The Kindest thing

Set: About 6 months before The End's Beginning

Rating: T. If you can handle Witcher you should be fine, CW notwithstanding

CW: Death, grief, canon typical gore at worst, no sex

This is sort of a reply to lady emebalia's fic 'This is not Roach the 27th'
But sadder
Much sadder.

Geralt knew.
He'd known all winter, really. But he'd not been able to bring himself to act.
He'd known when Roach hadn't really put condition on last summer. He'd known when she'd started to shift when he settled his full weight in to her saddle. He'd found himself using her as a pack horse rather than mounting her and seeing her flinch. She'd not complained. She'd not thrown him. But he'd had her for years. He knew when she was in pain. Horses were stoic beasts, they didn't want to tell you, but he knew.

Then winter had stripped her. First fat, then muscle. He'd done his best, he'd bought grain for her. He'd sat up with her two nights when she'd colicked, watching her puff and pace and sweat, stopping her rolling, throwing blankets on her to keep her from chilling. If he'd been wiser, he would have done it then rather than watching her suffer. But she'd pulled round, both times, and he'd managed to convince himself that if he could just get her through to the spring grass, she would be okay. But when the grass had come through, he'd started to see her dropping chewed food from her mouth, as though she was too sore to swallow. He should have done it then.

She'd gained almost no flesh back. The tightness in her face when she was eating now told him what he had to do, but he'd kept on. Just one more hunt together. Not tonight. Not in this or that town, the butcher isn't good enough to do it quickly. But she could barely trot now, even without his weight on her. Some might have just turned her loose and left her to find her own way, but Geralt had seen what happened to animals killed by bears or wolves. He would not let that be the last thing Roach knew. He'd left her stabled and smelled out the butcher. He'd stood a ways off and watched the man poleaxe a bullock while one of his boys held it steady. The man's aim was good and he hit hard enough to kill a bullock in one blow, so a horse wouldn't be a problem.

He went back to where he'd left Roach, via the market to buy a root for her. He fed it to her in bits as he made his way back to the butcher. Fortunately, Roach wasn't turned by the smell of blood. She'd been with him for far too long.

The butcher's yard was clear of the bullock, apart from his blood, by the time Geralt got back there.

"Hey." He called out. A head emerged from over a stable door, blood splattered above one eye. The butcher, the oldest man of the group. "How much will you give me for this one?"

The butcher opened the door, wiping his bloody hands on his bloody apron and stepped out. He took a few sideways steps to look at Roach. Geralt saw him take in the hollows of her flanks and her quarters. He walked up to her and tugged at the skin of her shoulder. Roach looked at him, but didn't flinch.

"She a gentle horse?"

"Very. And blood doesn't bother her."

The butcher looked at him. "I suppose it wouldn't. Not much of her, is there? How old is she?"

"Honestly, I can't remember."

The butcher blew out slowly. "Six marks?"

Geralt haggled, but his heart wasn't in it. He made it to eight marks, then gave up. The butcher said he'd be five minutes while he got the bullock hanging.

Geralt waited. He stood with his head in Roach's neck, stroking her face. She thought nothing of this. She stood with her hooves in blood. This was normal for her. When the butcher reappeared, Geralt took out her blindfold and tied it over her eyes. She thought nothing of it. Being blindfolded was normal for a witcher's horse. Some things, even for Roach, were too frightening to see. So she didn't see, she just trusted.

"I want her bridle back." Geralt said to the butcher. The butcher nodded and reached for the poleaxe. Geralt dropped Roach's reins, she knew that for a signal to stand still, turned his back and stepped away.

He saw the poleaxe move. He heard it hit and flinched. He heard the body of a horse hit the floor, heard more as she spasmed. This was normal. Things killed very quickly thrashed after they were dead. This was normal. This was kind. If the butcher had missed, she would have screamed. He walked almost in to the facing wall he was paying so little mind to where he was going. He stood still.

He could not look. He could not watch them cut her throat and string her up to bleed. This was kind. This was right. This tore him apart every time he did it.

"Hey." A hand appeared on his shoulder, the poll strap of a bridle strung through its fingers. Geralt flicked his eyes to the butcher but didn't turn his head. He took the bridle and held out his hand for the coin. The butcher put eight marks in his hand. One of them bore a bloody thumb print. Geralt pocketed the coin rather than checking that all of them were genuine. "Pleasure doing business." The butcher held out a hand. Geralt shook it briefly, not looking at the man. The butcher cocked his head. "My mother told me a witcher can't feel."

Geralt walked away, keeping his eyes down and unfocused. The eight marks were for tonight. For hard spirits, as much as eight marks would buy him, and drinking the death of a bloody good horse. And stopping himself from thinking. From doing anything at all until he woke up feeling differently awful.

.

He went on foot for most of that summer. He sold Roach's saddle, but kept her bridle, that was light enough to carry, and in good wear. And it reminded him, every time his hand brushed against it in his bag, that he would, sooner or later, move through this. He always had before.

It was mid-harvest before he made himself go to a horse fair. They were a necessary evil. He kept himself out of the young stock section, where newly weaned foals cried out for their dams as their dams were ridden away home again. He walked the lines of ridden stock, he looked over a dapple gelding with a broad back and thick, solid pasterns, knowing he wouldn't buy him, knowing he would always choose a mare. And, of course, he went for one who had her ears pinned back and her head too high, but good teeth and good feet. He spent several minutes just letting her sniff him, take the measure of him, before the horse's owner asked if he was going to put money down for 'Flame'. He played the game. He insisted on watching her run, on checking she was backed properly. But he knew from the moment she put her head in his hands.

It took work. It always took work with a new horse. He handled her all over, day in, day out, until she didn't kick when he tapped her feet any more and she didn't twitch when he bitted her. He taught her to stay still when he dropped her reins in front of her, he taught her to kick out on command. He blindfolded her and led her in hand, then rode her blindfold. By the end of harvest, she was a witcher's horse. By first snowfall, she was Roach.

A/N: Grief for an animal is grief. Our culture isn't always good at recognising it, but grief for an animal is grief.

Geralt is right, a natural death is almost always crueler, but that doesn't make this an easy thing to do.