Chapter Text
Eskel had been gone a while, longer than he should have been for a simple hunt. Geralt and Lambert already discussed getting dressed and going after him. They would have if Vesemir hadn’t barked at them to sit down and stop getting impatient after a few hours, but even they could see that Vesemir was more concerned than he preferred to let on. Huffing, Geralt and Lambert stayed inside, but that didn’t stop them from looking out the window every three seconds.
Lambert spots Eskel first. He opens his mouth to call out to Geralt and Vesemir, about to hop off from the ledge of the highest tower’s window and head back into the keep. Instead, he narrows his eyes, watching as Eskel raises a hand and rubs rather aggressively at the right side of his face. Lambert scowls, a low growl forming in his chest as he takes note of the red, irritated skin around Eskel’s scars.
It’s getting bad again.
He slips back into the tower, beelining towards the sick room. Merigold tends to leave a lot of her medicinal herbs and salves lying about whenever she visits, claiming that the witchers need it more than she does. In times like these, Lambert hates that he agrees with her. As he snatches a salve pot the size of his palm, Lambert rolls his eyes, begrudgingly thankful for her foresight.
Eskel walks in just as Lambert reaches the entrance to the keep. Geralt and Vesemir are in the library the last time Lambert checked, so he is the only one to greet Eskel, slipping the pot into one of his trouser pockets. Up close, Eskel looks so much worse than before, blood staining his clothes and dark bags beneath his eyes. His scars stand out the most, dry skin sticking out in patches, raised and angry.
“Injured?” It’s the first question out of Lambert’s mouth, and the weight in his chest lightens when Eskel shakes his head.
“Blood’s not mine.” Eskel sheds his heavy cloak, hanging it by the door. Lambert helps divest him of his armor as they walk, holding his swords while Eskel strips off his gambeson to expose the dirtied shirt underneath. “Wyverns are gone from the mountains, though.”
“You could use a bath,” Lambert huffs, leaning away from his brother. “Reek like a grave hag’s asshole.”
“You’d be the one to know that, wouldn’t you, Lamb?” Eskel sighs. He sounds amused, but he doesn’t smirk or give Lambert a teasing grin.
Lambert makes an affronted noise, shoving Eskel in the direction of the hot springs. “Prick. Go clean yourself. I’ll bring you clothes.”
“I could kiss you.”
“Buy me a drink and dinner first.”
“A drink and dinner? High class.” Eskel looks as if he almost makes a facial expression but stops himself. In fact, his lips are barely parted, speaking without moving his mouth too much. The pot grows heavier in Lambert’s pocket.
Lambert nods, leveling Eskel with a serious glare. “Damn right. I’m a fucking princess. Now, go. Shoo.”
Eskel snorts, lumbering off in the direction of the hot springs. Lambert watches him for a moment, taking in the slumped shoulders and heavy footsteps. He shakes his head, sighing as he heads up to Eskel’s room to grab a fresh set of comfortable clothes. By the time he gets down to the hot springs, Eskel is already inside and nearly done washing himself. Lambert sets the clothes down on the bench.
“Thanks, Lamb,” he murmurs, leaning his head back to watch Lambert lazily. Lambert doesn’t miss the wince when he attempts to smile. His scars are losing the angry red color around them, but they’re still clearly bothering him, and Lambert can see spots of blood forming from where Eskel has undoubtedly picked at the dry skin.
“Yeah, whatever,” Lambert mutters, waving a flippant hand as he walks back towards the door. “We’re in the library. And stop picking at your fucking scars.”
He hears Eskel chuckle behind him, but Lambert doesn’t find a single thing funny about this. Eskel’s scars already bother him on a good day. Lambert doesn’t understand why Eskel insists on worsening it by making himself bleed. Anger boils in his chest. Why is it so hard for Eskel to practice the basics of self-care?
Geralt and Vesemir look up when Lambert enters the library, taking stock of the annoyed look on his face. He watches them tense up, preparing for whatever explosion Lambert is going to launch at them. It makes him want to throw something at them more.
“I’m not gonna bite your heads off,” Lambert snaps, making his way over to the couch.
“Coulda fooled me,” Geralt murmurs. Lambert does chuck a throw pillow at his face.
“Lambert,” Vesemir warns, turning back to his book and readjusting himself in his armchair, “stop throwing a tantrum.”
Lambert growls, then fishes the pot from his pocket and tosses it onto the low table in front of the couch. Geralt’s eyes narrow at the sight of it, while Vesemir hums disapprovingly. They both know what that little pot means, enough so that Geralt is already getting up and heading to the kitchen. Lambert assumes he’s grabbing a warm washcloth, but who knows?
Vesemir lifts his eyes to meet Lambert’s. “How bad?”
“Made himself bleed a bit in the hot springs. Really dry. Irritated, too.”
A deep breath escapes Vesemir’s lips as he closes the book, not bothering to bookmark his page. He stands, expression stern as he picks up the pillow Lambert threw at Geralt. “We’ll take care of it, pup. Stay here and wait for him. I’ll fetch the bandages.”
Lambert nods, sitting on the couch to wait for Eskel. Vesemir exits the library, leaving Lambert to stew in his thoughts. The youngest witcher sighs, flopping against the back of the couch. He doesn’t necessarily mind taking care of Eskel’s scars; he just wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes Eskel would simply allow himself small comforts. It doesn’t seem like his brother is too keen on that idea, though.
“Thought you said you were all in here.”
Lambert looks up, watching Eskel meander his way towards the couch. His scars are still inflamed, but they’re no longer bleeding. Many patches of dry, raised skin line the edges of the old wounds, and Lambert nearly scowls at the sight. For scars as old as they are, they sure as hell cause a lot of problems.
Huffing, Lambert stands, pointing at the space he originally occupied. “Lay down.”
Eskel starts to frown, but the action pulls at the stiff skin. This time, the wince is clear as day, and Lambert glares pointedly at his brother. Eskel sighs through barely-parted lips, laying down on the couch.
“What are you going to-?” Eskel cuts himself off, eyes landing on the pot sitting atop the low table. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No. Lamb, I’m going upsta-”
“You’re going nowhere.”
Lambert and Eskel glance at the entrance of the library to see Geralt walking in, a bowl of steaming water in one hand and a couple of washcloths in the other. There’s a stern glare on Geralt’s face. Lambert internally rubs it in but otherwise keeps his mouth shut. He’ll taunt Eskel about it later. For now, they’ve got work to do.
Eskel closes his eyes, likely listening to them shuffle around as Geralt perches himself on the arm of the couch closest to Eskel’s head. Lambert sits on the low table, grateful that Eskel laid down so his right side is closest to Lambert.
“Is there anything I can do to talk you two out of this?” he asks, sounding a bit resigned. He already knows the answer.
“Nope,” Geralt replies, dipping one of the washcloths into the hot water. He wrings it out and gently lays it over Eskel’s scars. A low hiss comes from their brother, but other than that, Eskel doesn’t say a word. For a moment, Eskel’s tense, then he relaxes as the warmth seeps into his skin.
Geralt hums, clearly pleased by Eskel’s reaction. They let the towel rest on Eskel’s face for a bit. The heat helps loosen up the skin, and when enough time has passed, Geralt will massage that area to get the circulation flowing again. Once his skin isn’t as stiff, Lambert will go in with the salve. There’s a routine here. This isn’t the first time.
As Geralt does his job, Lambert sets the closed pot into the bowl of hot water. He also places his hands on either side of the bowl, letting it warm his skin, too. It wouldn’t do Eskel any good if the salve was hardened and just as cold as Lambert’s hands. It’s better for the salve to be soft, especially since Lambert’s calloused fingers aren’t.
A small groan comes from Eskel, turning into a pleased rumble as Geralt finally starts to massage his scars. Geralt makes careful, slow movements, never pushing down hard enough to hurt Eskel. Eskel practically sinks into the couch, almost completely unaware of his surroundings. Once Lambert starts to rub in the salve, Eskel will actually melt.
Before Lambert could get started, Vesemir walks into the library with a roll of bandages in his hands. He doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes crinkle at the edges as he takes in the sight in front of him. He sets the bandages next to Lambert and perches on the sliver of the couch Eskel has left unoccupied.
“How are you feeling, pup?” Vesemir keeps his voice quiet, resting a kind hand on Eskel’s knee.
“Fine,” Eskel mumbles. He grunts softly when Geralt removes the warm washcloth, only to sigh in relief when Geralt’s hands return to rub small circles around the jagged edges.
Vesemir hums disapprovingly. “I want your honest answer.”
Eskel pauses for a moment. “Was stiff, cold. Hurt a bit.”
“And now?”
“Better.”
Geralt snorts at that, brushing back a loose strand of hair away from Eskel’s forehead as he pays attention to the upper portion of the scars. “And you said you didn’t want this.”
“Don’t rub it in,” Eskel huffs, but his words come out slightly more slurred than any of them think he meant to.
“Alright, pretty boy,” Lambert says, grabbing the pot from the bowl and drying it off on his pants, “move your hands.”
Geralt rolls his eyes but takes his hands away from Eskel’s face, choosing to run his fingers through Eskel’s hair instead. Unlike Geralt, Lambert actually has to touch the inner portions of Eskel’s scars, rather than just the outside edges. He opens the pot, scoops out enough of the softened salve to cover the fingertips of his index and middle fingers, and leans forward to spread it over Eskel’s dried skin.
His touches are feather-light, just barely grazing over the old wounds. He has to be much softer than Geralt, especially when Eskel’s scars are so sensitive now. He cautiously moves the salve around in small circles, like how Geralt massaged the skin. Eskel groans quietly again.
“Thanks…”
Lambert, despite the simmering anger at the unfairness of the situation, manages a small grin. “What can I say? Magic hands.”
“Mm...shut up…”
“Rude. I am doing you a favor out of the kindness of my heart.”
“You have one of those?” Geralt asks, frowning. “I thought they just put a cactus there and it’s why you’re such a prick.”
Eskel snorts, while Lambert growls at him. He can’t exactly throw anything or hit Geralt since he’s too busy taking care of Eskel, but as soon as he’s done, he’s tossing pretty boy out into the snow.
Vesemir huffs from his spot on the couch, absently watching his pups argue back and forth. He glances down at where Lambert is tenderly applying the salve over Eskel’s scars, noting the blissful look on his eldest son’s face. Eskel is somewhere in the high heavens right now, almost completely unaware of his surroundings and wholly relaxed into the cushions. Any more and Eskel might just become one with the couch.
“That’s enough, Lambert,” Vesemir says, keeping his voice low as to not disturb Eskel.
Lambert looks over, tearing his eyes from where he was glaring daggers at Geralt. “What?”
Vesemir jerks his chin at Eskel. “You can stop now.”
In all actuality, Lambert doesn’t really want to stop. He likes doing this, likes taking care of Eskel this way. Even if he could see Eskel this content every day, the sight would still never get old. Even so, he lifts his hands away from Eskel’s face, letting Vesemir come closer with the roll of bandages.
As Lambert cleans off his hands with the unused washcloth, Geralt and Vesemir work together to wrap the bandages over Eskel’s scars. Geralt carefully props Eskel’s head up, sure to avoid rousing Eskel from his near-comatose state while Vesemir winds the roll of bandages around the right side of Eskel’s face. The point is to seal in the salve and also keep out the cold air. Eskel never liked having the bandages on, always complained about how ridiculous he looked, but even those complaints were never really complaints. They were more in the shape of hiding himself away so no one could see him until the bandages could be taken off.
Now, though...now Eskel is laid out on the couch, seemingly unable and unwilling to move anywhere else, and the others are more than okay with that. Lambert has no problem sitting here, kicking Geralt’s ass in Gwent, and waiting for Eskel to stir again. They’ll have to keep an eye on him, make sure his scars aren’t too affected by the cold, but that’s never a hardship in their books.
“There,” Vesemir sighs, tying off the bandages, “all done, pup.”
Eskel lets out a low groan, turning his head slightly into the couch. He tilts his head so that the bandaged side is more exposed, and Lambert has to smile. It’s a show of trust, of vulnerability, even if many people don’t think so. Eskel doesn’t display his scars to just anyone, and the fact that he did so subconsciously has Lambert’s head swimming from the unrestrained show of faith.
Vesemir smiles softly, planting a chaste kiss over the bandages. “Rest easy, pup.” He stands, grabbing the book he discarded earlier and resuming his reading in his chair.
Geralt hums, reheating the water so he could warm the cleaner washcloth again. He lays it over the bandages, letting the heat seep through. Once satisfied, he gets up and leaves the library, but Lambert catches the way his hand ghosts through Eskel’s hair.
Lambert lingers a little longer. He idly stares at his brother, simply lost in thought and dizzy with the crippling tightness in his chest. A small smile crosses his face as Eskel’s soft breaths fill the room. It isn’t until Geralt enters the library again, both of their Gwent decks in his hand, that Lambert rises to his feet. He squeezes Eskel’s shoulder gently and heads over to the table Geralt sits at.
Eskel may not take care of himself, but at least he has a family that’s more than willing to shoulder that honor.