Chapter 12: Blood Moon
The horses moved through the blood-drenched night with a quiet wariness, their hooves sinking into sand the color of dried wine. Overhead, the moon hung like a swollen, raw wound in the sky, painting the desert in grotesque shades of crimson and deepest black. The twisted, thorny shrubs cast long, grasping shadows. The air was cold now, sharp with the scent of dust and a subtle, metallic tang.
Thorn rode slightly ahead, their head tilted back as if bathing in the bizarre light. “It doesn’t feel like a bad omen, does it?” they mused, their voice cutting through the silence. “It feels… festive. Like the world is dressed for a masquerade where all the masks are screams.”
Geralt grunted, his yellow eyes scanning the impossible shadows. “Festive isn’t the word I’d use. The wildlife gets ideas on nights like this.”
“Oh, let them have ideas,” Thorn said with a flick of their wrist. “Makes the walk more interesting.” They glanced back at him, their eyes reflecting the moon, a swirling mix of lilac and red. “Besides, you’re here to handle the interested wildlife. Which begs the question I’ve been too polite to ask: what does the legendary White Wolf do for fun? When you’re not being clawed at or glared at by suspicious villagers.”
“Drink. Sleep.” Geralt’s answer was a closed door.
Thorn chuckled. “A thrilling existence. No paramours waiting in some cozy vineyard? No brooding over a lost love? Every good stoic hero has one.”
The path narrowed between two looming dunes. Geralt guided his horse forward until they were riding abreast. The question hung in the air, simpler than Thorn’s usual probing, and therefore more dangerous. He could feel them waiting, not with the pressure of a interrogation, but with the genuine, flickering curiosity of a creature who understood what it was to be alone.
“There was a sorceress,” he said, the words coming out flat, stripped of emotion by practice. “It ended.”
Thorn was quiet for a few hoofbeats. “They always do, with sorceresses. Was it dramatic? Portals snapping shut in each other’s faces? Curses thrown over the shoulder while riding away?”
“It was quiet.” He focused on the silhouette of a distant rock formation. “We wanted different things.”
“Ah.” Thorn’s voice softened. “The worst kind. Quiet endings leave the most echoes.” They nudged their horse a fraction closer. “And before the sorceress?”
“Why the interest?”
“Because,” Thorn said, their tone light but their gaze intense, “I’ve seen you patch my insides and kill a leshen. I know the scaffold of you, Witcher. The shape of your competence. I’m curious about the furniture inside. The scratches on the floor. The ugly vase you keep for sentimental reasons.”
Geralt almost smiled. Almost. “There’s not much furniture. A bard, once. Annoying. Sang terrible songs about me. Drank all my wine.”
“A bard!” Thorn’s laugh was a bright, genuine sound in the oppressive glow. “Now that’s a detail. Did he at least write good songs?”
“They were awful. Catchy, though.” A memory, unbidden: Jaskier’s lute case covered in dust, the man himself grinning like an idiot after a particularly close call. The memory was without edges tonight, softened by the strange light and the rhythmic plod of the horses.
“You miss him,” Thorn stated, reading the silence as clearly as a printed page.
“I miss the quiet,” Geralt deflected, but the deflection was weak.
They rode on, the only sounds the crunch of sand and the creak of leather. The wind picked up, whispering secrets across the dunes. Thorn shivered, pulling their thin jacket tighter. The bravado of the last few days was thinning, revealing the weariness beneath.
“Let’s camp,” Geralt said, pointing his chin toward a relative sheltered spot where the skeletal remains of a petrified tree broke the wind. “This light is playing tricks. Better to wait for dawn.”
They made a sparse camp. Geralt laid out the bedrolls while Thorn gathered a few brittle branches of the thorny scrub. They snapped a spell from their fingers, a tiny, controlled spark of green flame that hissed and sputtered in the metallic air before catching. The fire was small, fighting against the blood-red darkness.
Thorn sat close to the flames, rubbing their hands together. The crimson light hollowed their cheeks, making them look both ancient and terribly young. “It’s cold,” they murmured, more to themself than to him.
Geralt unhooked a waterskin from his saddle and tossed it to them. It was the one they had shared for days. “Drink.”
They caught it, their fingers brushing the familiar leather. Instead of drinking, they just held it. Their gaze was fixed on the fire, but their eyes were seeing something else, somewhere far away. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a deep, unsettled quiet.
“What is it?” Geralt asked, his voice lower.
Thorn didn’t answer for a long moment. The desert seemed to hold its breath. “This light,” they whispered. “It reminds me of the fires. The day my… the day the town fell. The sky was this color. Full of smoke and ash.” They drew a shaky breath. “I haven’t thought about it like that in a long time. Not the feeling of it. The heat on my skin. The smell of my own hair burning.”
The confession landed between them, raw and unvarnished. This wasn’t the practiced story of a priest saved by devotion; this was the sensory memory of a victim.
Geralt moved. He didn’t speak. He simply rose from his bedroll, walked around the fire, and sat down beside them. Not touching, but close enough that his presence was a solid, undeniable thing against the vast, haunted night.
Thorn flinched, just slightly, as he settled, their eyes wide and startled, the crimson in them swirling with something like fear.
“Look at me,” Geralt said, his voice not a command, but an anchor.
Thorn’s gaze shifted from the hypnotic fire to his face. The flickering light carved the sharp planes of his features, glinted in his cat-slit pupils.
Geralt reached out, his movement slow and deliberate. He didn’t touch their wounded shoulder or offer a pat on the back. He cupped the nape of their neck, his thumb resting against the rapid pulse beating there. His palm was warm, calloused, grounding. It was the same touch he’d used to check for fever, but now it held a different weight. A tether.
“You’re here,” he said, the words simple, absolute. “The fire is small. The air is cold. You’re with me.”
Thorn’s breath hitched. They leaned into the touch, just a fraction, their eyes fluttering closed for a second. The tension in their shoulders bled away, replaced by a profound exhaustion. They were silent for a long time, the only sound the crackle of their pathetic fire and the distant, lonely cry of some night creature.
When they spoke again, their voice was ragged at the edges. “The furniture inside isn’t much to look at, is it? Mostly just scars and bad memories.”
Geralt’s thumb moved, a slow, steady stroke against their skin. “Furniture’s overrated. The scaffold holds.”
A weak, genuine smile touched Thorn’s lips. They opened their eyes, the lilac in them winning out over the red, reflecting the small, real fire between them instead of the monstrous one in the sky. They didn’t pull away. The blood moon continued its ascent, but its power over the night seemed to lessen, pushed back by the simple, stubborn reality of a hand on the back of a neck, and two people sitting silently together, waiting for the dawn.
The blood moon continued its ascent, but its power over the night seemed to lessen, pushed back by the simple, stubborn reality of a hand on the back of a neck, and two people sitting silently together, waiting for the dawn. The faint, clean scent of the aloe from days ago seemed to linger on Thorn’s skin, a stark contrast to the memory of smoke and ash. They turned their head slightly, their cheek brushing against the rough wool of Geralt’s sleeve.
A silence stretched, thicker than the desert dark, humming with the things they had just said and all the things left unsaid. Thorn’s gaze dropped to his mouth, their eyes deepening to a rich, swirling violet. They leaned in slowly, a question in the slight tilt of their head, closing the small, charged space between them.
Geralt’s stillness was a fortress. Every instinct, honed by a lifetime of solitary paths and harsh lessons, screamed a warning. This was a complication, a vulnerability he could not afford. He felt the impulse to pull back, to re-establish the safe, familiar distance that had defined their journey.
But then their lips met his, a tentative press that was shockingly warm and soft. It was not an attack, but a surrender, an offering more fragile than any spell they’d woven. The scent of dust and cold air and that faint, clean gel filled his senses. His own hesitation shattered.
He kissed them back.
It was not gentle. It was a sudden, hungry release, a dam breaking after centuries of isolation on both sides. Geralt’s hand tightened at their neck, angling their face to deepen the contact, his other hand coming up to cradle their jaw. His thumb stroked the line of their cheekbone, a gesture far more intimate than any fight. The world—the blood moon, the desert, the very air—seemed to contract to this single, burning point.
When they finally broke apart, the crimson light felt different, less an omen and more a blanket, hiding them from prying eyes. Thorn’s breath ghosted against his skin, their forehead resting against his. A shudder ran through them, but it was not from the cold.
“Well,” Thorn whispered, their voice ragged. “That was…”
Geralt opened his eyes, his pupils wide in the gloom. He could still feel the phantom pressure of their mouth, a brand more lasting than any leshen’s claw. Their lilac eyes were wide, searching his. “That was a calculated risk,” they finished, the old phrase taking on a new, trembling meaning.
“Your calculations are off,” Geralt murmured, his voice a low rasp. He didn’t move away. His thumb continued its slow, absent path along their jawline. The air was cold, but the space between them was furnace-hot. Thorn’s fingers found the leather of his jerkin, gripping tight. “Drastically.”
“Drastically.” The word hung between them, a shared admission that changed the desert’s geometry. Thorn’s laugh was a shaky, breathless thing. They didn’t pull back, their forehead still resting against his, their fingers still twisted in the worn leather of his jerkin.
The fire spat, its feeble light guttering. A sudden, sharp wind whipped sand against them, stinging any exposed skin. The blood moon’s eerie glow seemed to intensify for a moment, as if in protest.
“We should…” Thorn began, their voice trailing off as another, stronger gust threatened to scatter their meager camp.
Geralt was already moving. He stood in one fluid motion, pulling Thorn up with him. He kicked sand over the fire, snuffing it into a plume of smoke and embers. The world plunged into deeper shadow, lit only by that oppressive crimson sky.
“My bedroll’s larger,” he said, his voice all practicality. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a strategy for survival against the cutting cold. He guided them both toward the relative shelter of the petrified tree.
Thorn didn’t argue. The flirtatious priest was gone, replaced by someone simply tired and cold. They helped him spread the worn bedroll on the sand, its fabric thin but better than nothing. The wind howled a low note through the dead branches above.
They lay down together out of pure necessity, their backs to the wind. Geralt lay on the outside, a solid wall between Thorn and the elements. He pulled the edge of the bedroll over them both, a scant shield.
The cold was a persistent thief, stealing warmth through wool and leather. Thorn shivered violently, their body a tense line against his back. “S-still not as warm as I’d hoped,” they chattered, trying for a joke that fell flat.
Geralt didn’t answer with words. He simply turned over. He shifted until he was facing them, then pulled them firmly against his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He tucked their head under his chin, his body curving around theirs.
Thorn went rigid for a single, startled heartbeat. Then, with a shuddering sigh, they melted into the contact. They burrowed into the warmth he offered, their cold nose pressing against the column of his throat.
Their breathing slowly synchronized, a quiet rhythm against the wind’s noise. The scent of dust and cold air mixed with the faint, clean memory of aloe from the salve and the simple, familiar smell of his leather and skin.
Geralt could feel the delicate architecture of their spine through their clothes, the residual tension finally leaving their shoulders. The frantic pulse at their neck steadied, matching the slower, measured beat of his own.
The blood moon began its slow descent, its sinister light softening to a dull rust. The wind’s howl faded to a whisper, no match for the quiet fortress they had built between them. In the deep, dark hour before dawn, the desert held its breath.
They fell asleep entwined.
They fell asleep entwined.
Dawn arrived not with a brilliant sun, but with a gradual leaching of the blood from the sky. The world faded from crimson to a pale, sickly orange, then to a dusty gold. Geralt woke first, the instinctive alertness of his kind pulling him from a deeper sleep than he was accustomed to. Thorn was still a warm weight against him, their breathing even and deep, their face relaxed in a way he hadn't seen before. He carefully extracted his arm from under their head and stood, his joints protesting the cold night spent on the ground.
The silence of the desert morning was absolute. He packed the bedroll with efficient movements, the memory of the night before a tangible thing in the quiet air. By the time Thorn stirred, he had the horses saddled and ready. They sat up, blinking in the thin light, and ran a hand through their short, messy hair. Their eyes found his, and for a moment, there was no flippant remark, no defensive charm. Just a quiet, searching look.
"Your calculations," Geralt said, his voice rough with morning. He tossed them an apple from their dwindling supplies.
A slow smile spread across Thorn's face, genuine and unguarded. "Seem to be recalculating." They caught the apple and took a crisp bite. "The scaffold held."
THE NEXT DAY, THEY CONTINUE ON, MAKING IT OUT OF THE DESERT AND INTO THE FOOTHILLS OF A JAGGED MOUNTAIN RANGE.
The change was abrupt. The endless, suffocating sand gave way to hard, rocky soil, then to tufts of tough, grey-green grass. The air lost its metallic dryness, gaining a crisp, clean edge that carried the scent of pine and cold stone. The road, what little there was of it, began to climb, weaving between massive boulders and stunted, wind-twisted trees.
Thorn drew a deep, appreciative breath. "Gods, that's better. I was starting to forget what air was supposed to taste like." They glanced back at the vast, tan expanse behind them, now shimmering in a heat haze. "Goodbye, dust bowl."
Geralt grunted in agreement, his gaze scanning the new terrain. His witcher senses, dulled by the desert's monotony, were now picking up a hundred new details. The chatter of unseen birds, the scuttle of rodents in the underbrush, the specific mineral tang of the granite underfoot. It was a relief. This was a landscape he understood, full of cover and clear lines of sight.
The horses, too, seemed invigorated, their steps more sure on the firm ground. The path steepened, cutting through a narrow pass where shadows clung deep and cold. The silence here was different from the desert's; it was a watchful quiet, broken by the occasional trickle of water from hidden springs seeping through the rock.
"So," Thorn said, their voice echoing slightly in the pass. They guided their horse alongside his. "The Sunken Library. You think we'll find what I need there? A way to... patch the cracks?"
"I think it's a place to start," Geralt replied, his eyes tracing the cliff faces above them for any sign of movement. "Knowledge is a tool. Sometimes the right one."
"Sometimes it's just a heavier weight to carry." Thorn's tone was light, but the words had gravity. They were silent for a moment, the only sound the steady clop of hooves on stone. "And what does the White Wolf need from a buried library? Can't be for the reading material. You don't strike me as a man who enjoys a good book by the fire."
"A contract," Geralt said. "An old one. The mage who built it, he specialized in binding things. Powerful things. Something got loose nearby. The trail leads there."
"Something you can kill?" Thorn asked, their interest sharpening.
"Hopefully." He looked at them, the yellow of his eyes catching a sliver of sunlight cutting into the pass. "If not, the books might have an answer."
Thorn laughed, a sound that seemed to startle the quiet. "So we're both hunting for answers in a hole in the ground. How terribly poetic." They nudged their horse ahead, turning in the saddle to face him with a grin that was all their old, chaotic self, yet underpinned by something new and solid. "Just try not to get clawed up again before we get there. I'm running low on salve."
The mountain path coiled like a serpent around the jagged peaks, the air growing thin and sharp. Thorn’s laughter from moments before seemed to hang in the crisp silence, a fleeting warmth against the encroaching stone. They rode for hours, the only sounds the steady clop of hooves and the sigh of the wind through stunted pines.
Ahead, the path ended abruptly at a massive, shadowed archway carved directly into the mountainside. It was not a built structure but a wound in the rock, dark and silent. The air around it was still and heavy, devoid of birdsong or the scuttle of life. "Charming," Thorn murmured, their earlier levity evaporating. "It really does look sunken. Like the mountain is swallowing it."
Geralt dismounted, his boots crunching on the gravelly soil. He placed a hand on the cold stone of the archway, feeling the residual hum of very old, very patient magic. "This is it." He looped his horse's reins around a petrified stump. "Stay alert."
The interior was a cavernous space, but one that defied the chaos of nature. The air was cool and carried the scent of old parchment, dry rot, and ozone. Instead of stalactites, soaring bookshelves carved from the living rock reached up into darkness. A soft, sourceless luminescence clung to the shelves, illuminating countless spines and scrolls. The silence was a physical presence, thick and absorbent.
In the center of the vast chamber, at a desk made of a single slab of polished basalt, sat a woman. Her hair was a cloud of stark white, and her hands, resting on an open folio, were a delicate map of blue veins and fine bones. She looked up as they entered, her eyes a calm, watery grey that held no surprise.
"Welcome," she said, her voice like the rustle of pages. "The Sunken Library is open to seekers. I am Kaelen." Her gaze drifted over them, lingering on Geralt’s medallion, then on Thorn’s unusual eyes, but she asked no questions.
Geralt stepped forward, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the immense quiet. "I'm looking for the works of the mage Theron. Specifically, his treaties on binding and banishment."
Kaelen’s thin finger traced a line in her folio. "The Theron Codices are in the Western Wing. Section seven. The shelves are… particular. Do not force anything." Her eyes shifted to Thorn. "And you?"
Thorn offered a smile that didn't quite reach their eyes. "I'm interested in foundations. Structural metaphysics. The… repair of fractured conduits."
A knowing look flickered in the librarian’s ancient eyes. "A more delicate search. The Eastern Wing. Section three. You will find texts on elemental anchoring and soul-weave theory there." She lowered her gaze back to her book, a clear dismissal. "The library provides what it wills. Do not wander where you are not called."
Geralt met Thorn’s gaze. The playfulness from the desert was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. He gave a single, short nod. "Meet back here."
"Try not to get lost in the poetry section," Thorn said, the old tease in their voice a thin veneer over their clear apprehension. They turned and walked towards the Eastern Wing, their form quickly receding into the gloom between the towering shelves.
Geralt watched them go for a moment longer than necessary, then turned and headed in the opposite direction. The Western Wing was a labyrinth, the shelves leaning at slight, disorienting angles. The air grew colder. He could feel the weight of the knowledge here, a pressure against his skin, and the older, sharper scent of the thing he hunted.