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shyartnerd564 · 2 days ago

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The Enemy You Know II

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, violence and blood, death and graphic depictions of such, loss and grief, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After an unexpected tragedy, you find yourself hiding from very dangerous men. (medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Sergei Kravinoff

Note: thank you to @thezombieprostitute for planting the seed.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Geralt loves silence. Take care. 💖

Kravinoff cleans your foot with something pungent. He puts away his flask and wraps a strip of linen around your foot. He has very much in his saddle bags, reminding you how little you have. Not even the strength to try to flee.

Your only comfort is the fire. The warm flicker eases the prickle in your skin and sops the moisture from your skirt. He reaches to fix the cloak around your shoulders, tugging the tails over your feet. You keep your chin down and away from him.

The other man sheaths his sword, the metallic whisper making you wince. Rivia grunts as he lays his blade close. Kravinoff touches your shoulder. You flinch again.

“No need to fear. We will ward off whatever lays in these woods,” he avows.

That is not what you fear. Not all. You stare at the base of the pit, the orange embers glowing as a night breeze feeds them.

Rivia sighs, as he does often. Kravinoff gets to his knees and moves around you. You slump down further. He dusts off the roll around you and pats it.

“You must sleep,” he insists. “Rivia, first watch?”

“S’pose one of us must,” the other grumbles. “Restless as I am, it might do me well.”

“Many thanks, brave soldier,” Kravinoff replies drolly.

The other clicks his tongue. He stands and takes his sword. His eyes catch the firelight eerily. It must be a trick of the din. He marches to the tree and sits against it.

Kravinoff kneels by you and nudges your arm, “best to make sure you have something at your back. Harder to be ambushed.” He explains. “Come, you must lay down, lamb.”

You tense then make yourself obey. Your muscles strain as you let him urge you down and your legs stay bent for a moment before you can extend them. The scrape of bark remains in your palms and cheek, and your thighs ache from straddling the branch.

You roll your back to him. Your eyes are hotter than the flames. You cannot disassemble just yet. Even if you tried, that wall behind your heart keeps you from it.

He shifts behind you. You let out a whimper as you feel him lay himself along your length. He nestles up flush to you. His arm hooks around your stomach and you catch his thick hand. He snickers.

“I mean nothing untoward. I’m weary from the road and you haven’t even shoes to keep you warm. You would be ill by sunrise.” He bludgeons past your reticence as he tucks his fingers under your and his nose delves into your hair. “Sleep is wise for the road ahead.”

He yawns and you shiver. You’ve never been in such a way with a man. There was only the one that grabbed you in the river. You still cannot think how you evaded him. His grip bruises your arm and reminds you of your cowardice. You left the others...

You close your eyes. Not out of fatigue but shame. You would hide from the world and yourself. Oh, Genevieve, my dear sister. And the others; Lorraine, Marguerita, Agnes, Marie... so many and more.

His breath plumes into your hair and warms your scalp. Despite the unwelcome of his proximity, it is preferable to the cold. His heat nips away at the ice needling your bones. He radiates through his thick tunic and leather leggings, swathing you in his scent.

Your eyelids droop. The weariness slogs in your veins and rags you down. The forest floor is not so lumpy through the roll, the nightbirds not so shrill, and the shadows not so mysterious. You sink into sleep, into dreams of thrashing water and limbs, of echoing shrieks and harried grunts.

You wake with a start. Fingers pet your cheek and a soft breath hushes you. You look up at Kravinoff and he coaxes you. The sky is a shroud of greyish blue.

“Some time yet. Sleep, lamp. It is only my turn,” he drags the cloak higher up and squeezes your arm through the lined wool. “If you should need me, call for me. Sergei, yes?”

You close your eyes and let your head loll back. He strokes your arm once more before he rises. The other man groans as his weight settles on the other side of the fire.

“Do not wake me too early,” Rivia commands. “You’ve cost me enough sleep.”

Kravinoff chuckles as his boots crush twigs and he goes to claim his perch by the tree. You clasp onto the inside of the cloak and tilt your head down. You let the darkness crawl over you. The bigger man snores before you feel the dregs of fatigue dragging you down.

No dreams swirl this time. Only a heavy blackness that hammers in your skull. When you rouse again, there is light rising beyond the horizon. The fire stirs and you peel your lashes apart. Kravinoff pushes around the embers with a stick. The deep snorts continue from across the pit.

“The way he sounds, I think I needn’t watch for beasts,” Kravinoff japes. “They would think a bear slumbering nearby.”

You stare and push yourself up. You groan at the stiffness as the cloak slips down to your hip. He smiles and sets down the stick. He moves to sit beside you.

“Here, you should eat,” he unties a pouch from his belt. “Nuts, dried berries.” He offers it to you. “You didn’t seem in the state for it last eve.”

You don’t react. He reaches for your hand and presses the pouch into it. You look at it. You cough as you search for your voice.

“Thank... you,” you croak.

“I might suss out some mushrooms. We could make a soup,” he suggests. “Or tea.”

You accept the pouch and cradle it in your lap. You loosen the tie and pluck out a nut. You nibble it quietly.

He exhales and leans back, extending his legs toward the fire, crossing one over the other. “Sweet lamb, you would know me by name, but what shall I call you?”

You gnash the nut down to paste and swallow. You take a breath. It takes more than once to force your name out. He repeats it in content.

“Ah, very fitting for such a maiden,” he praises.

There’s a rumble as the large body on the other side of the embers shifts. You peer across at Rivia as he rolls onto his back and opens his eyes. They’re pale shade shocks you. He sits up with a growl and pushes his hair away from his face.

“You talk too much, Kravinoff,” he mutters and turns to glare across the pit.

“And a pleasant morning to you too, comrade,” Kravinoff quips. “Someone must fill the disparity of your silence or they might melt as tallow.”

“You shouldn’t waste words without meaning,” the other reproaches, getting only a laugh in return.

You continue to eat; one nut, one berry at a time. Kravinoff offers his skin. You thank him again. You wash down the parch in your mouth and hand the pouch and skin back to him. You shy away as you teeter on indecision.

“You would ask something?” He wonders as he takes out a nut and pops it in his mouth.

You bend your knees and cover your toes with your hands. Your foot throbs from the gash. You fidget.

“My village... is near.”

“Your village,” he repeats and shovels more into his mouth.

“West...” you begin.

“Mm, but we head north.”

Rivia huffs, “she has a village.”

“And yet, dear sir, ask yourself, how she did end up in such a state,” the other counters.

“She is one woman,” the large man tilts his head until his neck cracks. “Not some stray welp for you to foster.”

“Eh, it is you so set upon our road. When I said we could make better time through the marsh, you said north, north, north--”

“I know what I said.”

“And so if we reroute west, would it not be more time upon the saddle? Is that not your gripe--”

“You are impetuous.”

“And you are a lump,” Kravinoff retorts. He chews another mouthful and gulps. He looks at you. “So be it, lamb. Take us to your village. We will try not to frighten the locals.”

You dip your chin and rub your palms together. You still your hands and grip your knees, curling over them as you fold into yourself.

“I could find my own way,” you suggest.

“You haven’t shoes to walk,” Kravinoff pokes your ribs. “No, you would be quicker ahorse and I would not fret for it.”

“Fret?” Rivia scoffs as he unfolds a cloth and breaks off a strip of salted meet. “For what did you ever care so devoutly?”

The men exchange a look. You cannot read either of them. Do they jest or do they duel? Whatever it may be, you only pray that they will return you home.

⚔️

The horse canters beneath you. Your arms are tight around the rider in front of you as the steed’s rumb bounces you. Kravinoff keeps a hand on your wrist, his other on the reins, as if worried you might fall off. The other rider is less concerned as he leads the way.

The speckled white horse beneath you has you leaning into the man’s back, cheek pressed so you can hear his heartbeat. Your own races against your ribs. The other soldier is aback a dark beast that snapped at your passing, though she was gentler with her rider.

The smell of smoke thickens the air as you watch the cluster of willow trees. You know the peeling white bark well. You used to take strips off with your sister. You wove a basket for your mother of it.

You cannot see around Kravinoff as your nose singes with the thick stench. He coughs, Rivia echoing him. They rein in to a halt.

They sift around beneath their cloaks and tie rags around their faces. Kravinoff offers you one of your own, ‘so yo do not choke’. You take it reluctantly and dawn it as they do, covering from nose to chin.

“What... is it?” you ask.

“Fire,” Rivia answers without emotion and sniffs loudly. “Death.”

Kravinoff clucks as if remanding his horse, “do not be so...”

“Honest?” The other argues. “Little need to be vague.”

The kick back into motion. As you get closer, your eyes sting. The grass is burnt and crushed all around the dirt road. There are streaks of red and black in the dust. You pass a dead sheep then a goat, next, several chickens.

“You would think they’d take the hens for the road. Good poultry’s hard to find,” Rivia remarks and receives another hiss.

They stop once more.

“We should go back,” Kravinoff says as you stare at a smoking hovel. Your chest plunges into your guts. “We needn’t see--”

You push away from him. You slide off the horse clumsily and land with a tweak in your ankle. It cannot stop you. Kravinoff calls your name and his boots thump into the dirt.

You race forward past the other rider and into the gloom of the village. The streets are foggy with smoke and cinder. Your eyes brim with hot tears as the frames of several homes lay on the ground it crumbling ash.

You stagger back at once. Before you, face down, a slash across her back, is Eden. The old weaver taught you how to work a loom. She was ever around, squawking at you for loose stitches, or welcoming you in for a piece of rye.

Your legs buckle. You hear him behind you. No, no, he won’t stop you.

You hop over Eden and trace your hand in the air, bidding her a solemn farewell. Where are they?

“No, come back,” Kravinoff trails your limping sprint. The pang in your ankle and your sole is not enough to falter you as adrenaline pounds behind your ears.

You twist and turn, gasping and gulping as you see splinters of burnt bone strung in ribbons of sinew. You can smell the burning death all around. You gag on it. And there are those untouched by the fire. Vacant eyes and bloodied chests and throats.

You fall back as you come to the fallen fence outside your hovel. It is no more. It is kindling. Upon the grass, some singed, the rest stained and stomped, your mother and father lay not far apart. Your father has a hand upon his pitchfork, slain in defense of his home. Your mother looks as if she is trying to crawl across the ground, her fingernails cracked and bent, her skirt up at her waist.

You stumble forward and drop onto your knees next to her. You cover her legs with her skirt. You clutch the fabric and your head bobbles. Your eyes stream until you can’t see and your chest wracks.

You tear the rag down to your neck and turn. You fall forward onto your hands and heave bile onto the grass. You wretch until you are empty and dizzy.

You yelp as something touches your back. You crane to see Kravinoff and bat him away. You turn to your mouth and collapse over her. You curl your arms around her stiff and heavy figure. You bury your face between her shoulder blades.

You wail and quake as your sobs let loose.

“Mama!” You plead with the heavens to give her back.

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