied the bloody, dirty water from the tub as best I could without actually moving it, throwing potfuls of water out the door to mingle with the mud outside. I set more pots out to collect rainwater for the morning, and set to sorting out his gear.

His weapons I propped up against the wall and left, I had no experience with swords and didn't want to be responsible for accidentally damaging one. Or slicing my finger off. They were wickedly sharp. I did stroke a finger admiringly over the patina on the slightly smaller one though. It glittered brightly in the firelight, looking both sinister and comfortingly reliable at the same time. Both weapons were battered and well used, but also well looked after. I guessed they should be fine.

I brushed the filth from his leathers and left them to dry away from the fire so they wouldn't crack. His shirt I cleaned with more of my soap – smell of ginatia, I smiled to myself – and hung out to dry over a chair back. He had no pack or any other possessions to speak of. I remembered my own dress, abandoned and forlorn in its puddle, and washed that too. I sat back, tired, and wondered about my mysterious guest.

The lantern flame fluttered and then winked out abruptly and I sighed and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light of the fire only. I got up and made sure the door was securely closed, went over to the bed, looking down at my patient. He was lying still and quiet, his breathing deep and even. I gently touched his skin: he was still cool. I frowned and sighed, and got into bed next to him, fitting him to me so I could warm him with my body.

There's a naked man in my bed, was my last tired rambling thought before I closed my eyes and sleep overtook me.