Chapter Text
Kaer Morhen often smells like blood - it’s full of Witchers, after all, and Witcher training isn’t gentle. But Kaer Morhen smells like Witcher blood.
Not human.
Eskel is talking to the chamberlain when he smells it - a good man, the chamberlain, though Eskel had been suspicious as all fuck when he turned up more than a decade ago and begged for a chance to serve the Wolf who’d saved his daughter from the Ladies of the Wood and his previous lord's treachery. It’s about time for the annual cleaning of the chimneys, which always involves a lot of swearing and soot and the Cat Witchers competing to see which of them can climb up the insides of the chimneys the fastest, because all Cats are completely insane, so Eskel and Jan are running through what needs to be done to prepare for the whole mess.
Jan doesn’t smell it - human nose, human senses. Eskel does.
Blood. And Jaskier.
“Get Triss and Geralt,” Eskel snaps, and runs.
Jaskier is lying on his front, one corridor away from his rooms, and there’s a spreading pool around him - fuck, a huge pool, is there any blood left in him? Eskel goes to his knees to put pressure on the wound, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Others will hear him - Witchers will hear him.
Jaskier isn’t moving. That’s wrong. Jaskier is movement and energy, is light and life and song, is always fidgeting, feet tapping, fingers wriggling as songs write themselves in his head. He’s so fucking still, but the blood soaking Eskel’s hands and knees is hot, there’s still a pulse beneath his palms, there’s still - yes, fuck, there, the tiny rise and fall of Jaskier’s back as he breathes.
A portal opens, and Eskel’s head snaps up, one hand going to the hilt of his steel sword - no one is getting to the bard through him -
It’s Yen, thank fuck, and Triss behind her with her hands already glowing. Triss throws herself down beside Eskel, uncaring of the blood that soaks her skirts, and gets glowing hands on Jaskier’s skin. Ciri, peering out through the portal, makes a sort of high horrified noise and bursts into tears. Yen snarls as the portal closes, Ciri safe on the other side.
“Who dared?” Yen demands, and there’s death in her voice.
Geralt skids to a halt at the end of the corridor, half a hundred Witchers piling up behind him, all of them wide-eyed and half-feral from the smell of blood and panic. Eskel rises, hands dripping, trouser legs soaked, as beneath Triss’s glowing hands the wound in Jaskier’s back slowly, slowly closes.
“Whoever it was,” Eskel says softly, knowing they’ll all hear him, “they’ll smell of our bard’s blood. Find them.”
There’s a growl, half a hundred voices strong, and the Witchers scatter. Whoever it was, if they’re still within a mile of the keep, they’ll be found within the quarter-hour.
Geralt is frozen, staring in horror. Eskel looks down at his own dripping hands and shudders. Jaskier’s blood. Fucking gods. Eskel has been soaked in blood before, and ichor, and other horrid things, but somehow this feels worse than all of that - unclean, foul, wrong. Jaskier’s blood should never stain anyone’s hands, much less Eskel’s.
“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps.
Triss doesn’t raise her head or turn her attention from her work. “He’ll live,” she says, two words and no more, and Geralt sags like a puppet whose strings have been cut, staggering against the wall in relief. Eskel sort of wants to do the same.
Yen puts a hand on Triss’s back, and Eskel can see the energy she’s transferring to her friend, that pours down through Triss’s hands into their bard. He watches, heartrate slowly dropping to something more normal for a Witcher, as the wound closes, as Jaskier’s shallow breaths grow deeper.
Everything still smells of blood.
“Jan,” Eskel says, and Jan appears as if by magic from around the corner. Sensible man, staying out of the way of angry Witchers and sorceresses. “This whole corridor needs to be scrubbed back to the stone, as soon as they’re done. Twice, maybe. If any of us smell this again, we’re like to go feral.”
“Aye, sir,” Jan says. “We’ll bleach it clean.” He hesitates. “Shall I find you another set of clothing, sir?”
Eskel looks down at his trousers, at the blood-spatters on his shirt. “Yes. These will need to be burnt.” If he lets himself actually feel the panic waiting at the edge of his consciousness, he’ll do something inadvisable - punch a wall, maybe - but thinking about solid practicalities is a good way to keep the panic at bay. “Get a new outfit for Jaskier and bring it to Geralt’s rooms. Geralt, you should get Ciri, make sure she’s safe.” Jan bows and goes, not running but fast.
“She’s in the stillroom,” Yen says. “Shielded tight. I’ll have to let you in.” She doesn’t move. Neither does Geralt.
The glow around Triss’s hands finally fades, and leaves Jaskier’s back unmarred save for a long white scar, like a wound a decade healed. She sits back with a sigh.
“He’ll sleep a while,” she says. “But he’ll be fine when he wakes. Maybe a little weak.” She swallows hard, and blinks back tears. “If we’d been even a minute later -”
“Don’t,” Eskel rasps. He can’t think about that. “I’ll get him down to your rooms, Wolf. No point both of us being all over blood.”
“That I can fix,” Yen says, voice so even that it must be concealing emotion too large to express. She flicks her fingers, and the pool of blood - and the thick liquid drying on Eskel’s hands and trousers, Triss’s hands and skirts - vanishes. It feels like Eskel’s just been scrubbed with harsh lye soap, but at least the stuff is gone.
Geralt crosses the few steps to Jaskier’s limp form so carefully it almost hurts to watch, and bends to gather his beloved into his arms. Jaskier sighs and his head lolls against Geralt’s shoulder, but he’s breathing, and there’s color in his cheeks. Geralt looks down at him for a long, long moment, and then steps closer to Eskel.
“Guard him,” he whispers.
“With my life,” Eskel promises, and takes Jaskier carefully into his own arms. The bard is light for all his height - little songbird, fine-boned and delicate - and Eskel holds him like fine porcelain.
“I’ll come down with you,” Triss says. “Should put some salves and bandages on, just to sort of encourage the healing to stick.”
“I’ll bring Ciri to you,” Geralt says, and turns to head for the stillroom. Yen clicks her tongue.
“Portal,” she says pointedly, and opens one. On the other side, Eskel can hear Ciri weeping. Geralt goes through it at a sprint, with Yen barely half a step behind him.
Eskel cradles Jaskier close and walks, slowly and carefully so as not to jar his burden, down the stairs to Geralt’s rooms, Triss following at his heels.
*
Ciri is tear-stained but not weeping anymore when she and Geralt and Yen arrive at Geralt’s rooms. Seeing Jaskier whole is enough to make her start tearing up again, though. “He’s alright?” she begs. “He’ll be alright? Aunt Triss, there was so much blood -”
“He’ll be alright,” Triss promises, kissing Ciri on the head. “But you should stay and help me watch over him. He’ll feel better if he knows you’re safe when he wakes up.”
Geralt hugs his daughter close, and Eskel fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to her. Ciri gives him a watery smile and blows her nose.
“Aubry’s on the door,” Geralt says. “Yen, Eskel, with me. Triss, Ciri, stay here.” He bends and kisses Jaskier’s hair softly, then turns and leads the way. Eskel follows, of course.
Aubry closes the door behind them and stations himself in front of it, arms crossed, immovable as a stone wall. Nothing will get through him. Eskel gives him a brief nod of approval: if he isn’t going to be protecting their bard, Aubry is a damn good alternate.
The great hall is packed: every Witcher and every servant in Kaer Morhen is crowded into the vast space, lining the walls and standing on the tables to see. In the center, the clear space before the dais, Lambert has Princess Agata on her knees, one hand knotted in her hair, a knife held rock-steady at her throat.
There are tiny blood-spatters on her shoes.
Eskel breathes in, slow and deep, and under the scent of fear - good, she should be afraid - and the reek of several hundred Witchers’ worth of anger, there’s a faint, faint hint of Jaskier. Of the blood-smell which Eskel never wanted to know and now will never be able to forget.
“White Wolf,” Lambert says as they approach, low and furious. “I found our prey.”
“Hm,” Geralt says, and stalks forward to crouch down in front of her. Princess Agata tries to lurch backwards, and runs straight into Lambert’s leg. Lambert chuckles nastily and twists the hand he’s got in her hair. “You stabbed my bard.” Geralt’s voice is low and angry, so angry Eskel is honestly surprised he hasn’t completely gone feral yet. Well, to be fair, Eskel is also surprised he himself hasn’t gone feral yet. What interesting things he is learning about self-control today.
Princess Agata shakes her head, just a little, as much as she can with Lambert’s hand tight in her hair. “No!” she squeaks, and every Witcher in the hall snarls as they hear the lie. “No, I - I didn’t - you can’t -”
“You’re lying,” Geralt rumbles. “You hurt my lark.” He smiles, and it’s a horrid thing, a cruel line of teeth like a wolf’s snarl. “You’re lucky, princess. He’s not dead. Because if you had killed my lark, you would have died, too, and Vizima with you. Do you understand?”
Princess Agata is weeping with fear. Eskel finds he’s smiling, too, the same thin feral smile Geralt is wearing. “I -” she gasps. “You can’t, I’m - I’m a princess -”
“I am the White Wolf,” Geralt snarls, and rises. “Volunteers?” he asks the crowd.
Every Witcher snarls, and Geralt laughs, no humor in it at all, dark and cruel as he never is. “Coën, choose three Griffins. Treyse, three Cats. Letho, Vipers. Gerd, Merten, Stephan, three each.” Bears, Manticores, Cranes, Eskel lists off. So they’re taking some from every School. Good. United front. Geralt scans the crowd and nods. “Lambert, Vesemir, Gweld, Gardis, Varin, Hemminks.” Six Wolves, and Geralt himself. Thirty Witchers is an army. He turns slightly. “Eskel, hold Kaer Morhen.”
Eskel would vastly prefer to go with Geralt, but someone has to keep the rest of the Witchers from doing something stupid. And he’s the White Wolf’s right hand. Dammit.
He nods. Geralt nods back, gratitude clear in his eyes for just a moment, and then turns to Yen.
“Vizima,” he says softly. Yen smiles, and raises her hands, and the portal starts to form.
Princess Agata weeps harder. Geralt glances down at her and then away again, dismissing her utterly. “Lambert, bring her,” he orders, and steps through the portal, thirty Witchers following him at a trot. Lambert goes last, tossing Princess Agata through in front of him like so much baggage, and then Yen gives Eskel a sharp-edged smile and steps through, and the portal snaps closed behind her.
Eskel is left at the center of the hall, all eyes upon him. He doesn’t sigh. This is what it is to be the Wolf’s right hand.
“Someone go find the princess’s guards and her lady-in-waiting,” he orders. “I want them out the gates within the hour. The rest of the ladies aren’t to leave their rooms - post a watch. Round up all their guards and stick them in one of the bigger cells for now. Anyone else - patrols. If this was part of a planned attack, I want to know about it before any army gets up the Trail. Go.” He doesn’t think it was a planned attack, stupid as it was, but getting a bunch of angry Witchers out of the keep so they can take out their twitchiness on rocks and trees and any unfortunate wyverns that happen to have roosted nearby is better than letting them sit around and stew.
“Aye,” rumble the assembled Witchers, and disperse. The ladies and their guards are going to be terrified out of their wits by angry Witchers, but that’s not Eskel’s problem right now. They can huddle in their rooms and be scared.
He heads back down to Geralt’s rooms. Aubry nods to him and stands aside to let him in. Eskel finds Ciri asleep in an armchair, Triss petting her hair gently. Jaskier has been bandaged and is sleeping peacefully, his breathing deep and even.
“Everything under control?” Triss asks. Eskel nods.
“Everything under control,” he says, and settles down on the hearth, and draws his sword. It doesn’t need oiling and sharpening, not really, but it’s something to do with his hands, and he desperately needs a little touch of normalcy right now.
Triss stands, a little shaky, and pats him on the shoulder. “I’m going to get Aubry to help me up to my rooms.”
“You alright?” Eskel checks. She looks fine - tired, but fine.
“Just wasn’t expecting to use that much healing energy today,” Triss says. “A nap and a good meal, and I’ll be fine.”
“Good,” Eskel says, and puts a hand over hers on his shoulder, just for a moment. “Thanks, Triss.”
“Can’t let our little songbird die,” Triss says, shaking her head and swallowing hard. “Not our lark.”
Eskel nods. Triss pats him again and leaves, closing the door firmly behind her, and Eskel bows his head over his sword for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft chorus of breathing, Jaskier deep and slow, Ciri lighter and faster: two fragile, precious humans that Eskel would kill or die for.
He’s going to have to make sure Jaskier never goes anywhere without a bodyguard ever again. Ciri, too, and isn’t that going to be fun. Cat Witchers, maybe, just so’s they can keep up with her. Aiden and Cedric and Axel. Coën, she likes him. Maybe Letho; Ciri’s got the big Witcher wrapped around her little finger. And for Jaskier...well, Aubry, obviously, and Lambert, because they’ll stick to him like glue anyhow, but Eskel will have to talk to Geralt about picking Witchers from the other Schools, too. Maybe ask around and see if any Witchers want to learn music; if Jaskier is teaching them, he’ll be less likely to object to their constant presence. Might end up with a Witcher choir. That’ll be fun.
There’s an odd tightness in his chest, and Eskel breathes through it, just the way he was taught. Every breath is full of the scent of Jaskier and Ciri, safe, asleep, healthy, safe. And this will never happen again. No one will ever get close enough to Jaskier again, no one will ever get close enough to Ciri, there will be a wall of Witchers around them who will die to protect them, and Witchers take a lot of killing.
Eskel has known he’d follow Geralt to the very gates of hell since they were both too young to even know what being a Witcher really meant. He’s known he would kill or die for Ciri since the moment she first looked at him and loved him without even noticing his scars. But he’s not quite sure when Jaskier became one of the people whose wellbeing is more important to Eskel than his own.
But he did. The fear and horror Eskel felt at seeing him bleeding out on the floor was far more terrible than it would have been if Jaskier were merely a friend, merely Geralt’s beloved. He hasn’t been that scared since - well, since going into the Trial of the Grasses, hearing Geralt scream as Geralt never screamed, and having that sound be the one that followed him into the pain of the Trial.
Since the last time someone he loved was hurting and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Eskel concentrates on the blade in his hands, the steady motion of the whetstone, the near-meditative effect of the routine.
Alright.
He’ll follow Geralt to the gates of hell, guard his back against all comers, be his right hand, chief among his advisors, his voice when he is elsewhere. He’ll guard and guide and teach Ciri, kill or die for her, raise her to be as magnificent as her father. And he’ll protect Jaskier, their little songbird, bard and advisor and tutor and friend, Geralt’s Consort just as soon as Geralt figures out how to ask, watch over him and make sure that no one ever gets another chance to do him harm.
Between the White Wolf, the cub, and the little lark, Eskel’s got his work cut out for him.
Well, he’s never been afraid of a challenge.
Jaskier stirs, just a little, and Eskel sets his sword aside and rises and goes to the side of the bed. Jaskier’s eyes are clear, if slightly confused, and his scent is mostly confusion and worry and only a very little pain, and he smiles up at Eskel like he’s sure that whatever’s gone wrong, he trusts that Eskel has it under control.
His fingers are tapping, just a little, a tiny fidget, and Eskel is so damn relieved he could almost cry.
He doesn’t, of course. He gets Jaskier some water, and reassures him, and leaves him to finish sleeping off his healing, with Aubry to make sure nothing goes wrong.
Now he can see to getting rid of all the other ladies and their entourages (except maybe Milena de Roggeven, if Jaskier’s right about her) - now that he knows Jaskier is safe, and Ciri is safe, and Geralt -
Well, Geralt is doubtless scaring the piss out of the king of Temeria, and Eskel’s going to enjoy the hell out of that story when Geralt gets back, but in the meantime, he’ll make sure that when Geralt gets back, everything is as it should be. Geralt has entrusted Kaer Morhen and its people to him, and Eskel will look after them, Geralt’s hand and voice and will as he has always been.
And once Geralt is back, Eskel will see about having a good brawl so he can work out some of the day’s unpleasantness. He’d like to punch something. Punching something is nice and straightforward and simple, and might help with the tightness in his chest, the worry that has nowhere to go now that everything is very nearly as sorted out as it’s going to get.
With a little luck, if he punches enough things, he’ll be able to sleep tonight, instead of lying awake remembering the smell of Jaskier’s blood, and the bitter copper taste of fear.
He’s alive, Eskel reminds himself, forcing his memory to replace the image of Jaskier pale and still with one of him weak but smiling, the smell of him sweet and pure without the taint of blood swamping it, the quiet calm of Geralt’s room with two human heartbeats throbbing alive, alive, alive in perfect time.
He’s alive, and Ciri’s safe, and Geralt’s wreaking vengeance. All Eskel has to do is hold everything together for a little while longer.
He can do that.