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When Geralt is three, he notices the words scrawled across his body for the first time. He cannot read them.
When he’s four, his mother explains what soulmarks are. Mostly he remembers the sound of her voice, the cadence of the words, and the way the sun turned her hair a fiery red-gold. But though the exact explanation is lost to him, he remembers the feeling of her fingers tracing the words on his ribs as she whispered them to him. It’s okay, stay with me and everything will be fine.
And then his mother leaves him on the side of the road for Witchers to take.
Geralt only remembers three things clearly from when he was brought to Kaer Morhen.
The sound of Vesemir’s voice, low and rough but soothing all the same; the creak and sway of a wagon filled with other boys in various stages of tears; and Eskel, bright-eyed despite the tears streaking his cheeks, reaching out to catch Geralt around his ribs when the rock of the wagon sent him off his seat.
Geralt remembers the kindness in Eskel’s smile, the way his eyes sparkled.
“It’s okay, stay with me and everything will be fine.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Eskel’s own mark is scrawled across his forearm. At night, when Eskel sneaks into his bed, both of them wracked with chills from the ongoing nightmare of The Choice, Geralt traces over it, following the sweeping script, tapping on the little dot of the question mark. Eskel will rest his own hand over Geralt’s mark, his own words covered by his palm, and they’ll sleep.
If the Master Witchers find anything odd about their bond, they never mention it.
Years pass. The consequences of The Choice settle with them, until Geralt hardly remembers what it was like to spend nights and mornings chilled and retching from the changes. His muscles never quite stop aching from the training, but at least he knows Eskel and the other boys are the same. Bar the boys too young for The Choice, no one in the castle goes to bed without some sort of ache or pain.
Life marches on.
The soulmarks aren’t discussed, not really.
Witchers, they’re told, don’t have soul marks. Common folk will say it’s because they don’t have souls; the Master Witchers say it’s because the Trials change one so fundamentally, it’s impossible for a soulmark to remain. That the process of being made a Witcher wipes the soul bond away like so much dirt on a wall.
They’re told to forget their soulmarks. That thinking about them is pointless. They’ll be gone by the time the Trial of the Grasses is finished, and Witchers don’t have soulmates. No matter what funny ideas any of them might be harboring.
Geralt doesn’t miss the pointed look from Master Forcal in his direction, and he doesn’t look at Eskel when they’re told this. But he holds his hand, when Eskel’s finds his underneath the desk.
When the Trial of the Grasses is finished, Geralt has no chance to check for his mark, and he doesn’t see Eskel. The mages won’t let him leave; he’s slated for additional experiments, they say.
More pain and blood, they do not say. But he can see the apology in their eyes.
Geralt closes his eyes and allows himself to be strapped down to a new bed.
When he wakes, he’s alone, and not in the laboratories anymore.
He’s almost immediately overwhelmed. Even through his eyelids, the light is too bright, sharp and painful; he’s certain he can hear every single noise happening in the castle all at once; and he can smell everything, too, which is particularly unfortunate in a castle full of hardworking boys.
“Fuck!” He clasps his hands over his ears and rolls violently on the bed until he can bury his face into the sheets, trying to block even just a little bit of it out. The sheets smell like sick-sweat and the rushing of his blood is twice as loud, now, but those are comparatively easier to cope with. He struggles for a moment to calm, everything too much to reign in.
But he has to do it. If he can’t do it now, he’ll never be able to do it on the Path.
One breath becomes two, three, four. Again and again, as measured as he can, until his mind starts to slip into that blank space of meditation. Slowly, he feels his muscles relax, feels his teeth unclench. For a long while, all he can hear is his own breathing and the beat of his heart, so much slower than it was before.
Calmed, he tries to take stock of his body, to feel out what’s different aside from his heightened senses. There’s a humming energy and tightness in his muscles that’s new. His teeth feel odd in his mouth, and when he runs his tongue along them he finds them deadly sharp, some elongated now and even sharper than the rest. He doesn’t feel a prick, but he can taste the blood, a bright burst of copper and salt. That will take some getting used to, then. When he shifts, his hair falls around his ears, and it’s different, too; he reaches up to touch it and finds it’s lank with grease and sweat and gods know what else, but more than that, it’s pin straight. No curls or waves.
Something catches his attention. He turns toward it, but tries to maintain the meditation while listening. He manages, just barely.
Footsteps.
The world comes rushing back in with the bang of the door, and Geralt flinches. It takes a moment for him to pry open his eyes, ignoring the way they sting and water.
Eskel stands in front of him, jaw slack in shock. His hair is a messy, like he’s been out in the wind or running his hands through it too much, and the yellow eyes stand out so brightly in his rounded face that Geralt almost winces. He’s got a fading bruise on his cheek.
“Oh gods, what did they do to you?”
Geralt blinks. Before he can come up with the words to ask, though, Eskel is turning away and rummaging through a dresser nearby. He returns with a mirror, scratched and cloudy with age, but still functional. Eskel hands it to him and sits on the bed at his side, a cautious hand resting on Geralt’s shoulder. They both ignore his mild trembling.
He can’t stop himself from gasping when he finally tips the mirror up. Eskel’s hand tightens on his shoulder.
His hair is straight like he’d thought, almost jarring in the change of texture. But more than that, his hair is white. White like linen, like freshly-fallen snow. The mirror slips from his shaking fingers with a clunk, and Eskel is reaching across to pull him into an embrace immediately. Geralt goes, limp and stunned, burying his face into the curve of Eskel’s neck.
He cries. For…a while. He doesn’t know how long, but it’s much quieter, much later by the time he sits back up, out of Eskel’s arms, and wipes a hand across his face. Eskel doesn’t say anything for a long moment, hands still firmly on Geralt’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” is all Eskel says, at last.
Geralt huffs, something almost a laugh. “I’m going to miss your eyes,” he replies, quietly. He already does; the bright yellow is so foreign when he’s used to deep, sparkling brown. Foreign, but – “You look good with the yellow, though.”
Eskel smiles. “Yours don’t look that different,” he says. “At least, if I don’t look too closely.”
They fall asleep there, tangled together like when they were boys. Geralt steadfastly ignores the blank space on Eskel’s forearm, and doesn’t check his own ribs.
Four days later, Geralt discovers the words on his shoulder.
Oh gods, what did they do to you?
Relief and terror fill him at all once, nearly sending him to his knees; he stumbles forward and leans against the wall, breathing as if he’s been running.
Witchers don’t have soulmarks. Witchers don’t have soulmates.
Master Forcal’s voice echoes in his head. Again and again, until he’s finally caught his breath and stood once more; he’s still shaking, but it will stop soon enough.
He decides not to mention it.
It’ll be better for both of them.
Time goes on, days to weeks to months to years. Geralt and Eskel both succeed in every challenge presented to them; they receive their medallions on the same day, returning to the keep from the Trial of the Mountains together.
Geralt looks at Eskel, beaming and filthy from nearly three days in the wilderness around the keep, and his chest aches. He imagines he can almost feel the soulmark on his shoulder itching. But he still can’t bring it up.
Witchers don’t have soulmates.
Witchers have the Path; killing monsters, and coin.
And they’re both Witchers, now, medallions hanging around their necks to prove it.
As the years pass, as the decades pass, Geralt begins to forget the mark, to forget the heartache it brings. He’s careful to never let Eskel see it, though after a particularly nasty fight with a cockatrice, there’s a large scar that nearly obscures it anyway.
It isn’t until Jaskier notices it, out of the blue one night, that Geralt thinks about it in any real way since his first year on the Path. He’s tending to a shallow wound courtesy of the nest of drowners they’d quite literally stumbled into; Jaskier is across the fire cooking his dinner. The bard looks up at him and then squints, suddenly, making a small, shocked noise.
Geralt quirks a brow in question.
“You have a soulmark,” Jaskier says.
Geralt doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. He decides not to reply, either, going back to wrapping bandages around his wound. Jaskier, apparently, doesn’t catch the hint to let it go – when does he ever – and he abandons his food to come hover near Geralt, trying to get a good look at the mark.
“Jaskier.” He doesn’t really mean to growl, but it slips out all the same.
Jaskier just laughs. “Yes, very scary,” he says. “I thought Witchers didn’t have soulmates.”
“They don’t,” Geralt bites out, and ties off his bandage.
“Well clearly they do,” Jaskier counters. “Since I’m looking right at one who has a soulmark.”
Geralt doesn’t really have a comeback for that. Instead, he levels a glare at Jaskier that has in fact made grown men piss their pants before.
Jaskier, true to his usual, just snorts and pats Geralt’s cheek.
“Nasty scar in the way,” he continues. “What does it say?”
Geralt looks at him for a long moment, something odd crawling under his skin. Jaskier just looks back, eyes alight with curiosity. Finally, when Geralt can smell Jaskier’s dinner starting to burn, he surrenders.
“Take care of your food,” he mutters. “I’ll tell you.”
Jaskier beams and practically skips back around the fire to tend to his now slightly-charred rabbit. “Go on,” he says, once it’s off the fire.
Geralt sighs. “It says, oh gods, what did they do to you.”
Jaskier hums. “Vague, considering your profession. Have you met them?”
“Yes,” Geralt answers, though reluctantly.
Jaskier blinks at him. “And you’re not with them, because…?”
Geralt sighs again. “Him,” he answers the unspoken question first. “Another Witcher.”
“And of course the Path is most important,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Well, do you meet up? Why haven’t I heard anything about him? He’s your soulmate, Geralt, that’s pretty important.”
Geralt grits his teeth. “Leave it,” he mutters. He stands and pulls his shirt back on, then sets to skinning his own dinner. He doesn’t need to cook it, and it’s been long enough now Jaskier hardly even blinks at the way he eats.
Jaskier laughs. “Yeah, no, have you met me?”
Geralt rolls his eyes. He can’t fight the minute twitching of his mouth, though, too tired and comfortable, even with the subject, to exert the effort. Jaskier crows triumphantly.
“One day I’ll get you to properly laugh at my jokes, Witcher,” Jaskier says, waving around a rabbit bone. Geralt just shakes his head.
Thinking about Eskel, about their bond, or lack of it, though, sobers him quickly. Jaskier seems to pick up on it.
“He doesn’t know, does he?”
Geralt winces. “…yes and no,” he says. “It’s…a long story.”
Jaskier makes a wide, sweeping gesture. “I’ve got nothing but time, my friend.”
At that, Geralt does smile. It’s small, but it makes Jaskier grin, and his eyes sparkle.
“I’ll have to explain some things about becoming a Witcher,” Geralt starts. “And then I’ll tell the rest of the story.”
Jaskier nods and gestures for him to continue, so Geralt does.
Geralt thinks that will be the end of it.
That was his first mistake.
His second mistake is bringing Jaskier to Kaer Morhen. In his defense, it hadn’t really been intentional; they’d split up as usual in the late fall around Flotsam, but then Geralt had discovered Jaskier being harassed in a tavern in a small village at the base of the mountains. He couldn’t, in good conscience, leave Jaskier there, and this close to the snows, he also couldn’t not go up the trail. If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t be able to winter at Kaer Morhen.
So he’d lectured Jaskier on keeping his word – namely, going where he said he was going to go – then paid an exorbitant amount for the local witch to send a message to Vesemir, and taken the bard with him.
Jaskier is welcomed to the keep, thank the gods, but that’s about where Geralt’s luck ends. Because Eskel has returned this year, too, and Geralt sees the moment Jaskier starts scheming.
“Don’t,” Geralt mutters to him, just before Eskel sweeps him away.
All he hears in response is Jaskier laughing, which doesn’t bode well for him.
His instincts are dead on, though it takes nearly three weeks for anything to come of it.
The worst part, when it comes down to it, is that Jaskier doesn’t even do anything sneaky. There’s no prank or elaborate plan, no grand reveal. No, it’s much, much worse.
Jaskier simply tells Eskel.
He notices that Eskel is…off. All day, he’s withdrawn and almost jumpy, seemingly lost in his head. Geralt means to corner him and ask, but a minor avalanche on the mountain east of the castle keeps them busy well into the night. By the time they come back inside, Jaskier is in bed. Vesemir goes up to his own room, and Lambert disappears to check on his still.
Eskel grabs him, though, before he can turn to go to his own room.
“Can we talk?” he asks, and he sounds unsure, timid where he’s never been before. Not with Geralt, at least.
“We need to change,” is all Geralt can think to say. It’s true, at least; they’re both filthy and wet from dealing with the snow and the small wall collapse.
Eskel nods. “Grab a change of clothes and meet me in the hot springs?”
Geralt nods, and Eskel lets go of his elbow. He almost misses the touch, but shakes himself out of it and starts toward his room at a jog. He moves slower on his way back and down to the hot springs, overthinking the whole time, but eventually he’s still at the door to the baths. Eskel is already down here, Geralt knows; he’ll know Geralt has arrived, just by sound alone.
He resists the urge to curse, opens the door, slips inside, and closes it as quietly as possible.
Eskel is already in the spring. He’s lounging against the edge, where a bench has been carved, and looks comfortable, all told, his head tipped back and eyes shut. But Geralt can see the tension in his face, the unnatural stillness of his arms and legs. He feels rather like he’s been punched in the gut.
Slowly, he undresses and slips into the spring as well, on the opposite side from Eskel. It’s quiet, for a long, uncomfortable moment, and then Eskel sighs. His head tips back up and he looks at Geralt, yellow eyes dark and pupils large in the dimness of the room. Even after so long, it’s still slightly strange to Geralt, yellow where there was brown.
He has an errant thought, Eskel’s voice from nearly a century ago at the forefront of his mind: yours don’t look that different – at least, if I don’t look too closely. He wonders if, in this light, his eyes look anything like the green they were before the Trials. He doesn’t ask.
“Nice scar,” Eskel finally murmurs.
Geralt winces. “Eskel – ”
“The bard told me,” Eskel interrupts, and he doesn’t sound angry. He just sounds tired, and Geralt honestly thinks that’s worse. “But he – you didn’t tell him why. So, Geralt, why?”
Geralt takes a deep breath and focuses on his heartbeat, for just a moment. Just to keep the panic at bay. When he feels as if he’s got a handle on it, though, he speaks. “I was…afraid,” he murmurs. It’s quiet, but he knows Eskel can hear him.
“Afraid of what?” There’s no judgement in Eskel’s expression, just something like hopeless desperation, and Geralt’s chest aches fiercely.
“Afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore,” Geralt finally says, with great difficulty. For once, Jaskier’s insistence on using words is paying off, but it’s still like pulling teeth. “Afraid…terrified…that I would be the only one with the mark. After the Trials, I couldn’t be sure – ”
Eskel cuts him off by standing and taking three large steps across the spring, just to drop right into Geralt’s lap, knees straddling his hips.
“You’re an idiot, wolf,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “And so am I.”
Geralt sighs at the contact, eyes closing almost against his will; he drags suddenly-heavy arms forward to wrap around Eskel’s waist. It’s the most intimate embrace they’ve shared since they were boys, and it feels right. Like Geralt had been missing a piece until just now.
He allows himself to revel in the touch for a moment, but he has to ask. “Do you?” His voice is small. “Have a mark.”
Eskel pulls back just enough to properly look him in the eye. “I did,” he says, and reaches up to touch his collar, where Geralt had cried after the second round of Trials. Where there’s a large, mouth-shaped knot of scar tissue, now. “Fucking bruxa took it, but I had it, Geralt. I’m going to miss your eyes. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, either.”
He can feel the tears coming before they happen, but he’s helpless to stop them. Instead, he just barks out a short, broken laugh, and tugs Eskel back into him, so he can bury his face right over that scar and cry. Like an echo of so many years ago. And, exactly like back then, Eskel just holds him, though this time he’s humming, something soft and almost tuneless.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, when the tears have finally slowed again. Eskel just tuts softly and runs gentle fingers through Geralt’s hair, gentling his head back until he can duck down and press a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips.
“S’fine,” he murmurs, still right against Geralt’s mouth. “But we’ve got a lot of years to make up for. Don’t you think, wolf?”
Geralt makes an embarrassing noise that gets lost in the next kiss Eskel presses to his mouth.
They don’t leave the hot springs for a while.
He can’t say he’s terribly upset.