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Chapter Text

Eskel sunk to his knees, sweat dripping down his face despite the chilly air of the Blue Mountains biting at his skin. His pants, soaked from the snow beneath him, left the ground a bright red as the wounds on his legs bled through the fabric and over the gashes left in the material. His silver sword fell limp in his hand, no longer able to find the strength to wield it. Eskel gasped harshly, ragged breaths drawn in as a desperate attempt to keep himself alive. His other arm wrapped itself around his abdomen, hoping to staunch the bleeding of his several chest wounds at once, but he knew it was futile.

Eskel cast a look around the clearing, heart sinking lower than he had. He'd failed. Bodies of children lay slain around him, some limbs barely clinging on while others were cast away, dismembered without a care. Blood coated the snow alongside other bodily fluids. All from children. What had he done?

A fierce growling permeated the air. Eskel could only look on in grim acceptance as a hulking beast crept towards him. Fur blacker than night rustled in the winter air, its wild mane catching stray snowflakes. The fur along its spine rose above the rest of its coat, like a raised white stripe of a skunk. With a hulking figure and muscle of a bear, the beast maintained a wolfish appearance. The sight of its icy blue eyes sent shivers down Eskel's back.

He'd only seen this creature in ancient bestiaries, never in one of the newer ones. A species declared extinct so long ago that it only resided in books of myths. Eskel knew he wasn't hallucinating, not with the way every tug of his injuries sent waves of pain and nausea through him. That growl was too real to be in the pages of a fictional story. Eskel eyed the wolf-bear hybrid in front of him.

An amarok.

Eskel wanted to lift his sword, but where he was marred with deep gashes and bite marks, the amarok remained unscathed, brushing off each of Eskel's strikes with a thick hide built over years of evolution. His Signs, with magic stronger than most witchers, didn't faze the monster. Even Igni, cast as a stream of blazing fire, was shook off with ease. He was out of options, out of energy, and out of time.

The amarok stalked forward, purpose in each step, bloodied fangs bared. Snarling, the monster opened its mouth, gaping maw dripping with saliva as it prepared to lunge at Eskel's throat. The witcher refused to bare it. If he was going to die here, he was going to give himself the satisfaction of having never given up, no matter how short the feeling may last.

Eskel closed his eyes, breathed in as deeply as he could through the slashes in his chest, and forced himself to relax. He readied himself and hoped his death would come swiftly.

Except it never came.

Opening his eyes, Eskel watched the amarok stop a mere three feet away, mouth closed and no longer growling. The icy blue eyes that once held the intention to kill were filled with what looked like concentration. Confused, Eskel raised his eyes to see the amarok's ears flicking about, seemingly listening for something Eskel's enhanced hearing could not. After a few seconds, the amarok sent one last huff, a cloud of condensation crowding its face from its hot breath, before turning and disappearing into the forest.

Eskel stayed frozen in his spot, listening carefully for the amarok's footsteps. Was it toying with him? Leaving him to think he was safe before bounding back and finishing him off? What? Why would it abandon a free kill? Eskel was down for the count, that he could admit, so why would it disappear like that? Straining his hearing, Eskel heard the crunch of snow under the monster's giant paws until they eventually faded from his range.

It was gone.

Eskel was still bleeding out, though.

With a pained grunt, Eskel fell back on his haunches, scooting himself backward until he rested against the tree. Despair filled his chest. He'd been so close to the keep, but, no. He had to take this one last hunt of the winter, didn't he? He just had to listen to the distraught mothers of the settlement, throwing themselves at his feet, tears streaming down their faces, pleading to "please, save my baby, please!"

Fucking emotionless witcher, my ass, he thought, eyes blinking sluggishly.

The wind whipped and howled around him, biting at the exposed skin on his face and through ripped clothing. He closed his eyes. Scorpion should still be on the path with the materials cart. Maybe his brothers would see him on their way up to the keep and realize that something went wrong. He wondered if they would look for his body, or if they would just leave him there as yet another witcher that succumbed to the trek. After all, it had been named "The Killer" from how many people, experienced witchers included, had fallen to the harsh conditions. No one was supposed to be around for miles. He would soon fall victim to his injuries if a warg didn't get to him first.

Eskel sighed, letting his hearing mark his surroundings as he drifted into a sleep that he surely wouldn't wake from. His silver sword lay a foot away from his hand, no use to him if he could not wield it. His energy had depleted to a point where his Signs would be nearly impossible to form, though he could really go for an Igni-made campfire right now.

Blood wafted to his nose, touches of decay burning his sinuses. He tried not to think about it, tried not to recall the horrid images of the mutilated children surrounding him. He remembered hearing their screams and cries as he charged through the forest, intent on killing whatever monster was attacking them, whether it be foglets or wargs or anything else it may be. His potions hadn't accounted for a fucking extinct creature and had worn off long before the fight ended.

Eskel scoffed to himself. Silver sword, potions, and Signs. He'd thought he had everything he needed. How wrong he was. Strapped with almost every weapon in his arsenal, he still had lost this battle, spared only by luck that the amarok had been distracted enough to abandon weak prey.

What kind of witcher are you? he wondered, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He gripped at the gash in his stomach tighter, relishing in the pain that coursed through him. He deserved this death. He couldn't defeat a single fucking monster, had let the beast rip apart children, and was too weak to even avenge the young souls.

Gods, he hoped his brothers didn't come looking for him. He didn't want them to see how pathetic he'd been, how badly he'd failed. He just wished he could've said goodbye to them one last time.

A gasping breath snapped him out of his morbid musings. Eskel's eyes flew open and surveyed the massacre around him, nearly flinching at every unmoving body his gaze flitted over. There was no way...no way one of the children was alive.

But sure enough, on the opposite side of the clearing, he could barely eke out the shaking shoulders of a little boy, soft sobs almost impossible to pick apart from the wind. Eskel couldn't abandon... fuck, he needed to get to the child. If there was a possibility, no matter how small, that he could get the child back to the settlement, then he had to try.

A low groan escaped him as he moved to push himself up from the snow, pulling at his wounds. He stumbled to his feet, bracing a hand against the tree for support. He looked across the clearing. Gods, the child seemed miles away, though the space between them couldn't have been more than a couple hundred feet.

Though hesitant, Eskel lightly pushed himself away from the tree, almost immediately tripping over his feet, falling to his hands and knees. A pained grunt fell from his lips, forcing him to take several quick breaths to control himself. With shaking limbs, Eskel pushed himself up again and staggered forward, slower this time. He wished he could move faster, get the boy to his mother quicker, but he knew that if he moved any faster, he would only fall again and waste energy he truly didn't have. Then neither of them would live.

But if this boy was still breathing, then maybe...just maybe...

Eskel tumbled to the snow, thoroughly soaking his clothes underneath his shredded armor. Only a few feet from the boy, Eskel opted to drag himself toward him, rather than wasting time trying to stand again. He hauled himself into a kneeling position, reaching out with hesitant hands to turn the boy who had been laying on his side, back facing Eskel. He found himself praying to gods he didn't believe in that the damage wasn't as bad as the rest of the slaughtered children, that this child would have at least a fighting chance.

His prayers went unfulfilled.

Eskel turned the boy onto his back, only to be met with three large gashes marring a tiny, fragile chest. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, pausing for a moment before gently picking up the child and cradling him to his chest. He hated the sounds that reached his sensitive ears, the pitiful gasps of pain, tiny lungs trying to suck in air past the gaping slashes from the amarok. Witcher senses were heightened, but Eskel was sure he could have felt those harsh trembles without his skin being so reactive to every movement. His hands itched where blood seeped underneath his gloves, and Gods, there was so much blood-

Eskel wanted to gag at the smell, at the sight. The stench of rotting corpses flooded his lungs. He never would have thought that an amarok of all creatures, especially with how mythical they were, could do such a thing, but the massacre laid around him proved otherwise. Eskel squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, bearing through it. He could hardly look, his stomach twisting in a mix between horror and disgust.

Children. Dead children everywhere.

"M-M-Ma...ma?”

Eskel's slow-beating heart must have completely stopped. His whole body hurt and ached from the injuries littered across him, but the awful, painful feeling in his chest was different than that of a gaping wound. It was internal, emotional, and he didn't know how to cope with it.

"N-No," Eskel croaked out, voice cracking. Immediately, he cleared his throat, hands pulling the frail body ever so closer to his chest. "No," he repeated, clearer this time but still soft. "I'm...a witcher."

Glassy brown eyes locked onto his, and Eskel had to swallow the lump in his throat in an effort to breathe properly again. This child wouldn't make it back to a healer in time, not to mention the settlement didn't even have a healer. It was a miracle either of them had lasted this long.

A small hand reached up and touched Eskel's face, fingers brushing over his scars. It took everything Eskel had not to flinch back, the skin still so sensitive to touch, despite how much time had passed.

"A h-hero..." the boy murmured.

Eskel scoffed, a quiet sound. "I'm no hero."

The young boy suddenly gave a pitiful whimper, and Eskel watched as the child's face, still round with baby fat, contorted into a pained expression that had no right to exist on a person so small. Thin streaks broke through the dirt and blood caked onto the boy's face from the tears. With a gentle yet hesitant hand, Eskel carefully wiped the moisture away.

"M-Master wi-witcher, sir?"

Gods, Eskel hated how polite and kind this child still was in the face of the shitty hand life had dealt him. Eskel had hoped that the child would scream, throw a tantrum, give the battle-weary witcher a reason to be annoyed. But no. He was good and pure. And it just made the decision to stay and keep the boy company that much harder.

"Yes, child?" he replied, keeping his voice as light and airy as he possibly could.

"Is... is the monster...g-gone?" the boy asked through chattering teeth, words coming out in sharp gasps.

Eskel wanted to tell him, "No, I'm still here," but he didn't want to scare the little one any further, especially when the poor boy wouldn't live to see the sunrise. Steadfastly ignoring the throbs of his own injuries, Eskel avoided thinking about how he wouldn't live to see the sunrise either.

Mouth dry, Eskel lied, "Yes. The monster is gone."

The boy gave a shaky nod. "Th-Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Eskel choked out, tone practically begging.

"T-Tell mama I...I love her?"

"Of course, little one." Eskel didn't tell him that he would likely never see the boy's mother again. If the child was going to die, then by all the gods above, he would let this child die peacefully.

A small, meaty hand gripped Eskel's sleeve tighter. Harsh coughs wracked the boy's frail body. Eskel pulled him closer. His arms shook from the strain, but he'd be damned if he let go of the little boy while they were still alive.

"St-Stay with m-me?"

As if Eskel was thinking about leaving this poor baby alone.

"Of course, child," Eskel whispered, cradling the boy closer, mindful of the deep wounds. He pulled the boy's head underneath his chin and closed his eyes. "Of course I will."

And Eskel did. He held the child until the shuddering gasps stopped and the faint heartbeat stilled. He held the boy until the blood stopped flowing and the brown eyes dulled. He held the baby until his dying breath, and then he held him a little longer.

The smell only worsened.

With a shuddering breath and a burning throat, Eskel laid the child down on the snow. His gaze lingered on the lifeless body a little while longer before casting a look around the clearing. Dozens of children corpses surrounded him, overwhelmed him. Kids of all ages and sizes, boys and girls...the amarok certainly didn't discriminate.

In a way, Eskel wished it did. He wished the amarok only hunted animals, or maybe even witchers. At least then Eskel would be the only one to die, and all the young ones would be at home in their mothers' loving arms. This wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair.

Why couldn't I have just been faster, stronger? Eskel gritted his teeth in anger, wrapping an arm around the sluggishly bleeding wound marring his abdomen.

It wasn't as deep as he originally thought it was, given that he hadn't passed out from blood loss yet, but the other marks on his legs and arms, as well as the bite in his right shoulder still persisted. He found it difficult to move, not from blood loss, but because of the all-consuming pain that enveloped him with every movement he made. He knew he would never make it to Kaer Morhen, not like this, but it didn't hurt to try.

Eskel stumbled to his feet, tearing his eyes from the sight of the slaughter. He staggered to collect his sword from where he left it. With one last glance, he unsteadily made his way from the clearing slowly. Scorpion should be on the pathway to the keep. The stallion was well-trained - had to be with a witcher as his rider - and likely wouldn't move until either Eskel returned or one of his brothers found him waiting.

Eskel wondered what his brothers would do if they found Scorpion before he got there. If he got there. His horse already had Eskel's cart attached to him, loaded with materials and food that he picked up in Ard Carraigh for Kaer Morhen. Would they look for him, wonder why Eskel wasn't with his horse? Or would they just take Scorpion up to the keep, deeming Eskel a lost cause and unworthy of a search in the wintry woods? He didn't know which option was worse.

He grunted, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the trunk of a tree as he tripped over a root barely sticking out of the snow. Eskel inhaled deeply through his mouth, throat burning from the frigid air. He couldn't stop here. He couldn't. He was so close to the path. If he just went a little further...

Eskel took three more steps before fully collapsing to the ground. His silver sword fell away from him, and the snow froze the skin where his cheek and ear lay flat on the ground. Frostbite might get him before the blood loss. Eskel wondered how much longer it would take for death to claim him. He tried once more to get up, but none of his limbs cooperated. With a breathless huff, Eskel heaved himself to roll over onto his back. Staring up at the night sky breaking through the treetops, Eskel closed his eyes.

He dreamt of a laughing family huddled near a warm fireplace as the winter raged outside.

Chapter Text

"Jaskier," Geralt called impatiently, rolling his eyes as the bard flitted from market stall to market stall, ooh-ing and aah-ing over every shiny item that caught his eye. Sending a long-suffering look to his equally annoyed mare, Geralt shifted his weight from side to side, refocusing on his companion.

"One second, Geralt!" Jaskier yelled back, picking up an unreasonably vibrant yellow doublet. "Isn't this just gorgeous?"

Ignoring the vendor's pleased smile at Jaskier's words, Geralt huffed. "It looks like the same fucking doublet you have in one of your bags."

Jaskier turned his head, still holding up the doublet. "You mean the one you destroyed when you came back to camp covered in selkiemore guts a week ago?"

"I told you to stay away from me. You insisted on bandaging my wounds."

"You were bleeding out!"

"You're exaggerating."

With an exasperated sigh, Jaskier looked away and placed the doublet back on its stand. Geralt saw him exchange an apologetic glance with the vendor for not purchasing the doublet he'd been admiring before turning to face Geralt's direction. He started to head towards the witcher, and Geralt got his hopes up, thinking they would finally be able to leave Ard Carraigh and towards the path to Kaer Morhen, when Jaskier crushed his dreams by flicking his eyes toward a jewelry stall. An excited gasp from the bard made Geralt's heart sink.

"Fuck this," he murmured. Snow was falling all around them, the wind bit at his exposed skin, he was freezing because of the incoming snowstorm making the air several degrees colder, and all he wanted was to reach Kaer Morhen and its grand fireplaces. But, of course, his best friend had to be a vain bard. 

The world must really fucking hate him.

Geralt turned, ready to bury his face in Roach's mane and cry, when a familiar, gruff voice called out,

"Geralt, you fucking arse!"

Shit, Geralt thought to himself, closing his eyes and sending up a prayer to any god who could hear him. Turning around, Geralt gave a deadpan stare to the approaching man.

Black hair, beard, large scar over his eye, two huge swords strapped to his back...Yeah. Fuck.

"Prick," Geralt greeted sarcastically, but he still reached out and clasped Lambert's forearm. They would usually swap a quick hug if they met at Kaer Morhen, but they were still in public. They had no desire to let people witness witchers letting their guards down, even if only for a second.

In the corner of his eye, he could see Jaskier perk up. A blinding smile crossed the bard's mouth as he set the ring he'd been admiring down and approached the two witchers. Geralt tried not to feel too irritated by Lambert's arrival finally being what got Jaskier away from the cursed market.

"Lambert!" Jaskier exclaimed, opening his arms for a hug.

Lambert immediately stepped away. "Lark," he snarled, but Geralt and Jaskier knew he held nothing but fondness for Jaskier. Jaskier let him step away, a toothy grin plastered on his face. Geralt smothered a laugh. Lambert may have escaped Jaskier's hug this time, but it only meant he was going to get one tenfold at Kaer Morhen.

Geralt jerked his chin towards the cart behind Lambert's horse. "Got everything you needed?"

"Yeah," Lambert nodded. He gestured to Roach's cart. "You?"

"Hm."

Jaskier clapped his hands together excitedly. "Great! So we can all travel up the path together!"

Lambert rolled his eyes but grabbed his horse's reins and trailed after Geralt and Roach. "I don't know why you're so excited, bard," he grunted, Jaskier falling into step between them. "This isn't your first winter at the keep."

"Of course it isn't, little lamb," Jaskier replied cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Lambert's warning growl and Geralt's snort at the nickname, "but it is a winter with my favorite people in the world. What could be so bad about that?"

"You'd be stuck with Lambert all season," Geralt murmured.

"Oh, fuck off!"

Jaskier tapped his chin, contemplating Geralt's words. "Hm. That is very true..."

"Fuck you, too. I hate both of you."

Jaskier shot a teasing grin over his shoulder. "Oh, come on, Lambert. Don't be like that. You know we all love you so, prickly personality and all."

"Speak for yourself," Geralt huffed. Though there was no way he could have seen it, he matched Lambert's rude gesture by holding up his own middle finger.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Boys, really. Behave yourselves. We're still in the town. Would it kill you to act a bit more civilized?"

"The bastard is literally called the 'White Wolf.' We all know animals can't be civilized."

Geralt's head snapped to glare over his shoulder, amber eyes glowing murderously. "Something you want to say, prick?"

"Yeah! You still fucking owe me, you filthy-!"

"Boys!" Jaskier shouted, drawing the attention of passing villagers. He sent them both disapproving looks. "Save it for when we're actually at the keep, for fuck's sake."

"Fine," Lambert grumbled. Geralt merely huffed and turned back to continue leading them forward.

A couple of minutes of silence passed, the city gates in sight, when Jaskier asked, "Do you think Eskel's already up?"

"Probably," Lambert answered. "He always goes up earlier than us."

"Yeah, but we're pretty early this year, too. Maybe he's somewhere in Ard Carraigh?"

"Doubt it," Geralt grunted. "Would have run into him by now."

Jaskier fiddled with the edges of the cloak. "Yeah, you're right. Shame he has to climb the trail alone. The walk is so lonely and harsh."

"It's the way it is, bard," Lambert sighed. "Besides, Vesemir almost always has the fires going. He would have a warm welcome, like we will." Geralt hummed in agreement.

"Guess so," Jaskier murmured, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.

Geralt sent a soft look over his shoulder. "I'm sure he's fine, Jask. He can handle himself."

"Well, I certainly hope so."

~~~~~~~

Lambert frowned as he watched Jaskier pull the edges of his cloak closer to himself in a futile effort to keep out the bitter winter wind. Geralt was further ahead, leading Roach up the path. Lambert's gelding, Milo, clambered up the path behind him. Milo was young, only getting through his first year on the Path, so he hadn't built up quite the right amount of muscle yet to haul up the keep's materials for the winter. With a glance, Lambert checked that the cart attached to Milo's breast strap wasn't in danger of breaking before calling out to Jaskier. The man in question turned his head, and Lambert could see the red-tinged nose and pale face. 

"Wanna climb in one of the carts?"

Jaskier shook his head. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Moving is what's keeping me alive."

Lambert's mouth went dry. He knew that, of course, but he had thought that Jaskier would have a little more time than that to rest and recover before pushing onward. Geralt sent his own concerned frown to Lambert over Jaskier's turned shoulder but otherwise didn't say a word. 

"If you say so," Lambert shrugged.

Jaskier shot him a smile to show he was grateful for the thought anyway, looking back to focus on the trail ahead of him. He'd already stumbled more times than he liked; he'd prefer to keep himself from falling at any point.

Night was beginning to creep over the sky, and it was growing harder to see the trail ahead of them. Normally, Lambert and Geralt would be fine, but the gathering snowstorm overhead blocked out the moonlight shining down, dousing the forest in near-complete darkness.

"Might have to set up camp," Geralt grunted, having to shout a bit over the howling wind.

"How the fuck are we gonna do that? Everywhere's covered with snow and if we do, we won't reach Kaer Morhen before the storm," Lambert argued.

Jaskier crossed his arms, holding himself to preserve heat. "Winter sure came early this year, huh?" His voice stuttered, teeth chattering from the cold.

"We don't have much of a choice, Lambert," Geralt huffed. "We can't-"

He cut himself off, head whipping to their right and staring into the forest. For a moment, he didn't say anything, but after a few seconds, he asked, "Do you smell that?"

Lambert furrowed his eyebrows but sniffed the air anyway. At first, he didn't smell anything except the dewy scent of the snow, the odor of soaked wood, and animal feces. But underneath it all, a coppery scent flooded his nose, and he nearly lifted a hand to block out the overwhelming smell. How had he not noticed it before?

"Blood," Lambert growled. "A lot of it."

Jaskier chewed his lip. "Wargs?"

"Maybe, but we should keep going. We really can't stop now if there's a pack or two waiting in the trees."

Geralt hummed, conceding, but it was clear he wasn't happy about it. With a click of his tongue, he nudged Roach forward again. They traveled in relative silence, the sounds of nature and Jaskier's shivering filling the air between the three of them. There was still a long way to go to reach the keep, but all things considered, they were making pretty good time.

That is, until Geralt stopped again.

"Okay, what the fuck is it now? We can't just keep stopping-"

"Lambert," Jaskier whispered, voice tinged with horror as he stared at a sight past Geralt's shoulder. Geralt himself was standing stock-still, muscles drawn up and tense. Lambert leaned over to the side, and his breath caught in his throat.

Scorpion was standing on the path, shaking snow off his mane, and the cart attached to him was gathering its own snow piles steadily. The worst part? He was alone.

"The blood you smelled before..." Jaskier asked, voice shaking and quiet. "You don't think-?"

"Lambert, stay here with Jask," Geralt barked, brooking no room for argument. The witcher unsheathed his silver sword and dashed his way into the woods before either of them could think to fight.

On any other day, Lambert would have sniped and growled about how he wasn't some cheap bodyguard or toy soldier to boss around, but his concern for Eskel - not that he'd ever admit to it - overrode his need to maintain his pride. He found himself drawing his own silver sword without a thought and stepped closer to Jaskier. Wordlessly, the bard moved into Lambert's body heat and buried his face into Lambert's neck.

"Do you think...Eskel...?"

"I don't know, Jask," Lambert sighed, staring into the dark forest with a frown. "I don't know."

~~~~~~~

Geralt growled to himself, charging through the forest and following the tangy, metallic scent of blood in the air. He should've checked. He shouldn't have continued on without looking. The one fucking time he thought, "It's not my problem," and truly meant it was the one time-

Eskel had better fucking be alive. What was he doing this far off the path anyway? He knew better than to stray away from the trail. Wargs, wyverns, basilisks, and a handful of other monsters infested these woods. It would be easy for Eskel to find himself overwhelmed, not to mention that he had no reason to be this far off. Then again, Geralt shouldn't be running through here, either, but fuck it. His brother was dead or dying somewhere nearby, and Geralt would be damned if he left Eskel to suffer alone.

"Eskel!" he bellowed, ears straining to catch the slightest of sounds. He inwardly wished that Eskel would call back, yell that he was okay, but the likelihood of that happening decreased as the stench of blood grew and grew. Eventually, all he could focus on was the blood, and that's when he finally noticed it. 

Eskel's blood had its own unique scent. A tinge of ozone from his heightened magic mixed with the slight, acrid odor of witcher mutagens. That, combined with Eskel's usual smell of almond, myrrh, and cedarwood, made it impossible to deny Eskel's presence somewhere in the forest.

What had he said to Jaskier? That Eskel would be fine, that he could take care of himself? Geralt growled, amber eyes searching desperately through the dark. Eskel was an experienced witcher - a damn good one at that - so for him to be taken down, it must've been something big, something strong, quick. Geralt found himself hoping he never found out.

A particularly strong gust of wind blowing from the east carried the smell of blood, more potent than before. Geralt barreled in that direction, swiping away low-hanging branches and leaping over raised roots. His grip on his sword tightened, knuckles white, and steeled himself for a fight. He couldn't sense any monsters in the area, but the snowstorm overhead was doing a frustratingly fantastic job at obscuring the environmental clues he'd typically clue in on.

"Eskel!" he called again. No response. Geralt's heart hammered in his chest. Where was he? Where was his brother?

"Eskel!" Geralt broke through a few trees, charging into a fairly wide and open path. His heart stuttered to a stop.

There, lips turning blue and skin white, Eskel lay flat on his back, unmoving. His silver sword lay a few feet away from him; his steel one remained sheathed in its scabbard, but it was likely pressing uncomfortably into his spine. Bites and claw marks scattered around Eskel's body bled sluggishly, but Geralt didn't fixate on that. With some Kiss and Swallow, those should be taken care of. It was the hypothermia Geralt was worried about.

"Fuck, Esk," he breathed, stumbling over to his brother. Just barely able to be heard above the violent wind, Eskel's heart beat slow, slower than it should, and that was already dangerous. 

Removing one glove, Geralt placed the back of two fingers on Eskel's face, swearing when very little heat greeted his skin. His brother likely hadn't been here too long if he still had some semblance of warmth, but the chill of the night air was persistent. He needed to get Eskel back to Lambert and Jaskier now.

Geralt sheathed his sword and, with a low grunt, heaved Eskel over his shoulder. His brother wasn't light by any means, but he could manage it. Gathering the fallen sword and mindful of the other one on Eskel's back, Geralt started back the way he came. He could feel Eskel's blood dripping onto his own clothes, seeping onto his shoulder and down his arm. He repressed the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd had blood on him before - from monsters, humans, even Jaskier - but he'd never had Eskel's. At least, not like this. Training drew its own blood from time to time, but never this much. And during the Trials, Eskel had always finished before Geralt, so Geralt never witnessed Eskel's pain. But this...

Eskel was literally dying in Geralt's arms, and there was nothing either of them could do about it.

Geralt climbed a short bank, huffing from exertion as he clambered back onto the path. He must've taken a little bit of a wrong turn somewhere because instead of appearing in the lead like he'd been before, he ended up behind Lambert's new horse. Lambert and Jaskier were a little ahead of Milo, Jaskier pressed up against Lambert in search of heat. Scorpion had been attached to Roach's cart, and most of the bags had been moved from Roach's cart to Milo's and Scorpion's.

"Lambert," he called.

Immediately, the two men whipped around. Jaskier's eyes went wide at the sight of Eskel, while Lambert simply gritted his teeth, moving forward without hesitation. Carefully, Lambert helped Geralt settle Eskel between the two of them, carrying him towards Roach's cart. Eskel's feet dragged through the snow, but there wasn't much else for Lambert and Geralt to do.

"Have Kiss," Geralt grunted, "but I ran out of Swallow a couple days ago."

"I have it." 

Together, they gently set Eskel into Roach's cart. Jaskier instantly climbed in after him. He unclasped his cloak, only to throw it over the both of them. The two witchers could see Jaskier wrap his limbs around Eskel, desperately moving his arms up and down. No complaint about the blood came from Jaskier, even though he had just bought the outfit he was wearing a day ago. He'd chatted Geralt's ear off about how warm it was while also being stylish. Now, it didn't seem like he gave two shits about how stained it would get.

Geralt dug into Roach's saddlebags, fishing out a bottle of Kiss, while Lambert approached with Swallow in hand. They handed the potions to Jaskier, who gingerly sat Eskel up and propped him against Jaskier's chest. With a delicate hand, Jaskier fed the potions to Eskel, Kiss first but held off on the Swallow, not wanting to put a lot of toxicity in Eskel's veins, especially when his body was already weak. He massaged Eskel's throat to get it down.

Geralt crossed his arms, a deep scowl etched on his face. "We need to get to Kaer Morhen now."

"Definitely can't stop," Lambert agreed, a rarity between the two brothers. "I checked Scorpion's bags. Eskel got the healing salves and shit like he was supposed to, but we can't bandage him here."

"How far are we?" Jaskier asked, voice timid and shaky as he tried his hardest to get Eskel warm again. "We've been traveling for a while."

"At least a few more hours," Geralt sighed, "but it's going to be rough, especially with how dark it is now."

"But he'll make it, right?" Jaskier pressed.

Geralt and Lambert didn't meet his eyes.

"Lead the way," Lambert grumbled, heading back to an impatient Milo. 

Scorpion trotted next to Roach's cart, reins attached to the cart's side. Lambert was leading Milo, but Jaskier could see the anxious glances the witcher would send Eskel's way. Geralt couldn't be seen from Jaskier's position, but he was sure Geralt felt every bit as anxious as Lambert looked.

Eskel was ice in Jaskier's arms, and he certainly wasn't doing the bard any favors. If Jaskier hadn't been cold before, he definitely was now, but Jaskier didn't complain once. Eskel's blood dribbled onto Jaskier's new outfit, and he probably should've been a little disappointed that the beautiful and warm doublet he'd just purchased was almost certainly ruined, but he wasn't. For Eskel, he'd give up all of his expensive outfits. There were thousands of doublets across the Continent, but there was only Eskel, and Jaskier would be damned if he lost him.

Eskel needed to make it to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier wasn't sure what would happen to the rest of them if he didn't.

Chapter Text

Everything ached, yet, at the same time, everything was so numb.

Eskel cracked his eyes open a sliver, darkness greeting him. He wasn't dead, was he? Couldn't be if he could open his eyes. But then where-?

Horse hooves trotting through the snow graced his ears, and his breath caught in his throat at the sound. Glancing to the side, he saw Scorpion walking next to him. With a thick swallow, Eskel used a shaking hand to place beside him. Whatever he was on vibrated beneath him, jostling him every so often. His upper half, though, was supported by something else, and his hearing finally caught the sound of a fast-beating heart.

Human, he thought. But who would want to come for me?

"Eskel?"

Eskel's body stilled, heartbeat faltering at the voice. There was no way. "J-Jask?"

A relieved exhale of breath, followed by a watery laugh, sounded from above him. "Yes. Yes, sweetheart. It's me."

"W-Why...?" Eskel stopped his question. He didn't want to finish it, didn't want Jaskier to think him ungrateful, but he truly didn't understand. Why would Jaskier and Geralt come for him? Why would they risk their lives to trek through the dangerous woods of the mountains to rescue him? He wasn't worth their safety.

"Hush, love," Jaskier whispered. "We have you."

Eskel's eyes flicked about, searching his surroundings. His muscles burned, his limbs throbbed, and his abdomen seared with pain. He groaned lowly, hands twitching at his sides. He wanted to touch where it hurt, to maybe rub away the pain, but he couldn't move, and he knew it wouldn't result in the desired effect. What happened to him?

Calloused yet gentle hands cradled his face, fingers brushing over his scars. Eskel flinched violently, the sensitivity of them leaving his skin stinging. Jaskier drew in a sharp intake of breath, removing his hand. Jaskier's skin wasn't nearly as warm as it usually was, but given what it felt like, Eskel assumed they were still traveling up the path to Kaer Morhen.

"Oh, Esk," Jaskier breathed, bringing his hand to card through Eskel's hair. "It's okay. The three of us will take care of you."

Three? Eskel wondered. Jaskier traveled with only Geralt, so who else was...?

"He awake?" someone called out, a little ways away from where Eskel rested.

"Yeah," Jaskier answered, "but I don't think he's all with us."

Meanwhile, Eskel was definitely lucid enough to recognize the voice. Why was Lambert with them? Had he met up with Geralt and Jaskier in Ard Carraigh? Sometime before then? Was he the only witcher not walking? He understood why Jaskier wasn't hiking - the trail was far too dangerous for the human bard - but Eskel was a witcher. He couldn't just fucking lay here and not-

Placing a weak hand against the bottom of the cart, Eskel attempted to push himself up. He was immediately greeted with black spots dotting his vision. His world tilted and he swayed, dangerously close to falling off the cart. A yelp came from Jaskier, who surged forward and wrapped his arms around Eskel's chest, mindful of the wounds, and tried to pull him back.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Lambert yelled from where Eskel could finally see him, leading a new horse. "Lay the fuck back down, idiot!"

The cart suddenly stopped moving, and Eskel stilled when a stone-faced Geralt appeared in his view. For a moment, the two brothers stared at each other, Jaskier still holding him down, before Geralt flicked his eyes to the bard.

"Swallow?"

He felt Jaskier shake his head. "No. Didn't wanna stress his body out too much, given that we gave him Kiss."

Geralt nodded, but he didn't seem too happy about it. He turned his attention back to Eskel. "Lay down," he grunted, though it was more of an order than anything else.

Eskel tried to argue anyway. "But-"

"Lay down," Geralt interrupted, voice gruff and growling. He pressed a hand to Eskel's uninjured shoulder. The shove was light, hardly anything at all, but it still sent Eskel careening back into Jaskier. Geralt raised an eyebrow as if the action proved his point. He shared a look with Jaskier and moved to the front, but not without shooting Eskel an analytical gaze. 

"Fuck, Eskel," Jaskier breathed. "You can't do that. You're badly hurt. Just rest. We're almost at the keep."

"I can't..." Eskel muttered. "I need to-"

I need to save the kids. Need to kill the monster. The amarok. I need to find it. The children. Gods, the children... A choked gasp escaped Eskel's throat. A crushing weight dropped onto his chest, suffocating him, strangling him. He'd failed. The children were dead, slaughtered, and it was all because of him. He hadn't killed the amarok, had nearly been killed by the monster, had almost ended up just like those children. They were all dead, even the little boy who called him a....

He was no hero.

"Eskel?" Jaskier asked worriedly. Eskel clamped his eyes shut. He couldn't see Jaskier's face from behind him, but he closed his eyes anyway. He wanted to disappear, to melt away in the snow. He couldn't handle it, couldn't bear to remember it all.

So he squeezed his eyes shut tight, gritted his teeth to bear against the pain, both physical and emotional. Except that turned out to be a horrible idea because, in the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw it all in clear vision. Blood coated the ground, more red than white. Large paw prints were imprinted in the snow. Deep gouges opened up children's chests, exposing their bones, intestines spilling out. Instead of the encroaching snowstorm, all Eskel could smell was the rot, the decay, the festering of corpses. The scent was so thick, he could taste it, spoiling his tongue and making him want to vomit. 

Sure enough, Eskel forced himself to lean to the side, and he gagged. He heard Jaskier swear loudly and scramble to situate him properly. Eskel didn't know what position the bard put him in - the pain distorted his perception - but it helped in allowing him to spew up black bile. Distantly, he heard Lambert voice his own curses. Eskel couldn't bother to focus on that, though, choosing to grip his abdominal wound, soaking in the sheer pain that laced through him as he heaved. He deserved this. He'd failed, so this was his punishment. He didn't want to know what Vesemir had planned for him when they reached the keep.

Black bile continued to spill from his lips, likely a side effect from the Kiss he'd been fed earlier, if he remembered Jaskier's words correctly. His head spun, vision blurring. His black-veined hands trembled from the exertion of keeping him upright, despite Jaskier holding most of his weight. He was weak. He was weak, pathetic, a disappointment. He was a witcher! Why was this so hard?

A gentle hand rubbed his back up and down soothingly. "It's okay, Eskel," Jaskier murmured softly. "It's okay. Let it out. We've got you."

Eskel's eyes burned. Everything hurt. His muscles, his throat, his torso, his shoulder, his legs... everything hurt. Even his chest ached, but that wasn't physical pain. His heart throbbed terribly, feeling too large for his chest, like it was going to burst any moment. Why did he feel this way? Witchers don't feel. He was wrong, flawed, defective. He wasn't a witcher; he was broken.

His gags and heaves died down, leaving him bone-tired and feeling disgusting. Jaskier carefully settled him against his chest like before, pulling the cloak tighter around them to calm his own and Eskel's shivers. He softly shushed Eskel and his gasping breaths to soothe Eskel's racing heart. A kind hand stroked through his hair.

"Jaskier?" Geralt called. Had Eskel been a little less self-conscious, he might have called the tinge in Geralt's voice worry, but Geralt didn't care about him, so Eskel discarded that idea as soon as he thought it.

"He's alright for now," Jaskier placated. "How long until we reach Kaer Morhen?"

"Hm. About an hour."

Jaskier let out a trembling breath and buried his nose in Eskel's soaked hair. Soaked with snow or blood, Eskel didn't know. Probably both. Jaskier's hand continued to scratch gently at his scalp, maneuvering around his face. 

"Go to sleep, love. We'll be at the keep soon."

Eskel didn't want to sleep, didn't want to close his eyes again. He shuddered at the thought of what he might see if he did. He couldn't take the sight of the massacre again, of his greatest failure. He shifted his head, concealing his scars from view. He couldn't stand the thought of the others looking at the disfigured reminder of one his past screw-ups while he hid an even greater one from them. How many times could he disappoint them before they finally left him to rot?

"Eskel," Lambert said, but his tone was blunt and succinct. Eskel eyed his younger brother but didn't dare expose his scars again. A deep frown etched itself on Lambert's face. "Fucking sleep."

Eskel looked away. His eyelids were so heavy, threatening to close on their own, but he fought to keep them open. He didn't want to remember, didn't want to see it all over again. He didn't want to rest. He didn't deserve to feel okay, to feel alive. He should've died back in that clearing with all those children.

Gods, they were just kids...

"Don't make me do it for you." The threat was clear. And Eskel knew Lambert meant it. Whether he used Axii or the rarely used Somne, Lambert would put Eskel back to sleep.

"Don't," Eskel whispered, pleading, voice nearly lost to the wind. 

He felt Jaskier shift above him, likely casting a look to Lambert, who only scowled. For a moment, it seemed like his brother was rethinking his warning, but then an apologetic look flickered across Lambert's face so fast Eskel thought he imagined it before the scowl was back. Unable to quickly form the words to beg, Eskel could only tense as Lambert formed the sign for Somne.

His world went black before he could even think about fighting it.

~~~~~~~

He burst into the clearing, sword in hand and veins thrumming with toxicity as the potions coursed through him. He'd taken them much earlier than he would've preferred, but the wyvern that had attacked him on his way to the hunt forced his hand. He looked around the open space, mouth going dry at the sight.

By his foot was a small arm, ripped from its body carelessly. The snow beneath it was stained a bright red. The stench of fear, pain, blood, and decay permeated the air, flooding his nose and searing his sinuses. Limbs lay strewn about, bodies unmoving. Eskel sucked in a sharp breath, the sour taste of rot tarnishing his mouth. All the children from the settlement he'd passed...they were all dead.

Eskel slowly looked up, only to meet the back of a hulking figure. It looked like some kind of mutated bear, fur blacker than night, wild, untamed. Its head lifted, nose sniffing the air, before turning slowly. Ice blue eyes locked onto Eskel's. The fur around its mouth was stained red, and its face, shaped like that of a wolf's, contorted as it pulled back its lips and snarled. Bloodied teeth, sharpened to a dagger-like point, bared themselves, gnashing every few seconds as it readied itself for another meal. 

Eskel's eyes flickered downward, breath stuttering when he took note of another child's ripped apart body. A child he'd been too late to save. Another one of the tens of other kids surrounding him. Rage filled him, wrapped itself around his heart in a vice grip. He glared at the beast. It looked familiar somehow, but he didn't remember encountering a monster like this before. It didn't matter, though. The only thing that mattered was putting it down, avenging these poor children, and not failing again preventing any further attacks.

Paws larger than Eskel's head sunk into the snow. The beast tensed, lowering itself slightly as it prepared to charge. Eskel raised his sword. The monster was huge, likely powerful, too, but Eskel didn't plan on going on the offensive. His best plan was to play it safe, let the beast tire itself out. With the opposing mass and by the size of its muscles, Eskel had no shot at overpowering the monster. 

The monster charged, moving with a speed Eskel hadn't quite expected. He'd anticipated the monster to be fast, but its movements were a blur, bearing down on Eskel before he could react. A strangled yell escaped him as sharp nails caught his left leg, tearing at his skin during his dodge. Eskel tumbled to the side, clambering to his feet and away from the monster. His knee almost buckled beneath him. His breath hitched. 

Fuck, that wasn't good. The monster was quick, and it already managed to slow Eskel down. Eskel needed to be smarter.

The beast charged again. Eskel raised his sword to meet it, grunting loudly as the weight of the monster bore down on him. His arms shook from the strain of keeping the beast off of him, wounded leg threatening to give out beneath him. He pressed through the pain, a strangled "Fuck!" tumbling clumsily from his lips. The monster opened its mouth, maw gaping wide and saliva dripping down. Eskel gritted his teeth, lowered his sword just a little, then pushed back up with all the strength he had. The monster staggered back, retreating from Eskel's sword, giving the witcher enough time to cast a powerful Aard.

The monster was launched back, rolling in the snow as it skidded to a halt. Eskel narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the monster in front of him as it rose to its feet. It looked so familiar. Where was it from-?

No.

The monster pulled itself upright, thick fur making windy sounds as it shook off excess snow. It bared its teeth again, growling loudly in its throat before unleashing a deep bellow that shook the ground. Eskel staggered back, eyes widening as he stared in disbelief. This monster was only supposed to be a myth, an animal that went extinct thousands of years ago. How the fuck-? 

The amarok charged forward once more. Eskel signed another Aard, but instead of knocking the amarok down like it did before, the wolf-bear hybrid simply dug its thick, sturdy nails into the ground, holding itself steady against the blast. By the time the Aard passed through, the amarok remained standing, only seeming more pissed than previously. A disbelieving and slightly hysterical scoff escaped Eskel. His Signs were more powerful than other witchers. If it could withstand his Aard, then...

Eskel choked back a whimper. He wasn't going to win this fight.

The amarok snarled, narrowing its eyes on its prey. Eskel sent up a prayer to Melitele. The amarok rushed forward, ground thudding with every hit of heavy paws. Eskel tensed and braced himself for impact-

He woke with a start, gasping as he jerked. Hands immediately pressed down on him, curses flying above him.

"Fuck, he's awake!"

"Hold him still, Lambert!"

That voice. He knew that voice, too. 

Fear shot through him, and he lurched again, pushing against the hands restraining him. He was trapped, pinned beneath the amarok's weight against a table. He needed to move. He couldn't- He had to-

"Pup, stay still!" the familiar voice ordered, tone brusque and commanding. Eskel shuddered underneath strong hands.

His body was on fire. He gritted his teeth as something hot was poured onto his stomach. He didn't mean to jolt this time, but he did, and something went crashing to the floor. The sound of glass shattering echoed in the room, and Eskel closed his eyes as he braced for the inevitable scolding.

He couldn't do anything right. Why couldn't he do anything right?!

"Fuck, Esk!" Lambert swore above him. "Stop moving, dammit!"

"I-I'm sorry," Eskel gasped out, though his words came out weak and trembling. He kept his eyes shut. "I'm s-sorry. 'm s'rry."

He yelped, the sound choked, when another pair of hands clamped down on his ankles. He instinctively tried to yank back his feet, only succeeding in knocking his hip against something else. Instead of it falling to the floor, however, it landed on his stomach, and he blanked out for a moment.

He came back to seconds later, wheezing breaths huffing from his chest. The hands on his shoulders pushed down harder as he struggled to escape, but, in turn, pressed against the bite in his right shoulder. A pained yell he couldn't contain reverberated against the stoned walls. He heard someone in a corner choke back a sob.

"Fuck," someone - Geralt? - gritted out. "He doesn't want to be restrained, Vesemir."

"I know, but he needs to keep still for this and we can't risk putting him back to sleep," the familiar voice grunted.

The familiar voice. Vesemir. Fuck fuck fuck. They'd made it to Kaer Morhen. He couldn't be here. He couldn't-

"Eskel, for the love of-!" Lambert barked.

"You're pressing on his shoulder wound, Lambert!" the voice in the corner protested, words breaking with unshed tears.

Lambert growled. "I can't hold anywhere else, Jask! What part of him isn't injured? Besides, if I let him go, he's only gonna rip his stitches!"

"We still can't use Swallow?" Geralt asked. A grunt escaped him as Eskel kicked out, catching him in the stomach. Eskel wanted to feel guilty for hitting him, should feel guilty, but the pain was all-consuming and he just wanted out because he couldn't be here, so, please-

"No," Vesemir said. "He's still too weak. The potion would do more harm than good."

"Did the Kiss make it worse?"

"Not sure. But it stopped the bleeding and he isn't dead yet. We'll take it as a good thing until it proves otherwise."

Vesemir placed a rag, wet with hot water, on Eskel's cold skin, forcing a pitiful whimper out of the younger witcher. Embarrassment bubbled in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn't hide himself away in shame. Lambert and Geralt were making sure of that. He turned his head to the side, pressing his scars against the table. His sensitive skin prickled around the damaged tissue. 

"What the fuck is he doing?" Lambert deadpanned, but the remark wasn't aimed at him. "What the fuck are you doing?" That one was aimed at him.

Eskel moaned in response, fight draining from his body in one fluid motion, leaving him practically boneless on the table. His fingers twitched weakly as the hot rag moved from his stomach to his shoulder, where one of Lambert's hands pinned him down. Eskel squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to ignore the splashes of red blood painting the darkness behind closed eyelids. He wanted it to stop, please stop-

A gruff voice shushed him gently. "It's okay, pup. You're almost done. Just stay still a little longer."

Eskel weakly tugged his left leg back, pulling at the scratch on his calf. A calloused thumb rubbed his ankle soothingly in response, but the rest of the hand kept a firm grip, not allowing him to move away.

He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be cleaned, healed, taken care of. He should be thrown back out into the snow, left to wither and decay like the children he failed to save. He wasn't worth time or effort. He was broken, damaged, crippled. He wasn't worth the honor that came with being a witcher of Kaer Morhen, School of the Wolves. He deserved to be cast aside, shunned.

"Jaskier," Vesemir said, removing the hot rag from the bite wound, "can you apply the salves?"

"Y-Yeah. Of course."

Eskel tensed when softer hands - still calloused but not so rough - tenderly applied a cool salve over the stitches holding together heated skin. A stifled whine slipped out at the relieving sensation. He shifted his scars further into the table out of shame. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve this at all.

One of Lambert's hands moved from Eskel's shoulder and attempted to push Eskel's face away from the table. "What the hell are you doing? You hate when your scars are touching something. Why are you-? What the hell? Why are you fighting me?"

He was. Eskel refused to let his head be moved. He didn't want the others to see his disfigured side, to see yet another one of his mistakes. He also didn't want to relinquish this one choice he had. Being held down the way he was, he couldn't do much else but punish himself in the way he deserved. The pain of his tender scars was justified, a penance to his absolute cock-up of a contract. He rejected the idea of giving up his atonement, repulsed by the thought of feeling anything but pain. 

"Vesemir-" Lambert started, growling his frustration. Lambert's hand moved away from his face and returned to Eskel's shoulder, holding him down as he attempted to buck away from Jaskier's light ministrations. 

Eskel opened his eyes a little, only to be greeted with the sight of a frowning Vesemir. He wanted to flinch back, to scramble away from the clearly displeased look on his teacher's face. Still, Geralt and Lambert refused to let him move, and he supposed he could accept this punishment, too. He forced himself to lock eyes with his disgruntled mentor, wondering if he looked nearly as pathetic as he felt.

Vesemir's frown deepened, and he reached out a hand to touch Eskel's face. Eskel did cringe this time, bracing himself for the expected slap and harsh grab at his scars. He didn't expect the careful caress of his exposed and unscarred cheek, or the low voice that spoke mildly to him.

"You're hurting yourself more than you need to, Eskel."

Eskel closed his eyes against his will. He didn't think so. In fact, he wasn't hurting enough. The salves Jaskier was applying were numbing the agony and stiffness of his wounds. He was beginning to feel nothing at all, and that wasn't okay. He needed to-

"It's done," Jaskier sighed, sounding more emotionally wrecked than Eskel thought he should be. Why was he so distraught over Eskel? He didn't deserve Jaskier's sadness. It would be better spent on literally anyone else in the room.

"Good." Vesemir let his hand fall from Eskel's cheek. "He needs to rest."

Eskel opened his eyes again to see Geralt releasing his legs and approaching him. Lambert let go of his shoulders, and he could only watch as Geralt came to his side, holding out his arms to-

Fuck that.

"No," Eskel murmured, but his objection was clear: Do not pick me up.

Geralt paused, mouth drawing into a thin line. Jaskier appeared next to Geralt's shoulder, a worried look on his face.

"Eskel, you can't stay here. It's..." Jaskier hesitated as if searching for the right words. "Well, it's dirty and, frankly, unsanitary. You'd be comfortable in your room. Let Geralt help you."

"Don't touch me." His words were mumbled, slurring together from the exhaustion. His eyes drooped closed, but he refused to let them shut entirely. He didn't want Geralt to carry him, didn't want to burden his brother in yet another way. He was undeserving of kindness. He hadn't earned it.

"Eskel," Vesemir began, eyeing him with a stern look from where he was cleaning up on the opposite side of the room, "let him carry you."

It wasn't an ask. It was an order. A very clear and stern order. Eskel's tired eyes drifted over to meet Geralt's, who was still looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. A few seconds of silence passed between them, then Geralt was reaching out once more to lift Eskel into his arms. Eskel resisted the urge to move away; he didn't want to disappoint Vesemir any more than he already had.

He didn't meet any of their eyes as Geralt carried him out of the room, one arm under his legs while the other supported his back. Instead, he stared blankly across himself, body rigid and tense. He could practically smell Geralt's discomfort, and Eskel wanted to bury his face in shame. He wanted to apologize, say that they were away from the others now. They wouldn't know if Geralt put him down and made him walk. In fact...that wasn't a bad plan.

"Geralt," he mumbled, not having the energy to speak any louder.

Geralt cut off any other words he planned to say. "I'm not putting you down."

Eskel bit the side of his cheek. "They wouldn't know."

He could feel Geralt's eyes staring at him. He continued to avoid the gaze. 

After a moment, Geralt finally said, "This is fine."

No, it isn't, Eskel hissed to himself. None of this was okay. None of this was fine! Children were dead, Eskel should be dead, he'd failed, he was a dysfunctional witcher, and he only caused more trouble than he was worth. He was pathetic, and it was mortifying to be treated like a porcelain doll.

Eskel tried again. "Geralt-"

"I'm not fucking putting you down, Eskel," Geralt growled, irritation coating his tone. "Deal with it."

Eskel bit his tongue and remained silent as Geralt carried him to his room, freshly made for him with the candles alight, and deposited him on his bed. For a moment, Geralt lingered, hesitant on whether or not he should pull the blankets around Eskel to prevent him from pulling any of his stitches. Eskel looked away, burying his scars into his pillow and resolutely ignoring Geralt. A quiet sigh left the other man, and before Eskel could protest, Geralt was pulling the blankets over him, effectively tucking him in with a tenderness he'd never expected from his brother.

Eskel bit back a contented sound at the treatment - You aren't worthy of this, he reminded himself - and stared blankly at the unlit fireplace in his room. 

"You know my room is down the hall," Geralt said. "Call me if you need anything." With that, Geralt extinguished the candles in the room as he left, dousing the room in darkness.

As soon as the door closed, an almost-silent whine slipped from Eskel's mouth. It was dark...so dark. It was quiet, too. All he could hear was the howling wind from outside. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He knew it wouldn't be long now. He already heard screams echoing in the distance. It didn't matter if he closed his eyes or not. He was already surrounded by the darkness, suffocating. It wouldn't be long...

He wondered if he should call out to Geralt, beg him to relight the candles. He didn't want the memories to envelop him. But he kept silent. He shouldn't bother Geralt, especially about this. He was a grown man. He could handle the dark. And even if he couldn't, he did this to himself. If he had just been better, been faster, been stronger, maybe those kids would still be alive, cradled in their mothers' loving arms. But they weren't. All because of him.

With a shuddering breath, he resigned himself to a night of horror.

Chapter Text

He couldn't stop shaking. Screams and howls echoed in his ears, drilling into his memories. The horrid smell of the clearing followed him into his room, befouling the air. He could taste blood in his mouth, a coppery tang mixed with the putrid taste of decay. He was cold, so cold. He should have enough energy to cast Igni by now, to light his fireplace, but he couldn't bring himself to form the Sign. He felt like he'd been here for days, though he knew it'd only been hours. He wished the sun would come up, but given how the snowstorm approached last night, he knew it wouldn't.

Eskel curled tighter into himself, dull throbs being the only response to his movement. He should be healed by now, but he hadn't eaten in quite some time, leaving his body tired and unable to fully support itself. His stomach growled lowly, not roaring with hunger yet. Even so, he didn't feel hungry at all, felt nauseous at the thought of eating. He hoped the others didn't force him into anything; he was still wrapping his head around what happened just hours ago.

He groaned, a loud sound in the otherwise silent room. The wind continued to whip against the stones of the keep outside, but it was nearly drowned out now, dulled by constant exposure and the audible screams of children. It was morning, probably, but his room remained dark. No sunlight, no fireplace, no candles. Just him and the pitch darkness.

He found himself wishing Geralt or Jaskier or anyone was here with him. He hated sitting alone, nothing but his thoughts and memories keeping him awake. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep last night, yet he found that to be best. Throughout the night, he withstood the sounds, the smells, the cold, the tastes. He didn't think he could handle witnessing the whole battle again in clear sight, too.

A knock at his door startled him out of his musings, biting back another groan when he pulled at his abdominal wound more than he should have. He paused for a moment, waiting to see who would open his door, but no one did. He could hear a heart beating just outside, but the person made no move to come in. Frowning, he called out,

"Come in?" His voice was weak and raspy, hoarse from a night of holding back pathetic noises. He didn't want his brothers or, Gods forbid, Vesemir to hear.

Slowly, the door pushed open, and Jaskier poked his head into the room. A small smile crossed his face when he saw Eskel awake. He stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Morning, love!" Jaskier greeted cheerfully, but he kept his voice low, mindful of Eskel's sensitive hearing. He also likely thought Eskel had just woken. How wrong he was.

The bard made his way to the unlit fireplace, shivering as he walked. "Gods, Eskel. It's freezing in here. Did Geralt really not light this for you? That idiot. He told us he settled you in, which I suppose he did, but I thought that at least meant he'd warmed the room for you, too."

Eskel didn't reply. He should be telling Jaskier that he was wrong, that Geralt had done everything right, but the self-loathing from yesterday had seemingly left him, leaving an unsettling hollowness in its wake. Besides, he didn't think it was that big of a deal. The children died alone in a snowy clearing. Spending the night in a soft bed and in a safe home was hardly something to complain about, no matter how cold it may be.

It took a moment for Jaskier to light the fire, especially since he didn't have Igni like the rest of them did, but the room eventually brightened up, a gust of heat hitting him when the fire roared to life before simmering back down again.

Jaskier turned around, maintaining his cheerful smile. "Well, that's set." He made his way over to Eskel's bed, perching down on the side opposite of him. His smile faltered as he softly asked, "How are you feeling?"

Eskel didn't have an answer for that. What should he say? Should he tell Jaskier he felt nothing? Would that be correct? It wouldn't be a lie, but he knew Jask hated when the witchers said things like that, so it would be the wrong answer, wouldn't it? Maybe Jaskier was asking about his physical pain. Should he tell him that his wounds still ached? No. He wasn't going to throw himself a pity party. He'd embarrassed himself enough last night.

"Fine," he croaked out, keeping his answer vague until he could think of a better one.

Judging by Jaskier's frown, he'd answered wrong. "Esk, you are most definitely not fine, especially with the way you looked last night. I know you're not fine. I just need to know how badly you're hurting."

Eskel shook his head, pressed his scars into his pillow and ignored the stinging. "Nothing I can't handle, Jask."

Jaskier let out a withering sigh, a hint of frustration tinged in the sound. "If this was on the Path, I'd maybe let it go. But you're in Kaer Morhen. There is no reason for you to suffer when you have all you need around you."

Deep down, something stirred inside him, something familiar. A part of him hoping, maybe, but the images of dead bodies burned in his mind, and he felt that hope die a little. Eskel didn't say that, though. Instead, he settled for switching the subject.

"How long have you been awake?"

The resigned expression that passed over Jaskier's face told him the bard hadn't appreciated the clear avoidance, but Jaskier indulged him regardless. "Woke up maybe an hour ago. Your brothers and Vesemir, though..." He scoffed. "Geralt told me they'd been awake since dawn. Isn't the winter supposed to be a break for you?"

"How long ago was dawn?" Eskel asked, mouth going dry.

Jaskier thought for a moment. "Maybe...three? Four hours ago? Hard to tell with the clouds."

Eskel's blood ran cold. He'd been laying in bed, slacking off, for hours, while Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir pulled their weight around the keep. Hell, Jaskier probably did more work than him so far, and they normally never let the bard do anything too strenuous.

Moving took more energy than he could remember, but he was used to pushing through exhaustion. He ignored the pain in his muscles, ignored the hunger bubbling in his stomach, ignored the spinning of his vision. Distantly, he could hear Jaskier yelling, but he didn't dare to listen. He needed to get up, get dressed, and do what he was expected of for once.

Strong hands were grasping at him, pulling at his shoulders and dragging him back into bed. He tried to fight against it - he had something to do, didn't he? - but his body went limp, and he couldn't combat the sheer exhaustion that weighed him down.

Jaskier's worried face filled his line of sight. "What were you thinking?! You can't get up! Where were you trying to go?"

"Things to do," Eskel grunted. "Gotta help around the keep."

Shaking his head furiously, Jaskier huffed. "No. You're staying here today to recover. If you're better tomorrow, then you can go and do whatever you need to. Until then, you're going to lie your ass here and rest."

Eskel hated that idea. "I'm fine, Jask. I don't need to stay here."

"You nearly fell head-first into the floor, Eskel. What about that was fine?"

Gnawing at the inside of his cheek, Eskel hesitated for a moment before finally conceding. "Okay. I won't...I won't work today. But...But I don't want to stay here. Please." He couldn't stay in his room all day, lounging around the worthless sack of shit he felt like. If he at least went to the library, he might be able to do some cleaning while Jaskier wasn't looking. He was sure the other witchers wouldn't care.

Jaskier shifted his weight from side to side, seemingly mulling over Eskel's compromise. After about a minute, he said, "Okay. I'll help you elsewhere. But I'm going to put you there, and you are going to stay there. Understand? No straining yourself." Jaskier pinned him with a serious gaze, a look promising consequences if he disobeyed. Eskel nodded his head in reply. He just wanted to leave this room.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Library."

Nodding, Jaskier stepped closer, holding out an arm to help Eskel up. He pointedly averted his eyes from Jaskier, trying to quell the humiliation burning in his chest. Jaskier gingerly wrapped Eskel's uninjured arm around his shoulders and used his other arm to wrap around Eskel's waist. Eskel did his best to support himself, but he caught Jaskier's quiet grunt at taking the burden of Eskel's weight. If it was possible, Eskel would've been flushed red by now. The two started off, leaving the fireplace going to warm the room during the day.

Jaskier chatted the whole walk. "Geralt, I think, is patching up some holes in the roof. Apparently, that snowstorm is going to hit hard in a couple of days, so Vesemir wants the keep as intact as possible. Until the roof is fixed, Vesemir and Lambert are moving the stuff from the horses' carts into some of the ground floor rooms and the basement. They don't want anything on the top floor getting damaged."

Eskel bit his tongue. He should be helping them prepare for the storm, not sitting around like an invalid. He hummed when Jaskier glanced at him, checking to see if Eskel was still paying attention. He was, but it didn't mean he liked what he was hearing.

"Eskel," Jaskier started, slowing their steps, "be honest with me. Are you okay?" Eskel opened his mouth to answer, but Jaskier interrupted. "And I don't mean physically."

Eskel wanted to melt into the floor. Anything if it meant not answering this question. It hadn't even been a day, and he was already troubling the others. None of this felt right. 

Forming a smile took more energy than it ever had before, and even now, he managed only a hint of one. He looked down at Jaskier, finding it much harder to maintain eye contact than the winters previous. "I'm fine, Jask. Just...a rough travel up here."

Jaskier knitted his eyebrows together worriedly. "Well, I have no doubt about that, love, trust me. Do you want to talk about it?"

Turning away to face down the hall again, Eskel resolutely shook his head. "No, not really. Just, you know, um..." He licked his lips. "Thank you. For helping me last night. The trail is dangerous, much more so when you're off of it, and you guys came anyway. So thank you." Deep down, he kind of wished they hadn't because he wouldn't have to suffer so much, but he also wasn't going to be ungrateful for the lengths they went through.

Some sort of wounded noise came from Jaskier's throat, and he glanced down to see a disturbed frown on the bard's face. "Of fucking course we went after you! Well, Geralt went after you. Lambert had to stay behind to protect me, but what the hell made you think we wouldn't help you? We weren't just going to very well leave you there!"

Eskel couldn't breathe. As inconspicuously as he could, he sniffed the air between them. No hint of a lie tainted his nose, the bitter odor of a falsehood absent in lieu of Jaskier's vanilla and lavender scent. Eskel didn't know if he should believe him, but Jaskier had meant what he said, and it made it just the slightest bit harder to listen to the voices in his head. 

"Still," Eskel muttered, bracing himself against the library's entryway with one hand as they stumbled into the grand room, "thank you."

Jaskier sighed. "I suppose you're welcome," he replied, lowering Eskel into a chair with delicate hands that had no right to touch something as repulsive as Eskel. "Do you need anything before I go?"

Eskel opened his mouth to wave the bard off, but his stomach decided to protest very loudly at precisely the wrong moment. He watched Jaskier raise his eyebrows, mouth parting slightly as the realization dawned on him.

"Fuck! You haven't eaten since Gods know when yesterday! Your metabolism... Shit, Eskel! Have you been starving this whole time?"

Eskel quickly shook his head but stopped almost immediately when his world blacked out. He took in a silent deep breath to steady himself. "It's okay. I'm good."

"You're hungry!"

"Just a little. I...don't have much of an appetite right now."

Jaskier looked about ready to explode. "You- You don't- Eskel. You..." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, taking in an exaggerated deep breath. "You are a witcher-"

Not a very good one, Eskel huffed to himself.

"-and you have an increased metabolism. I don't give two shits if you don't feel hungry. You need to eat something." Jaskier let his hands drop to his sides and opened his eyes to glare at Eskel. "You are going to keep your ass right in that chair, relax, and wait while I grab you something from the kitchen. Then, you are going to eat everything I give you, got it?"

Eskel nodded. "Okay."

"Good." Jaskier planted a quick kiss to Eskel's hair. "We only want you to be safe, Esk. Be back in a minute."

Eskel eyed Jaskier as he left the library, a mixed feeling settling in his chest. Something felt wrong, and he didn't think it was because of the massacre. His eyes were heavy, and his mind felt muggy, but surely... he deserved pain, right? Deserved to suffer? Isn't that why Deidre...? 

Eskel shook his head, dismissing the thought as soon as it came. Jaskier wasn't her. None of them were. But Jaskier hadn't been lying during their walk, and something was twisting in Eskel's chest. He was missing something, forgetting something, falling back into something. Something, something, something. He blinked tiredly. He just couldn't remember what. 

He gazed at the library forlornly. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he slumped over in his chair, one arm wrapping around his abdomen to support his wound. The other hand rose to bury itself in his hair, elbow braced on the table beside him. He bowed his head and tried to vanquish the overwhelming thoughts in his head.

His gut twisted uncomfortably, and it wasn't from the hunger. He had to clean the library - he was sure that was one of his tasks - but he had no energy left to spare. The walk had left him more drained than before, even with Jaskier carrying the brunt of his weight. He had no idea how he was supposed to continue on.

Eskel drew in a shuddering breath, lifting his head to cast another look around the library. It was a disaster. Not so much that furniture was upturned or broken, but that books were scattered about on tables and stacked in piles on the floor. Loose parchment paper stuck out from pages of books or rested on the ground, some stuck between floorboards. He sighed. Once Jaskier was done helping him, Eskel would get to work. He nodded to himself. He finally had a plan. He just needed to find the strength to do it.

Not even five minutes later, Jaskier strolled back into the library with two plates filled to the brim, one in each hand. Eskel's stomach rolled at the smell of freshly baked bread, ripened fruits, and sweet pastries. He swallowed down the queasiness and did his best to offer a small smile.

Jaskier grinned back, his face bright enough to light up the room, even without the large fireplace burning not far from them. Placing the food on the table next to Eskel, Jaskier plopped himself on the opposite chair. The bard snagged a strawberry from one of the plates, but otherwise kept both dishes closer to Eskel.

"Eat," he ordered, taking a bite out of the strawberry and gesturing to the food.

Eskel looked at the food and bit back a grimace. Taking the hand that had originally supported his head, he hesitated before grabbing an apple slice. He bit into it, doing his best to not gag at the empty taste sitting in his mouth. Had it been one of the witchers sitting across from him, they would've been able to smell the disgust and uneasiness he was likely giving off. Alas, it was Jaskier with him, who could not smell emotions like witchers could, so Eskel choked down as much food as he could handle. He didn't want to disappoint Jaskier, too. 

The two ate in silence for a while, only broken by the sounds of chewing. Jaskier picked off his plates from time to time, but he suspected it was only so he didn't feel alone in eating. Jaskier never took anything significant - though Eskel wished he did so he wouldn't have to eat it himself - and hummed absentmindedly around pieces of fruit. Eskel didn't recognize the tune.

"New song?" he found himself asking before he could stop himself.

Jaskier stopped humming and shot him a look of surprise, but it was quickly wiped away and replaced with one of genuine excitement. "It is, actually. I started it before we arrived in Ard Carraigh."

"What's it about?"

"Just another one of Geralt's hunts. Surprisingly, it was the first time I ever encountered a basilisk. Ugly bastards."

Eskel hummed in agreement, nibbling at a sweet roll. It tasted like ash.

"I'll tell you what, I'm sure the fight was amazing, but it was quite hard to see what with all the Igni blasts and bombs going off. I think that was a fight Geralt used his swords the least."

Staring into the blazing fireplace, Eskel muttered, "Basilisks are weak to fire. Igni and Dancing Stars are our best chances at taking them down."

For a moment, Jaskier was silent, and Eskel turned, afraid he overstepped, only to see Jaskier smiling widely at him. The smile softened when he caught Eskel's eyes, replaced by a fond look that made Eskel's throat clog. 

"What?" he asked.

Jaskier shook his head, still smiling. "Nothing, sweetheart." The bard stood, gathering the empty plates. "I'll be back later. For now, I'm going to compose. I think I've been struck with enough inspiration for a song or two."

Eskel nodded slowly, confused, and watched Jaskier leave the room. He listened closely until the footsteps faded away before gradually heaving himself from the chair. His stomach rumbled, uncomfortably full, and he resisted the urge to throw up. Cleaning that up would be a bitch, not to mention absolutely humiliating.

He swayed for a moment, bracing himself on the chair as he sought to steady himself. As he took in a few calming breaths, he surveyed what he could start on first. He thought to avoid bending down for the time being. He didn't want to pull his stitches and make a bloody mess, leaving the library stinking of copper for days to come. He settled on reorganizing the shelves he could reach, placing all the free books back where they belong.

With one last deep breath, he trudged forward, taking slow steps to refrain from collapsing. He must've lost a lot more blood than he originally believed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so weak.

Or maybe you've always been like this, he mused, hands shaking as he picked up a plant encyclopedia. Eskel shook his head as if doing so would banish the thought away. Thinking like that wouldn't do him any well here. He already knew his place in Kaer Morhen. He was a fraud, a knockoff witcher. He didn't need to keep telling himself that.

...That thought didn't feel right. He opted to ignore that as well. 

Time seemed to stand still for a while. The snowstorm blocked any sunlight, so telling the time of day was practically impossible. Eskel assumed he'd been going at it for an hour or so at least, but it could've been longer, or it could've been shorter. All he knew was that by the time he heard the footsteps over his own noise, it was far too late.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Eskel whirled around, blinking when his world decided to blur. Once it cleared, he saw Lambert standing in the entryway with his arms crossed, Vesemir right behind him. Neither looked amused. 

"Fixing up the library?" Eskel answered, though something told him the question had been rhetorical.

"You should be in bed, dumbass!" Lambert snapped, scowling. "You nearly died last night!"

He was getting really sick and tired of people telling him he should be resting. He already felt frayed at the edges. He didn't need anyone else pulling at his strings.

With a sudden burst of courage, Eskel rolled his eyes. "That's all the time. Occupational hazard."

Lambert spluttered for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he prepared to argue back, but Vesemir placed a hand on the young witcher's shoulder, effectively silencing any retort Lambert had planned. Vesemir jerked his chin to the hallway, and Lambert huffed before conceding, storming out of the library and back the way the two had come. Eskel took that as a sign to keep going, so he turned around and resumed placing the books on the shelves.

He heard Vesemir approaching, but still jumped at the feeling of a hand being placed on his shoulder. Eskel barely breathed when he came face-to-face with the displeased look Vesemir gave him.

"You shouldn't be straining yourself so soon," Vesemir rumbled, removing his hand and raising an eyebrow.

Eskel bit his cheek. "I feel fine."

"We have yet to remove your stitches. You could still pull them. You've been recovering slower as well."

Eskel averted his eyes. He didn't need Vesemir to say the hidden meaning; he heard it loud and clear: You're weak.

Another voice piped up: You're overreacting. 

He ignored both.

"Jaskier brought me food earlier. I should be healing faster now."

Vesemir shook his head, huffing a short sigh. "Not the point. You're not doing yourself any favors by cleaning up the library."

Anger welled up in the pit of Eskel's stomach. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He resisted the urge to palm at his eyes in frustration. He refused to, though, knowing that if he closed his eyes, he wouldn't be able to able them back up again. He didn't want to close them, not when the grotesque images of the amarok lurked behind his eyelids. 

Gods, why couldn't they see? Why did they not know? He was exhausted, tired, afraid. He felt ready to crack at any minute, and they continued to act like nothing was wrong, like nothing was broken! Shouldn't they be angry? Annoyed at least? And, yeah, he supposed they were, but only because he wasn't "taking care of himself," not because he was lazing about like some guest of honor. 

His fingers itched to tear his hair out. 

Eskel clutched the book in his hand tighter, knuckles turning white from the grip. Vesemir's eyes flickered down, frown deepening at the sight. The older witcher lifted his gaze to stare at Eskel again.

"You didn't sleep last night, did you?" It didn't sound as accusatory as Eskel had expected. More of a simple, resigned question, likely another rhetorical one.

Eskel answered anyway. "Not really," he whispered.

Vesemir hummed, a dissatisfied sound that hurt Eskel's ears. "If you cannot sleep, perhaps you should at least meditate for a while."

"The library-" Eskel started, shaking his head.

"-can wait," Vesemir finished, tone leaving no room for argument. "I mean it. Rest a while. Heal. We have all winter to fix this place. A few hours won't kill anyone."

Eskel gritted his teeth, tried not to let Vesemir see how much that comment got to him. After all, a few hours was what had stood between Eskel and saving all those kids from the amarok. A few hours and a damn wyvern. It all sounded so stupid.

"Go," Vesemir commanded. "I don't want to see you moving until you're well-rested and recovered." 

Hesitating, Eskel finally gave in, placing the book in his hands on the shelf before making his way to the fireplace. He knelt down to the floor, ignoring the twinge from his calf, and took a deep breath. He shot a glance to Vesemir, who looked back at him expectantly. His heart thudded rapidly in his chest, and he was sure the older man could hear it, but nothing was said. Eskel closed his eyes, hands shaking on his knees as he prepared himself. 

He knew what awaited him in the dark. 

Chapter Text

He regretted not waiting for the path in Ard Carraigh to clear. He regretted taking an alternate route to Kaer Morhen. If he had just waited a little longer for the guards to unblock the exiting road, he wouldn't have crossed the settlement, could've avoided this last hunt. He exhaled deeply, breath suspended in the air in front of him. He wasn't even getting paid for this job, not when the mothers of the settlement barely had clothes to cover themselves. At least he'd picked up all he needed from Ard Carraigh already. Now, he could just slay whatever he was contracted to, rescue the children, and resume his hike to Kaer Morhen.

Eskel tried to push forward faster, but the cart was heavy, and Scorpion struggled to get up the trail on a good winter. Now, the path was covered in snow somehow, despite how early in the season it was. His steed stumbled every now and again, and Eskel was forced to slow down. 

In the meantime, he sorted through his belongings, pulling out potions and an assortment of bombs. He didn't know what he was hunting. The mothers had been unable to explain what was in the forest, which should've stopped him from taking this contract in the first place and...Gods, this was such a bad idea. But the distraught faces of the desperate mothers lingered in his mind, so he pushed on. 

Not long after, an ear-splitting scream pierced the forest. Eskel's breath caught in his throat. Immediately, he unsheathed his silver sword. He snatched a Blizzard, Cat, and Golden Oriole, attaching them to his belt as he raced into the woods, leaving Scorpion tethered loosely to a tree on the path. He knew Kiss and Swallow would also come in handy, but he was already pushing it with the toxicity so far. He couldn't afford much more, and his witcher body was made to handle gruesome injuries. Kiss and Swallow were a comfort, not a necessity.

Eskel bolted through the forest, leaping over high roots and ducking under low branches. His ears perked up at the sound of wailing and screaming. His heart clenched. The voices were higher-pitched, fear-filled, and distressed. The children. 

The closer he got, the more he heard. Between the agonized bawling and harsh sobbing, sickening crunches rocked Eskel to his core. He'd heard that sound many times before, and it never got easier to hear. The sound of teeth breaking bones was a distinct one, and not one Eskel enjoyed. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself harder, plowing forward through the forest.

The noises were louder now, growls punctuating the chaos. At first, he thought the monster to be a warg, but wargs typically traveled in packs. If that were the case, the screams would've stopped a long time ago. He wracked his brain, searching through all the bestiaries he'd memorized over the years. As it was, he almost didn't notice the wyvern until it was too late.

Eskel leapt out of the way of the wyvern's dive, maw gaping wide as it sought to snap up its dinner. Cursing violently, Eskel tossed back his Golden Oriole without a thought. He needed it now more than he would need it later. He wouldn't be able to help the remaining kids if he was too busy dying over wyvern venom. 

Gripping his sword tighter, Eskel braced himself. His sword had been coated with draconid oil while he waited for his supplies in Ard Carraigh, preparing for the treacherous hike up the trail. He was grateful for the foresight; it would, hopefully, make this battle much easier. His remaining potions clinked against his thigh, but he didn't need them quite yet. There was still enough light for him to see with his enhanced vision, and he wasn't winded. If the sky grew any darker, though, it might become a problem, not to mention that if the fight went on long enough for it to be too dark, he would certainly need the added boost from Blizzard.

In the distance, the screams persisted, some cut off with the heart-wrenching, tell-tale gurgle of someone choking on blood. Eskel glared at the advancing wyvern. He didn't have time for this...but if he didn't take care of the wyvern now, he'd be dealing with multiple monsters at once. A witcher never wanted to be in a position like that.

Eskel rolled away as the wyvern spit venom at him, snow burying itself into his armor. He didn't have his crossbow on him, as stupid as he was. A heavy feeling settled into his gut as the wyvern circled in the air, eyes pinning him and ready to swoop down again. A particularly loud shriek came from the direction of the children. Eskel steeled himself. He wasn't going to make it on time, was he?

The wyvern barreled back towards him, launching down at an overwhelming speed. Lifting his sword to match it, he watched as the monster opened its mouth wide, screech hurting his ears as it prepared to-

Eskel woke with a jerk, sweat beading on his forehead. Ragged huffs fell from his lips, unsteady and impossible to keep up with. He tried to catch his breath, blinked several times to grasp his bearings. He felt better than before somehow, more clear-headed, but the images hadn't faded. He glanced around the library. No one was near him. Vesemir must've left a long time ago, maybe when he first fell into meditation. He didn't know, and he didn't care. At least, not yet.

Eskel slowly unfurled himself, raising trembling hands to his face, closing together over his nose. He drew in deep, harsh breaths, desperate to calm himself. What had he been doing these past couple of days?

He winced as he recalled how he'd acted lately, how... vocal he had been when the others patched him up, how his thoughts had spiraled into something dark. He remembered the last time he thought like that, but it was years ago, when Deidre...

It didn't matter now. He'd thought he was past that, past that dark line of thinking. He knew a lot of it wasn't true, of course, but he thought he'd gotten better at concealing the parts that were. He'd hoped that he was better at pushing them down where they couldn't expose themselves in plain view for everyone to see. His self-control used to be better than that.

Eskel pushed himself to his feet, grateful when no pain came to him. He lifted his shirt to see his wound nearly completely healed, the black stitches sticking out like a sore thumb. He let his shirt drop. He could remove those himself. No need to bother the others about it. Casting one last look around the library, Eskel began his way to his room.

The dark hallways leered at him. He'd been doing well not to let the memories from his meditation get to him, but in the empty and cold hallways of the keep, with nothing but his mind to accompany him, the shadows started to take shape. Eskel wanted to blame it on the lack of sleep, that he was hallucinating, but he knew that wasn't true.

Screams echoed in his ears, pained wails reverberating off the stone walls. Sickening crunches punctuated the shrieks, and it was all Eskel could do to not cover his ears. A bellowing roar sounded, and the windows shook. He almost jumped out of his skin, hand reaching for the silver sword that wasn't strapped to his back. Wild amber eyes flickered around the hall, searching for the beast that haunted his every waking moment. He found nothing. The wind howled loudly, and the windows shook again.

He wanted to laugh at himself, wanted to scoff at his idiocy. But none of this was funny. None of what happened was funny. He'd been too late, and children died. He couldn't let the others know. He could barely handle the truth himself, much less with the judgmental glares of his family.

Deep down, he knew he was being irrational. Sure, Geralt was as emotionally constipated as one could get, and Lambert was an asshole, but...they were his brothers. Love was hard to show, but witchers were capable of it. Vesemir would be harder to confess to, but at least Jaskier seemed mostly willing to forgive mistakes.

He shook his head, pushing open the door to his room. His thoughts felt muddled, confusing. He didn't know what he wanted, what he needed. Did he deserve to be punished? He certainly seemed to think so the night before.

What's going on with me? he wondered, looking down at his steady hands. 

A knock sounded at his door. Eskel looked up, confused, and called to let them in. To his surprise, Geralt opened the door, a stoic look on his face. In his hand, he held a pair of thin scissors. Eskel withheld a sigh, already knowing what his brother intended to do.

"I don't need you to remove my stitches, Geralt," Eskel huffed, averting his eyes. His scars tingled in the way when he felt someone staring at them. Unfortunately, his scarred side was the one facing the door, and there wasn't much he could do to hide them.

"Hm." Geralt stepped further into the room, shutting the door behind him. Eskel tried not to let his anger show.

"I mean it. I can do it myself."

"You realize you have a few on your back?"

Eskel paused because, no, he hadn't realized. And also, shit, how did he not know? He could let himself off the hook, rationalize that he'd been a bit preoccupied with his organs wanting a breath of fresh air, but something in the pit of his stomach twisted at the idea. 

Geralt took his silence as an answer, pulling up the chair from Eskel's desk and sitting in front of him. "Your shirt."

With a huff, Eskel pulled off his shirt and leaned back, letting Geralt access his wound more easily. For a moment, they stayed silent, the singular snip of the scissors being the only sound in the room for a good minute or so.

Finally, Eskel broke the silence. "Thanks. For last night."

Geralt didn't lift his head from where he was carefully drawing out the thread, but, despite that, Eskel saw the raised eyebrow. "For what?"

"Jask told me you looked for me in the forest. It's dangerous in there."

Geralt's fingers halted for a split second, then resumed his removal of the thread. "Wasn't gonna leave you to die."

Eskel licked his lips, averted his gaze, focused his eyes to the burning fireplace. Had someone been keeping up with it? It was certainly warmer in the room now. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks, anyway."

At this, Geralt finally did look up. He fixed Eskel with an unreadable expression, an almost unidentifiable frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. "We would do it again if we had to."

Eskel swallowed thickly, shooting his brother a small smile. "Well, let's hope you don't have to."

Geralt hummed, tapping the side of Eskel's left leg, where the injury on his calf had been. "Lift."

Restraining the urge to roll his eyes, Eskel tucked his leg up to rest on his bed and rolled up his trousers, granting Geralt access to pull out the next thread. His brother immediately set to work, just as silent as they'd been before. His leg took less time than his abdomen, having been a smaller wound, and Geralt climbed onto the bed behind him. 

It should feel uncomfortable, especially given that Eskel had yet to cope with his childish actions the past couple of days, but it didn't. It felt...familiar and comforting. Briefly, Eskel could almost forget that he had messed up, had killed dozens of children, had failed a hunt. He could forget it all as he sat with Geralt, like they were just enjoying each other's company, rather than Geralt tending to his old injuries. It felt good, but it never rid him of the nagging voice in the back of his head.

"You're fucked up. You're not the person they think you are."

He didn't want to remember anymore. Without a thought, he closed his eyes to take a deep breath and focus on the feeling of Geralt's hands on his back. He should've expected the series of images that flashed before him, bloodied and torn corpses strewn about, each worse than the last. It occurred in less than a second, but Eskel startled, jerking in his spot and flinging his eyes open.

Geralt grunted, snatching the scissors back from where he'd been ready to cut the thread. Eskel practically felt the glare burning into his back. "What the fuck."

Eskel choked out a laugh, hoping it didn't sound as shaky as his hands felt. "Uh, sorry."

Geralt stayed silent, taking back up the scissors and undoing the stitches. Eskel licked his lips nervously, grateful Geralt couldn't see his face. He clasped his hands together, desperate to stop them from shaking. He'd only closed his eyes for a second. 

Biting his cheek, he couldn't help but wonder. No matter when he did it or how long he did it for, closing his eyes always resulted in the same thing. There was no rhyme or reason to how he relived the massacre. They'd never been in order, and mostly in varying length, but he constantly replayed the events in his head. And it never got any easier. 

He wanted to close his eyes again, to let darkness envelop him and give him peace to think. But he couldn't. He couldn't rest his eyes, couldn't meditate, couldn't sleep. Was he doomed to this for the rest of winter?

"Done," Geralt grumbled, shifting himself off the bed. Eskel jolted at the sudden movement and watched as Geralt moved fluidly, gracefulness in his every motion, even in something as simple as climbing off the bed. 

His mouth felt dry. Why couldn't he be as good as his brother?

"Thanks," Eskel muttered, looking away and towards his window. The sky grew ever darker. It wouldn't be long now until the storm. 

Geralt hummed. "Dinner's soon." He gathered up the threads and scissors, preparing to leave. "Jaskier's cooking. Finds the first dinner of the season as important as Vesemir."

Any winter before, Eskel would have been drooling. Jaskier had a talent with herbs and spices that none of them did, exposed to the rich culture of nobility rather than the bland tastes of Kaer Morhen. Having Jaskier cook was a privilege. One he didn't deserve.

His stomach barely growled. He'd eaten the food Jaskier had brought him earlier, and he should be hungry again by now, but that was usually after a hard day of working. Eskel barely lifted a finger today. Going to eat would mean forcing down food he didn't want. With Jaskier, it had been easy hiding his discomfort. With his brothers and Vesemir there, he would stink up the dining area with his pungent odor of disgust. It wouldn't be fair. Not to mention that it was the first dinner of the season, practically as big of a holiday as Midwinter. Vesemir treasured this night, prided over them coming home alive as much as he could, what with Vesemir being as emotionally stunted as the rest of them.

It only made his response that much harder to voice.

"I'm, uh, not that hungry," Eskel answered, eyeing his brother from the side. "I'll skip out this time."

Geralt frowned. "What."

Eskel almost flinched at the blatantly disapproving tone. "I'm not going."

"Hm." An uncomfortable look passed over Geralt's face before he asked, "Are you sure?"

Eskel nodded. "Yeah. I'm just gonna stay here."

Geralt hummed again, crossing his arms as he lingered. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue, but, ultimately, decided against it. Eskel buried his disappointment. Giving a curt nod, Geralt turned and walked out of the room.

Once he was gone, Eskel exhaled a loud sigh. What could he do now? The longer he sat in his room - alone, unstimulated, warm - he felt his eyes grow heavier. If he wanted to stay awake, then he would have to leave, do something occupy himself. At this point, anything that would keep him awake sounded like a great idea. 

He rose to his feet and ignored the faint screams that followed him out the door.

~~~~~~~

The smell of a well-cooked dinner flooded his senses no matter where he was in the keep. He wandered from one end of Kaer Morhen to the other, going as far as he could while staying inside, to escape the mouth-watering aroma. Nothing worked. The smell had settled into his clothes and his senses, preventing him from getting away. Over time, his stomach started to growl loudly, slowly becoming more and more ravenous. The lack of hunger he felt before disappeared, replaced by the desire to indulge in flavorful meat and honeyed mead. 

Out of habit, he closed his eyes to conjure the image of a laid-out feast, only to be greeted with a bloodied child. His hunger vanished. He groaned to himself, burying his hands in his hair. The armory smelled awful, like spoiled milk, contaminated with his misery.

Eskel picked a training sword off the wall, absentmindedly snatching a toolkit from one of the benches. Propping the sword on a wooden block at an angle, he grabbed a file and prepared to chip away at the sword, intent on revealing the hidden edge of the blade and nothing more. He pushed back any memory, any thought, and focused on counting his strokes before flipping the sword over and doing the exact same thing.

If he concentrated hard enough, he could barely pick out the sounds of Geralt and Lambert arguing, Jaskier laughing at their expense. He could almost imagine Vesemir's exasperated smile that he'd try to hide in his mug. His heart clenched. Eskel gritted his teeth and zeroed in on the sword, blocking out the rest of his surroundings.

He lost himself in the monotony of it all, exposing the rough edge then grabbing the whetstone and oil. His eyesight was great in the dark, but he didn't want to mess up - not any more than he already had - and pulled one of the lit lanterns a bit closer to him. Ignoring how the light pricked at his eyes a little too harshly, Eskel applied a thin coat of oil and began passing the whetstone over the blade in forward strokes. He never passed it back and forth, only going down the blade before lifting the whetstone, returning it to the beginning, and passing it over again. He worked carefully, preserving the sword's geometry as well as he was able to manage.

At this point, he couldn't allow himself to get distracted. The sword was incredibly sharp. Picking up a piece of grit paper, Eskel wet it slightly with the bowl of water in the armory for this very purpose and began to move it down the edge of the blade. All his attention belonged to his task. One little slip-up and-

The wind howled, the armory's window shuddered with a bang, the amarok roared, children screamed, Lambert yelled in the dining hall, and Eskel's hands shook, fingers slipping. A shock of pain bolted up his arm. Eskel hissed, yanking his hand back. The environment around him suddenly faded away. All he could hear was the blood drip from his fingers and onto the table, soft plops of liquid hitting wood. The sight was almost mesmerizing, and in the bright light of the armory, his blood glistened, shining like a pure ruby. Had it been this bright when it had tainted the snow?

A shiver ran up his spine. Quickly coming to his senses, Eskel swallowed down the nauseous feeling building up in his stomach and placed the sword down, grabbing a black rag sitting at the edge of the table. Basic medical supplies were on a table in the corner of the room for situations like these, so he wet the rag, wrapped it around his cut fingers, and walked over.

His eyes burned as he wrapped his hand, but not from the pain. He tilted his head, listening hard for the sounds of the others. They sounded happy, enjoying themselves, even without him. The first dinner of winter had always been one of his favorite moments of the season. Nothing compared to the relief and happiness that filled him when his brothers returned home, safe and sound. Except he almost hadn't been safe and sound when he got here. He'd slaughtered children then had the audacity to burden his family. No wonder no one came to look for him when dinnertime finally arrived. A part of him was disappointed, but this was what he asked for, wasn't it? To be left alone? He suffered loneliness every day on the Path, but somehow it was so much harder when he faced it in his own home.

The burn continued to grow behind his eyes, but it didn't matter. Witchers couldn't cry. Another thing that made them inhuman. It didn't matter how sad he was, how much he regretted his actions (or inactions). He couldn't cry about them, so they weren't worth fretting over. But the massacre continued to replay over and over in his mind. He couldn't shake the thoughts. They plagued him wherever he went. He suspected that, at this rate, they always would. 

And he had to face them alone.

~~~~~~~

Entering the dining hall when everyone was asleep was so much more unnerving than he'd expected it to be. The tables were clean, but the aroma of a lovingly made dinner still wafted in the air. Eskel pressed a hand to his growling stomach. Any louder and it might wake up the keep. He sighed quietly and pressed on, lighting candles with Igni as he walked. 

The long, wooden table sat in the middle of the stone room. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine it: Geralt and Jaskier sitting on one side, Lambert on the other, and Vesemir at the head. The fireplace would be alight, food up and down the table, mugs overflowing with ale or mead. A pit of despair opened up in his chest. He wished he'd been here. He didn't deserve to be.

With a dejected shake of his head, Eskel walked into the kitchen and was greeted with exactly what he'd hoped to be. The dishes weren't washed, waiting to be rinsed and dried early tomorrow for breakfast. Eskel let out a relieved breath, lighting another few candles and positioning himself at the washbasin. Anything to keep himself awake, even if it meant doing one of his least favorite chores.

He grabbed the nearby rag and bar of soap, soaking it in the kitchen's water bucket. He wet the bandages around his fingers, but he didn't pay any mind. That should be healed by the next morning, and no one would be any the wiser to his newest mistake accident. Picking up a plate, he prepared to clean it, unwittingly getting a whiff of the thoroughly seasoned venison and perfectly roasted vegetables that once graced it. 

It continued like that as he worked through the mess. Venison, vegetables, rabbit stew, honey cakes, sweet buns, and roast pheasant. Honeyed mead and bitter ale. The first dinner of the season had always been spectacular. The burning behind his eyes returned. Eskel steadfastly ignored it. He'd made his choice.

Eskel glanced out the window, the sky darker than it'd ever been. Setting down the wet rag and stacking the last plate atop the others, he stepped away, wanting to look outside for a little while before returning to dry the dishes and set them away. He stopped short of the windowsill and gazed out over the dark forest. Snow flurries were falling. The blizzard was upon them. For days, they would be stuck in the keep, surrounded by utter darkness. Eskel was almost mesmerized by the beauty of it all, the purity of freshly fallen snow.

But, now, all he could think about was what horrors lied between that deceivingly peaceful wintry landscape. Only hours away, dozens of children's corpses lay mangled, blood staining the ground. Salty tears mingled with the snow, impossible to distinguish but undoubtedly present. And beyond that horror lay a greater one. A hulking, black beast, lurking within the shadows of the night, haunting the grounds surrounding Kaer Morhen, stalking Eskel's every waking moment. 

Lost in his thoughts, a draft of wind brushed his neck. It was cold, a far cry from the heat that huffed from the amarok's mouth, but Eskel started all the same. A terrified gasp fell from his lips, and he pitched forward, narrowly crashing into the window in his attempt to get away. He whipped around, fingers itching for a weapon he didn't have. Crazed amber eyes raked over the empty kitchen, searching for a monster that wasn't there, never had been.

Heart thudding rapidly, Eskel drew in shaky breaths, sliding his back down the window and lowering himself to the floor. Everyone was asleep, and he was alone. Nothing was here. He was safe. Safe in the way those children hadn't been, should've been. Safe in the way he wished he deserved. Safe in the way he didn't.

He raised his hands, clasping them over his nose and pressed against his face. Similarly to how one could see their nose when they paid enough attention, he could clearly see his hands tremble as if he were out in the blizzard instead of in a warm fortress. He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to relieve the heaviness of his eyelids, wanted to vanish the darkening bags beginning to form. He didn't.

After a few minutes of sitting there, staring unblinkingly at the opposite wall, Eskel stood on shaking legs. He stumbled back over to the stacks of washed dishes, still dripping with water. He picked up the drying rag and started packing the dishes away, pushing every basic thought to the back of his mind. He wouldn't go to sleep, wouldn't think, wouldn't remember. 

Anything to stay awake. Anything to stay awake. Anything to stay awake.

Anything.

Chapter Text

Apparently grabbing bits and pieces of sleep here and there and not actually resting was harder than he'd thought. As a witcher, Eskel could go without sleeping longer than humans. The crux of the problem was that he hadn't slept for two days before the massacre. Between then and now, he'd fallen unconscious or meditated. None of those were real substitutes for sleep, and he was starting to feel it. Last night, he'd spent his time washing dishes, sweeping the dining hall, looking over his shoulder for moving shadows, ignoring screams, and sharpening swords. He still hadn't slept, just like how the snow had yet to stop.

Eskel let out a low groan as the room began to spin, his body like lead, trying to pull him to the ground. His knees started to buckle; his back ached from the constant support. He’d been up for far too long. But he couldn’t lay down, couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t remember-

A grunt escaped him as he tripped over his own feet. His hand flung outwards and he clumsily searched for something to hold. His hand caught on the doorframe to the library. Slowly, Eskel leaned himself towards it, eyes drifting shut the slightest bit. He wanted to let them close all the way - Gods, his eyes felt so heavy - but he couldn’t let them. So he rested against the doorway a little longer.

I’ll take a break. Just for a bit.

The longer he rested against the doorframe, the higher the likelihood of someone finding him. What was even worse, though, was how he gradually leaned more and more into the wall, body falling limp. He should move away from the library, away from the inviting fire and tranquility of the quiet room. And yet, he remained, unable to bring himself to leave. He stared blearily into the library, taking in the evocative smell of the antique books lining the shelves, bringing forth memories of the past, and, thankfully, none of the massacre.

Maybe that was what drew him forward.

Before he could stop himself, Eskel staggered into the library, legs moving on their own. He swayed with each step, blacking out for one moment, only to find himself leaning precariously to one side. He sought to correct himself each time, only to black out again and find that he overcorrected, leaning more to the other side than standing straight. This continued until he stumbled into a table he hardly registered was there. At that moment, his legs decided it was a good place to stop, nearly collapsing underneath him and sending him straight into the chair. 

Eskel blinked slowly, attempting to recall the past few hours. It was midday - maybe? - and he hadn't done much of value. Sure, he'd worked last night, but that was only to avoid this exact scenario. Now, Geralt and Lambert were off doing fuck-all somewhere in the keep, Jaskier was playing his lute in his room, and he suspected Vesemir was somewhere in the basement, but he wasn't entirely sure.

He was too tired to be sure of anything.

Just sitting down for a second, he reminded himself, mouth dropping into a jaw-cracking yawn. His head slowly began to lower to the table, arms crossing on the wood to brace his head as a pillow. Just for a second...

Harsh, audible pants fell from his lips, vision slightly obscured by the condensation of his breath in front of his face. Frustration and impatience simmered in his chest as the wyvern circled over his head. Scratches littered his back and arms. He'd lost track of how long he'd been fighting, only knowing that the distant screams were starting to falter. He didn't like what that implied.

With a huff, Eskel signed Aard, looking to knock out one of the wyvern's wings and send it cascading to the ground. The wyvern, ever agile, banked to the side, yet ran straight into another blast of Aard Eskel cast in case of that very maneuver. Screeching, the wyvern toppled out of the sky, shaking the ground as it collided to the snow, white puffing up around them. Eskel wasted no time in racing forward, silver sword raised to attack.

The wyvern scrabbled to its feet, readying its talons to strike. Eskel growled lowly to himself, already in a bad mood not only from listening to the slaughter close by, but from the discomfort of Golden Oriole working to dilute the venom that made its way into his bloodstream. He wanted that tail gone. Once he did that, he would have a better chance of attacking quickly and hacking the wyvern to pieces. 

Rolling out of the path of the wyvern's snapping jaws, Eskel blinked furiously. He'd resorted to downing Cat some time ago. The battle endured longer than expected, resulting in the sky growing dark enough that he had to use the potion to see. He had yet to use Blizzard, however. Though his stamina was starting to wane, he still had another fight after this, and he would need that short-term boost desperately. 

The wyvern, unsteady on solid ground, stumbled back, throwing its head forward as it moved to bite at Eskel. In return, he parried each attempt, focused and unwilling to get caught in the line of those vicious teeth. He watched the wyvern tire itself out, tail flinging from side to side, trying to reach and stab him. Eskel positioned himself towards the front of the wyvern, preferring to deal with the short range of his teeth than the wild assault of its tail. 

As the wyvern sought to catch its breath, Eskel realized he didn't need to go for the tail like he'd planned to. The wyvern tired itself out much more than he'd expected, giving him the prime opportunity to launch a series of swift strikes, each one seeking a specific target. He slashed at its eyes, its jaw, its neck, intent on destroying anything within his range. 

He was angry, livid. Anguish gripped him and tore at his heart. The children had long since quieted, and Eskel dreaded what that meant. He hated the whole scenario, regretted taking this one last contract. He should've just waited until Ard Carraigh opened up again.

Wyverns were such a routine monster for him, something he faced nearly every winter on his way up to keep and all throughout the year on the Path. It should have never taken him this long, but it did, and now children were dead or dying far enough that he couldn't reach them immediately. So he vented his anger on the wyvern. When it finally exposed its neck entirely, Eskel forced one last thrust, digging his sword deep through the skin and scales. The wyvern screeched loudly, sound threatening to pop Eskel's eardrums, but he didn't care. 

Ripping the sword out from the wyvern's neck, he turned and sprinted away, not bothering to confirm the monster's death. He knew that a strike like that would certainly kill it, and he had more important matters to attend to than savoring an infuriating kill. He dashed through the forest, agility emboldened by the heightened senses granted from Cat. He could see the clearing, just within sight. He pushed himself harder, legs carrying him quicker than they ever had, heart racing, fist clenched on his sword's hilt. 

He broke through the treeline and, there, on the opposite side of the clearing. A massive, looming beast with fur blacker than the night sky above him. At his feet, a child's arm lay dismembered, and he felt the horror and rage encase him as the beast lifted its nose, sniffing the air. It turned, sensing his presence, and he caught a glimpse of the half-eaten girl in the snow beneath the monster. Icy blue eyes pierced him where he stood. Teeth bared, the beast prepared itself to charge. Eskel raised his sword to meet it, but it moved fast, faster than he'd ever anticipated, and it was upon him, relentless and-

Eskel woke with a start, sucking in a sharp breath as he shot up in his seat. Alert, he raked his eyes across the room, subconsciously taking in the familiar bookshelves and comforting fireplace. He scrutinized each shadow, unwittingly scouring for a shadow too large - too tangible - to be an area simply caused by the darkness. 

His racing heart started to slow as the seconds ticked by, muscles uncoiling themselves but not entirely loosening. Body trembling, Eskel pushed himself up from his seat, neck sore from his uncomfortable position. He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the skin between his eyes as he collected himself. 

The amarok isn't here, he repeated, a steady mantra in his head. He said it over and over again, drilling the words into his core until his hands lessened their quivering. He braved another glance around the library, noting that he was still the only presence nearby. He tilted his head, listening carefully through the keep. He could distinctly make out the murmurs of a conversation between Geralt and Jaskier in the bard's room. Lambert was in the kitchen, probably making lunch. Vesemir was nowhere to be found, but that wasn't unusual.

A tentative sniff of the air warned him of the sour milk scent polluting the library's typically calming aroma. Eskel winced, lighting one of the very few scented candles in the keep and hoping the new fragrance would drown out the smell. He sighed quietly to himself. So much for avoiding sleep.

At least he felt a little more refreshed than before. It wasn't much - hardly noticeable - but it was enough to make him feel a bit more like... himself. A thin layer of fog still clouded his mind, but he felt more clear-headed than he had the past couple of days, and he almost felt, dare he say it, good. His eyes continued to flicker to the corners of the library every now and again, but, as he picked up a stray book from the floor, his body thrummed with enough energy to make cleaning up the library a less daunting task than it had seemed while he was injured. 

A fresh well of hope opened up in Eskel's chest, and he very nearly smiled as he gathered up a pile of bestiaries and encyclopedias into his arms, shuffling down the shelves and placing the books in their respective places. For a while, not a single thought of the amarok passed through his mind, leaving him in a beautiful state of bliss that he hadn't experienced in what felt like years. The books slipped seamlessly into the spaces, his legs ceased their shaking, his muscles loosened, the overwhelming scent of rot evaded him, and the library's fireplace burned bright and warm. Everything was good.

Books put away, Eskel set out about gathering the loose parchment pieces fluttered about, scanning them over and setting them into categorized piles. He completed his chore absentmindedly, but his senses had calmed enough that he could hear Vesemir approaching before the older witcher even breached the doorway.

"Seems like someone is up and about."

Eskel wanted to smile, but despite his bubbling energy, he could only muster up a small grin. That was fine, though. A smile was a smile, and he would take it. "Feeling a bit better today."

Vesemir nodded, but there was something tight in his facial features that slightly unsettled Eskel. "You didn't come down for dinner yesterday."

Eskel paused, grip tensing on the parchment in his hand minutely. "I...wasn't that hungry last night." He turned his attention back to the task at hand. Something heavy started to plant itself in his gut.

"Hm." He heard Vesemir step closer, sitting in a chair on the opposite end of the table Eskel was working at. Knowing eyes practically bored into his skin. "You could have still joined us."

You should have still joined us, was the unsaid reproach. 

Eskel resisted the urge to flinch. His energy started to dissipate. "I... should've. I'm sorry."

In his peripheral vision, he watched Vesemir wave a dismissive hand. "Don't apologize to me. Perhaps you should apologize to yourself. I know how much you enjoy the first supper."

"I guess you're right," Eskel muttered, licking dry lips. He kept his eyes locked on the sheets of parchment. He wondered if Vesemir could smell his unease or hear how his heart started to beat faster. 

"Was there a reason you didn't come down?"

"Like I told you, wasn't hungry."

Vesemir hummed, disbelief blatant in his tone. "So it doesn't have to do with what happened before you arrived?"

Eskel's blood ran cold, energy fleeing his body as fast as his reluctant peace did. Unwanted images of a bloody maw bearing down on him flashed in his vision, despite his eyes being open, and he gritted his teeth. "Nothing happened."

A hesitant silence hung between the two of them, cold and uncomfortable. Eskel bit his cheek, the skin inside turning raw from how often he'd taken to chewing in the same spot. The parchment shook in his hands, and he just wanted Vesemir to stop staring.

"Something happened, Eskel," Vesemir said quietly. 

He slammed the parchment down on the table, rocking it enough that his carefully stacked piles toppled over, flinging the papers across the floor. Vesemir didn't even flinch.

"A fucking wyvern!" Eskel snapped, lie bitter on his tongue. "A simple, fucking, routine wyvern. Nothing more, nothing less."

He raised his eyes to meet Vesemir's. His mentor stared back at him, face blank, but Eskel knew he was dissecting every inch of Eskel's posture, taking in the taut muscles and clenched jaw. 

"Happy now?" he snarled.

Vesemir continued to eye him, no hint of disapproval or sick amusement in his features. There was nothing there, nothing to read, and it infuriated Eskel to no end.

After a long pause, Vesemir whispered, "When you are ready to talk about it, you know where to find us."

Before Eskel could even think to argue, Vesemir rose from his chair and left the library without another glance. Eskel stood there, losing track of time, as he stared at the seat Vesemir had occupied. What did he just do?!

His breath left him in one deep gasp, leaving him desperate for air. He shoved himself away from the table. His vision blurred as he staggered backward, pushing himself into a corner behind a bookshelf. His back hit the wall, and he slid down, hands grasping at his abdomen. His stomach lurched, nausea welling up and overwhelming him. He raised his shaky hands to his face, clasping them over his nose. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the black dots beginning to cloud his vision.

A sharp pain shot through his head before turning into a constant throb. He tried to tell himself to "breathe, just breathe," but he couldn't feel his fingers or his toes, and he was to die here-

The amarok stalked a circle around him, eyes cold and calculating. Eskel could only kneel in the snow, chest heaving. He couldn't catch his breath-

Wait, no. That never happened. The amarok hadn't stalked him like that. He never exposed himself that badly to the monster. Why was he thinking this? Why couldn't he breathe?

Hands grappled at the floor, the wall, the shelves, anything to ground him. The stone wall. Cold, rough, hard, solid, real. The floor. Wooden, warm from his body heat, real. The shelves. Books, some soft, some hard, leather-bound, thick pages, real.

Real, real, real.

He was real. This was real. His imagination was not. The amarok wasn't there. Vesemir wasn't there. He was fine. He was safe. His secrets, his mistakes, were safe.

Trembling fingers carded through sweat-soaked hair. He dragged in ragged breaths, shallow at first and getting deeper as time passed. Aches plagued his muscles, making themselves known as he shifted. His back twinged as he unfolded himself. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Eskel couldn't help but mourn the short-lived happiness he felt after his nap. He stumbled forward, eyes almost unseeing as he beelined to his room. Instead, he kept his focus on his hearing, listening for the other residents of the keep.

By the time he collapsed on his bed, he realized he couldn't remember the walk there, despite how sure he was that he'd been careful at noting every single one of his steps. He pushed himself back on his bed, positioning himself in the middle of his mattress, back leaning against the headboard. He drew his legs to his chest, placing his elbows on his knees and burying his hands in his hair. He ignored the quivering of his fingers.

His breathing was still off, and his head fucking hurt, but neither of those was what concerned him the most. Vesemir's words. He'd said "when you are ready to talk about it," but what did he mean by "it?" Did he mean the wyvern? Or did he...? Oh, gods. Did he know? Could he sense it? Was he waiting for Eskel to slip up? Waiting for a valid excuse to abandon him on the side of the Witchers' Trail? Did he know? Did he know?

Eskel's eyes burned as he dug his fingers deep into his scalp. He shook his head, gritting his teeth. He couldn't let himself think about it. He needed to get himself together. He was spiraling out of control - that, he could admit. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then again, and again. He continued to do so, moving his hands to look about his room. He noted the trophies and souvenirs he'd collected over the years, taking stock of what lay where. Slowly but surely, his heart began to settle, but it only left bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. 

He stretched out his legs, dropping his hands to his lap and letting his head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud. He blinked sluggishly, sleep threatening to overcome him once again. He sighed wearily, wanting desperately to close his eyes but not prepared to deal with the pain that came with the disturbing memories. He didn't know if he could deal with this much longer.

Time passed slowly, yet not slow enough. Sitting on his bed, Eskel refused to move an inch as he heard the others enter their rooms one by one some hours after dinner. Someone had knocked on his door - he thought it was Geralt since the person only knocked and didn't call to him - to tell him dinner was ready, but he didn't answer. Instead, he sat on his bed and waited for them to leave, hoping they couldn't hear his breathing or heartbeat. Eventually, the person moved on when he didn't answer, and Eskel resigned himself to listening to the others eat and joke and laugh like nothing was wrong, like no one was missing.

He hated himself for being jealous. After all, Eskel was the one who withheld himself from joining them. They had invited him, knocked on his door to get his attention, yet he ignored them. His loneliness was his fault and no one else's. It didn't make it hurt any less.

Jaskier entered his room first, and Eskel could hear him setting his lute down and flopping into bed like the melodramatic bard he was. It brought a small smile to Eskel's face, even if it didn't last very long. Within minutes Jaskier's breaths turned deep and slow, signaling he'd fallen asleep. It took longer for Geralt and Lambert to come up, but when they did, their footsteps were a bit unsteady, and Lambert was louder than usual. For a moment, he thought they were going to wake Jaskier, but the bard often slept like the dead while in Kaer Morhen, just like the rest of them. A faint scent of White Gull reached his nose as his two brothers passed his door, and a spark of jealousy ran through him. What he would give to get absolutely plastered right about now.

Geralt and Lambert stumbled into their respective rooms and knocked out as soon as they hit their beds. It took even longer for Vesemir to finally climb upstairs. His steps were sure-footed (because, of course, they were).  The older witcher made his way down the hall, only to stop right outside Eskel's room. He held his breath, not daring to move, as Vesemir lingered at Eskel's door. Just when he thought Vesemir was going to knock, a quiet sigh came from the hallway and Vesemir's footsteps started up again, continuing down the hall.

Eskel's breath left him in a silent exhale. He dropped tense shoulders and hung his head, listening as Vesemir entered his room and readied himself for sleep. When he was sure Vesemir wasn't going to leave his room again, Eskel slid off his bed, careful not to make noise. He slipped out of his room and made his way down the stairs. He pointedly ignored the dining hall, ignored the aroma of a well-made dinner, ignored the scent of happiness still lingering in the air. He staggered into the kitchen and ignored the growling of his stomach, the heaviness of his eyes, the cluttered feeling in his chest.

He picked up the washrag by the sink and a dirty tin cup. He swallowed around the lump in his throat as he looked over his shoulder to the large window behind him. Blackness enveloped the outside, white snow pelting down from above. Howling winds rattled the trees of the forest and beat against the stones of the keep. If he thought about it a little more, he could see the faint outline of the amarok in the shadows by the farthest corner of the kitchen. He shook his head and turned back to the dishes. 

He'd rather not think about it.

Chapter Text

Days passed and, slowly but surely, Eskel was getting a handle on things. He'd settled into something of a routine. During the day, he would linger around the keep, making small appearances here and there, being seen by the others but not quite interacting. At least, not yet. He'd been distant lately - that, he knew - so he reintegrated himself back into the keep a bit at a time to refrain from making it seem like he was having some kind of mood swing. At night, when everyone else was asleep, he meandered about, wandering from room to room, cleaning and fixing whatever he could find. It worked for the most part. Occasionally, he would drift off for an hour or two, but he was more or less getting better at forcing himself awake.

Ghosts tailed him as he entered the natural hot springs below Kaer Morhen. He'd mostly been taking baths in his room because he wanted to avoid the others, but carrying up buckets of water from the nearest pump was so much more work than it was worth. Besides, if he wanted to get things back to normal, he needed to be seen in more places. It also meant finally showing up at meals, but one step at a time. Besides, the hot springs felt so much nicer than some half-assed bath in his room. 

Eskel sighed, shedding his clothes and folding them neatly next to his clean ones and a towel on a bench before slipping into the hot waters of the spring. It was still early, and his brothers would be down soon enough, but for the first time since he arrived this winter, he didn't mind. In all actuality, he... missed his brothers. It conflicted with how he'd been thinking lately - he knew that - and, yet, it didn't lessen his desire to see Geralt and Lambert at all. He missed Geralt's stoic face, his grunts and hums as his primary method of communication. He missed Lambert's bitchiness, how easy it was to rile him up. Eskel may be exhausted, may be undeserving of his family, may be a complete and utter fuck-up, but he still wanted to be selfish. Just one more time. 

He sunk lower into the spring until the water rippled underneath his nose. The water tickled the submerged parts of his scars a bit, though the heat felt more soothing than painful. The urge to close his eyes nearly overwhelmed him, but he knew far too well the consequences of letting that happen, so he widened them further. He would not stink up the hot springs with the smell of fear and angst before his brothers could relax. They deserved a peaceful bath before a hard-working day. After all, the blizzard had finally settled down after a few days of constant, steady snowfall. Soon, the snow would clear enough for them to head back outside. In the meantime, they alternated between the stables and the keep, tending to the horses and livestock or repairing the inside of Kaer Morhen. 

Near-silent footsteps approached the entrance to the hot springs, two pairs of them if he heard correctly. He softened his eyes and looked over at the entryway. Geralt and Lambert must have woken up. They'd probably be surprised to see him here, considering he hadn't joined them for meals or a bath since they'd all arrived. He hoped they wouldn't be disappointed.

"Fuck," he heard Lambert grumble as they drew nearer, still out of sight. "That blizzard fucked up my entire sleep schedule."

Geralt gave a hum in response, leaning more toward agreeable than argumentative.

"Jaskier's a lucky bastard. Gets to sleep in until midday. I'll give it 'til next winter for Vesemir to start tossing him up at dawn."

Geralt snorted, no doubt imagining his friend finally being subjected to the same strict schedule they were all kept to. "Doubt it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Hm. Vesemir actually likes him."

Lambert snickered. "Again, we'll see how long that lasts." 

Eskel listened for them in the room before the springs, gathering towels and soaps. He raised himself a little further in the water. No point in hiding himself when his main goal was to be seen. Prepared to make noise for his brothers to hear, Eskel started to shift in his spot, only to still when Lambert sighed.

 "Think Eskel's up?" he muttered absentmindedly, like it didn't stop Eskel's heart in anticipation of Geralt's answer.

"He's in the spring already."

Eskel tilted his head back against the tiled floor, throat suddenly dry as Lambert let out a surprised, "What?"

In his periphery, he watched Lambert peek around the corner into the springs, eyes slightly wide. Disbelief coated his features when he caught sight of Eskel lounging in the water. For his credit, Eskel managed a small smile and raised eyebrow. 

"Morning," he croaked out, voice hoarse from over a day of disuse.

The surprise melted away, replaced with a shit-eating smirk. Lambert strolled into the springs, Geralt following behind. Both shed the towels around their waists before they slipped into the water. 

"Well, shit. Look who decided to grace us with his presence," Lambert teased. Geralt huffed an abrupt laugh, nodding in acknowledgment to Eskel.

Eskel's smile didn't falter, but the longer he held it, the harder it was to maintain it. For the sake of conserving his waning energy, he dropped it, trying to keep up a light posture instead. He shrugged. "Just taking a bath."

Lambert rolled his eyes. "And disappearing for days, but, sure, you're just taking a bath."

The air suddenly felt uncomfortable. He gauged Geralt and Lambert's expressions, dismayed to find that he was the only one to seemingly notice the tense atmosphere. He slipped a little back into the water. 

"Almost sounds like concern," Eskel joked, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He resisted the urge to flinch. Who was he to be joking around with them like that?

Lambert huffed. "Yeah, whatever, asshole," he groused, turning his attention to cleaning himself. Eskel chewed on the inside of his cheek, so busy berating himself that he almost missed Geralt's scrutinizing gaze. 

Geralt probably intimidated him the most, right after Vesemir. The two of them were fairly evenly matched in terms of swordsmanship - at least, they used to be, until Eskel screwed the pooch so horribly - and equivalent in age. Geralt knew Eskel almost his entire life, over a century of being each other's best friend. But now he had Jaskier, someone to balance out his grim attitude in the way Eskel had never been able to since Geralt underwent the second round of mutations. Geralt could be cold towards him, tolerant at best. It would be all too easy for him to turn on Eskel, strike him down, cast him from Kaer Morhen. It didn't help that Geralt could often see through him like glass. He'd be the one to see Eskel's failures, to tear open his lies in front of everyone.

Mustering up the courage to speak, Eskel asked, "What?"

Geralt hummed, frown playing on his face. Instead of answering, though, he simply shook his head and focused on relaxing in the spring. Eskel tried not to let the sudden dryness of his mouth show on his face. He rested a hand on his empty stomach under the water, both as a form of comfort and an attempt to soothe away the growling beginning to sound.

Lambert snorted. "Talkative bastard, aren't ya?"

Geralt's response was a large splash of water aimed at Lambert's face.

"What the fuck?!" Lambert spluttered, dropping his soap on the ledge of the spring and sending his own splash of water back at Geralt. Eskel watched, eyes flickering from left to right as the two brothers engaged in their water fight. He should probably stop them before they started wrestling. It would be a bit awkward to witness his brothers fight naked. Not that it'd stopped them before, but it definitely wasn't on Eskel's top ten things to do today... or ever, really.

Eskel opened his mouth to yell at them, but nothing came out. A vice-like grip seized his throat, and no words escaped him as his breath stuttered in his chest. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe and all he could think was, "Not here, not here, not here." He would do anything to avoid a repeat of his breakdown in the library while in the fucking hot springs with his brothers. He glanced at Lambert first, his younger brother seemingly too concentrated on his spat with Geralt to notice the rising odor of Eskel's panic. His eyes snapped to the right, the grip on his chest tightening as he looked at Geralt. He drew in a trembling breath when Geralt didn't so much as look at him in return. 

The hand on his stomach tightened, focusing on the hunger pangs and fingers brushing over his new scar to ground him. He knew he needed to calm down before the other two noticed, but knowing to do something and actually doing it never seemed so different until now. His eyes flickered, automatically moving to shut, but Eskel snapped them back open. If he was panicking this much over just talking to his brothers, then seeing a flashback of the amarok would certainly send him over the edge.

He dragged in several deep breaths, trying to keep them quiet over the sound of Geralt and Lambert arguing. The splashing had ceased, only to be replaced with barbed insults and sharp-tongued retorts. Eskel faced the entryway of the hot springs, turning his scarred side from the view of Geralt and Lambert. He rested his right elbow on the ledge, using his hand to dangle limply over his nose and mouth as he continued to breathe slowly. He focused on random things around the hot springs, like the sound of the water splashing as Lambert gestured wildly, the feeling of the stone beneath his elbow, the rigid texture of the rock walls surrounding them. Time passed slowly, but it couldn't have been more than two minutes when Eskel's breathing started even out.

Eskel practically slumped over, shoulders sagging as a fresh wave of exhaustion crashed into him. His hand fell from his face, and he stared at the rippling water inches away from his face, unable to make eye contact with his bickering brothers. His stomach cramped as he shifted, pressing his back against the spring's wall. He needed to leave before his brothers started questioning the sudden smell of soured milk or before his stomach decided to make its hunger known.

Unfortunately, he was too slow for both of those things.

Eskel heard the tell-tale sound of Geralt and Lambert sniffing the air. He cringed as he felt the two of them stare at him, but he refused to look up. After a second or two of no one speaking, Lambert opened his mouth and so eloquently asked,

"What the fuck?"

Before he could answer, a low rumbling noise kicked up from Eskel's stomach, slowly growing louder and progressively more painful until it left Eskel gritting his teeth through cramps and black spots dancing in his vision.

A stunned silence blanketed the hot springs. Eskel adamantly kept his gaze focused elsewhere, sure that his face would be flushed red if he was able to blush. Embarrassment welled up inside him, nearly making him nauseous with the overwhelming urge to escape the others' staring. He hated this, the constant back-and-forth of fluctuating emotions. One moment he was feeling nothing at all, and then there were moments like these, where he was feeling so much that he wanted nothing more than go back to feeling numb. He braced himself for his brothers' teasing. It never came.

"What the fuck?" Lambert repeated, voice a confused whisper. "When was the last time you fucking ate?"

Hell if Eskel could remember. His eyes flickered upwards, greeted with the sight of Lambert's bewildered expression and Geralt's deep frown. Yet, despite their otherwise uncaring faces, Eskel saw a hint of pure, unadulterated concern written in their eyes. Why would they be worried about this? About him? Shouldn't they be teasing him by now? Rolling their eyes at his blatant inability to simply take care of himself?

Eskel shrugged. "Fuck if I know," he muttered. "Haven't been hungry 'til now." Which was... sort of the truth. Not entirely because he had been hungry this morning, but he hadn't eaten for a while now because the idea of food made his stomach roil.

Geralt hummed, dropping his soap onto the ledge. Unashamedly, he stood up and exited the spring, drying himself off with the towel before wrapping it around his waist. He turned, raising his eyebrow when he saw Eskel and Lambert still in the spring. "Breakfast?" he asked, though it was more of an order than a suggestion.

Lambert paused for a minute before shrugging. "Sounds good to me." He pushed himself out of the water and mimicked Geralt's actions. 

Eskel hesitated, unsure if he should follow them despite the clear invitation, but eventually he climbed out of the spring. He kept his back turned to his brothers as he dried himself off - mostly, anyway - and quickly dressed himself. No doubt he had scars from the wyvern on his back, and the long, white line of the amarok's claw stretched across his abdomen. The bite had left a decent scar on his right shoulder, too, and his brothers would no doubt realize that a scar like that wouldn't come from a wyvern. He held no desire to showcase them longer than he needed to. 

Once dressed, Geralt led the way to the kitchen and dining hall. Eskel resolutely kept his eyes averted from the other two's lingering stares. They could probably smell his embarrassment, which he was none too happy about. So long as they didn't ask, though, he would be fine, and knowing his brothers, they likely wouldn't.

Geralt jerked his chin to the dining table, the one Eskel longed to sit at since he'd arrived but resisted the urge to. Apparently, Geralt either didn't notice Eskel's restraint or didn't care because he simply said, "Sit."

Eskel frowned. "I can get my own food, you know." A small part of him wondered if he was going to even receive food, or if Lambert and Geralt were going to eat in front of him as some sort of cruel punishment for not sustaining himself. He wiped that ridiculous thought from his mind as soon it came.

Lambert snorted, disappearing into the kitchen. "Oh, sure. Letting the idiot who hasn't fed himself make his own food is a great idea. Why didn't we think of it before?"

Geralt rolled his eyes but conceded, "He has a point."

"I forgot to feed myself one time," Eskel protested, planting himself at the very edge of the bench, far from where the others normally sat. "Does it really matter?"

"Yes," Geralt grunted, sitting himself down across Eskel, ignoring his usual spot closer to the head of the table. 

Eskel heard Lambert clamoring about in the kitchen and distinctly worried about him waking up Vesemir and Jaskier. Jaskier was less likely, given that he slept like the dead, but Vesemir should be coming down sooner or later, and Eskel would rather forego food again than have another encounter with his mentor.

The desire to drop his head on the table and rest grew stronger with every passing second. With nothing to keep him occupied, the weight of his eyelids doubled and threatened to drift shut. He briefly wondered how he looked, how dark the bags were under his eyes, but he had a feeling he already knew. Geralt tossed him suspicious glances as they waited for Lambert to bring their breakfast, but Eskel ignored him. If Geralt wanted to know something, he had a mouth and, arguably, knew how to use it. If he wanted to ask, he would. Until then, Eskel focused on keeping his eyes open and himself awake.

"Here," Lambert snapped, nearly tossing the bowl at Eskel. He withheld a flinch at the brutal treatment, reminding himself that Lambert was usually a snot-nosed prick. It had nothing to do with him because they didn't know.

"Thanks," Eskel murmured, staring down at the porridge in front of him. His stomach rebelled at the sight. After days of not eating, his stomach begged for something to fill it, but porridge was thick and heavy. Eskel wasn't sure if he'd be able to keep it down for as long as he wanted.

In front of him, Geralt had already started to dig into his bowl, and Lambert beside him was stirring it before shoveling it into his mouth. Eskel licked his lips, swallowed down the queasy feeling in his belly, and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. Lambert must've added a bit of something to it because the porridge had more of a nutty and warm taste to it than the blandness when Vesemir cooked it. Eskel supposed it was something he picked up from Jaskier. Despite how much easier it would have made the porridge to scarf down on a normal day, the added flavor did nothing to ease his nausea.

Eskel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to keep his despair to a minimum. With Jaskier, he'd been able to hide his disgust at eating, but his brothers would be able to smell it. After his near-breakdown in the hot springs, he doubted he could get away with another.

"So," Lambert started, a derisive drawl in his tone, "where have you been?"

Eskel furrowed his eyebrows but kept his eyes locked on his bowl as he stirred his spoon. "The hell are you talking about?"

"Well, you didn't come down for the first supper of the season. And you haven't joined us for any meal after that. You fucking disappear for hours on end." He felt Lambert's eyes burning into the side of his head. "So, where have you been?"

Eskel took his time answering, choosing instead to eat another spoonful of porridge. His stomach turned and twisted. "I was in the keep."

A scoff came from his side. Eskel braced himself for the derogatory comment, but it was cut off by Lambert giving an indignant, "What?" Eskel looked up to see Geralt glaring at their younger brother before turning his gaze to Eskel. The glare faded, only to be replaced with curiosity.

"What happened?" 

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific." He was stalling, he knew, but if he could push off the lie a little longer, maybe something would distract his brothers before he could answer, and he could escape.

His luck was never very good.

"On the Trail. Before we found you. What happened?"

Eskel dropped his eyes back to his breakfast. The half-truth felt as bitter on his tongue as it had when he first said it to Vesemir, but he'd rather embarrass himself than deal with his family's disgust. "It was me being fucking stupid."

"Yeah, no shit," Lambert snorted. "Anyone going off the Trail is a dumbass."

Eskel couldn't argue against that. They'd said it to each other so many times over the past decades. Whenever a witcher succumbed to the Trail by veering off-course, the surviving witchers would just shake their heads and wonder, "How could they be so stupid?" Well, Eskel would only be a hypocrite if he protested otherwise. Instead, he hummed in agreement and dreaded the next prompting question.

"So what was it?" Lambert pressed, a smug tone to his voice.

Eskel huffed. "A wyvern."

Lambert immediately snickered, delving into snorts of laughter. Geralt, on the other hand, remained quiet. Eskel didn't lift his head to see his expression. He suddenly wasn't very hungry anymore.

"Are you serious?" Lambert asked, still chuckling. "You went off the Trail and got your ass handed to you by a wyvern? We risked our lives to save your ass for that?"

Finally, Geralt hummed. "If I recall correctly, I was the only one who risked my life. You stayed behind."

"Because you fucking left me with the bard!" Lambert shot back.

"Excuses."

"Why, you little prick-!"

"Boys!" All three heads snapped in the direction of the stern voice. Eskel stiffened when he caught sight of Vesemir lingering at the doorway to the dining hall. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen or heard?

"Are you honestly fighting so early in the day?"

"Sorry, Vesemir," they all murmured, turning to their food like scolded children.

Vesemir watched them for a moment before shaking his head with a sigh. He moved towards the kitchen, but not without resting a hand on Eskel's shoulder. Eskel glanced up, startled, to meet Vesemir's softened eyes.

"Good to see you, Eskel," he greeted, tone a tad warmer than Eskel was used to from his mentor.

Eskel gave a curt nod, pushing down the rising sense of fear within him. "And you, sir."

Vesemir nodded, giving Eskel's shoulder a light squeeze before moving off to the kitchen to claim breakfast for himself. Eskel turned back to his food, Geralt and Lambert already eating once more. His stomach ached but not from hunger. He wanted to push it away, nausea brewing from an undesired mix of anxiety and uncomfortable fullness. Despite the ill-feeling, he continued to eat. Wasting food didn't go over well in Kaer Morhen.

He shot a side glance at Vesemir as the older man sat himself in his typical spot at the head of the table, leaving the other three witchers to maintain their meek huddle at the opposite end. Vesemir cradled his mug of tea in hand and leaned back in his chair, posture completely relaxed as he eyed Eskel, Geralt, and Lambert. Eskel immediately looked away, lest he caught Vesemir's eyes. How much longer would his mentor look at him with complete ease? What would he do when he inevitably found out what Eskel had done? Or rather, what he hadn't done. He should come clean now; the longer he waited, the harsher the fallout.

Geralt's foot tapped the side of his underneath the table. Startled, Eskel glanced up. Geralt was always so still and kept to himself. His foot would have never touched Eskel's if he hadn't purposely wanted it to. Grabbing Eskel's attention, he said not one word. Instead, he pressed his foot against Eskel's again, holding it there rather than moving away. Eskel stilled, staring at Geralt as his brother gave him a brusque nod. Geralt returned his focus back to his food, not removing his foot. 

Clenching one hand around his spoon and the other in a fist to stop them from shaking, Eskel continued to eat. The weight of Geralt's foot remained unwavering against his, and Eskel knew what it meant, even with the dark thoughts threatening to cloud his mind. After decades of surviving alongside Geralt, he understood what Geralt was trying to say.

"I'm glad you're alive."

Eskel bit his lip before placing another spoonful into his mouth. His heart threatened to burst with guilt, thrumming with the shame of indulging in small acts of affection that he didn't deserve. But he couldn't move away because that seemingly insignificant gesture was colossal in Geralt's terms. He didn't deserve this, but, Gods, he really wanted to. So, even though his heart ached with disgrace and remorse, he kept his foot pressed against Geralt. He was selfish - so godsdamned selfish - but if he was going to lose this one day, then he wanted all the memories he could get. He needed something to hold onto when it all slipped from his hands like sand in an hourglass.

Chapter Text

"Do my eyes deceive me? Surely, it is not-"

Eskel lifted his head and turned to the entry of the kitchen, eyes landing on Jaskier, who was leaning against the doorway. The bard's face broke out into a bright smile. 

"Oh, but it is! Eskel!" Jaskier strode forward, arms opening wide. Eskel chewed on his cheek. Jaskier wanted a hug, no doubt, but why would he want one from Eskel? Geralt would have been a better choice. Hell, even Lambert. But he couldn't deny Jaskier, no matter how much he probably should, and, well...Jaskier was offering, wasn't he?

Eskel hesitantly opened his arms, and Jaskier immediately threw himself into Eskel's embrace, wrapping his arms around the witcher's back and settling his head against Eskel's chest. After a moment of internal debate, Eskel slowly lowered his head, giving Jaskier ample time to move, and rested his chin atop Jaskier's hair. The bard hummed contentedly. Eskel decided to take it as a good sign.

"Missed you, dear heart," Jaskier said, words slightly muffled by Eskel's clothing. "Haven't seen you in a while, and the last time I did...well, you weren't in the best of ways."

"Sorry," Eskel mumbled, voice low and husky from not having used it since breakfast with Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir. The sun was setting now, and dinner was fast-approaching.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Jaskier reassured, starting to pull away. 

Eskel immediately dropped his hands, heart sinking when he realized he'd overstayed his welcome. But Jaskier didn't move away completely. His hands drifted from around Eskel's back to the witcher's hips, looking up at him with a soft smile.

"Geralt told me you joined them for breakfast. Please tell me you're staying for dinner, too."

Chewing the raw inside of his cheek, Eskel asked quietly, "Do you want me to?"

A puzzled look plastered itself on Jaskier's face, blatantly disbelieving as he replied, "Of course we do! It's been over a week, Eskel! Your presence is sorely missed during meals."

Eskel paused before nodding. His heart clenched at the thought of actually being missed. No hint of a lie lingered in the air between them, and Eskel found himself desperately wanting to believe that the others valued his presence, despite the heaviness of his eyes reminding him otherwise. "I... Okay."

"Okay?"

Eskel nodded again. "I'll stay for dinner."

Jaskier's smile widened once more. "Great! I'm cooking again tonight. Want to help? I could always use an extra hand or two."

"If you're sure," he replied warily. 

"Of course I'm sure!" Jaskier grabbed his hand and pulled him in the direction of the sink. "Here," he said, taking a bowl of vegetables Eskel hadn't noticed from one of the counters and handing it to him. "Wash these then slice them. Meanwhile, I'm going to get started on this lovely pair of pheasants Vesemir caught for us."

The two of them fell into a companionable rhythm, Jaskier humming as he seasoned the pheasants while Eskel washed the dirt and grime from the vegetables. The monotony of it all tugged at Eskel's shoulders, and he found himself lightly swaying, eyelids growing heavier and heavier. Each time he noticed, he would clench a fist tight enough that his nails dug into his skin, not enough to draw blood but enough for the sharp pain to wake him up again. He didn't like resorting to this low of a method, but he needed to stay awake for Jaskier, if not to avoid those wretched thoughts.

"Hold me.
Whatever lies beyond this morning,
Is a little later on."

Eskel tilted his head slightly to the side, focusing on Jaskier as the bard sang softly. He probably shouldn't pry - Jaskier only sang quietly if he was working on a song - but it was almost too quiet in the kitchen, and he felt hard-pressed to break the silence.

"New song?" Eskel asked, voice hardly above a murmur.

He heard Jaskier startle, but the other man didn't scold Eskel for scaring him. "Huh? Oh! Yes, it is, in fact! It's still in the beginning phases, but I plan to have it done by the end of the month."

"Inspired by Geralt or...?"

Jaskier chuckled from behind him. "A good bard never reveals his muse, my dear, but I'll take pity on you just this once. No, it was not inspired by Geralt."

"Hm." Eskel fell quiet for a moment before whispering, "I'm looking forward to hearing it."

Jaskier didn't respond immediately. A lump appeared in Eskel's throat, a vice grip tightening around his heart as he feared he may have overstepped. He didn't want to pressure Jaskier into singing for him, didn't want Jaskier to feel like he had to share all of his songs. And who was Eskel to demand Jaskier to play for him? He should be considered lucky enough to be able to spend even this amount of time with the bard. Jaskier was famous around the Continent, well-loved, while Eskel was nothing but a horrid, ugly witcher worth less than the dirt on the bottom of a farmer's shoe. He didn't deserve to ask Jaskier to play for him, didn't deserve to be in the bard's presence. What had he been thinking-?

Strong arms gently wrapped themselves around Eskel's abdomen, a head pressed between his shoulder blades. Eskel stilled, hands hovering over the vegetables on the cutting board. He glanced down to see Jaskier's hands just barely managing to wrap fully around his bulk, but the younger man didn't seem to mind. A happy hum came from behind him, Eskel's mouth drying at the sound.

"Jask...?" he asked cautiously, not wanting to scare the bard off because even though he really didn't deserve this amount of affection, he couldn't deny that he really wanted it, and Jaskier was offering so-

"I love you, Esk." 

Eskel swallowed thickly. "Are...Are you okay?"

Jaskier gave an abrupt laugh. "Am I okay? I'm fine, my dear. I just had the sweetest witcher in the world tell me he was looking forward to hearing my music. The question is, are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you," Jaskier snorted. "You've been isolating yourself, dear. We haven't seen you as much. We're worried."

We're worried, Jaskier had said. "We," as if he meant himself and everyone in the keep, as if his brothers and Vesemir really worried about him. He thought back to earlier that morning, when Geralt had pressed his foot against Eskel's, but he quickly shook the memory from his mind. It didn't mean anything, not when he didn't deserve it. The others would figure that out soon, and Eskel dreaded the moment they did.

"I'm fine."

Jaskier let out a deep, resigned sigh. "Yeah, so you've said." Jaskier gave his waist a tight squeeze before releasing him. "Well, if there ever is anything wrong," he continued, voice drifting as he moved back to his pheasants, "I'm always open to listening."

Eskel chewed on the raw flesh on the inside of his cheek. He already craved the warmth Jaskier's hold had provided, protecting him from the chill of the keep. "Thanks, Jask."

"Of course, love. Anytime. Now, what do you think, stew or a whole meal?"

~~~~~~~

By this point, Eskel was a little sick and tired of liquid food, despite only having eaten porridge and now Jaskier's pheasant stew, but he couldn't deny the calming warmth it gave as it chased away the bitter chill that had settled in his bones. He hummed softly, stomach protesting a little less after having adjusted a bit more to food from eating breakfast.

Beside him, Lambert chatted with Jaskier, who sat across from Eskel. Sitting diagonally from Eskel, Geralt was engaged in a conversation with Vesemir, a series of hums and grunts filling the pauses as the two least talkative residents of the keep tried to communicate. Some days, the effort would be amusing to watch, but he chose to focus on Lambert and Jaskier's conversation instead.

"What was her name?" Jaskier asked, a coy smile growing on his lips as he leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand and placing his elbow on the table.

"Does it fucking matter?" Lambert grumbled, swirling his spoon in his stew and watching chunks of meat and vegetables spin.

"Yes! You're blushing!"

"Witchers don't blush, you asshole."

"On the contrary, my dear. Your ears are red!"

Lambert's ears were not, in fact, red, but Eskel couldn't help the small smirk when Lambert's scowl grew. Jaskier caught Eskel's eyes and sent a wink. A weight settled in Eskel's chest. He resisted the urge to rub it away and gave a slight smile to Jaskier in return.

"Callonetta," Lambert eventually murmured.

Jaskier gasped loudly, catching Geralt and Vesemir's attention. "You did not!"

Lambert frowned, eyebrows drawing into a confused line. "Uh...yeah? She came up to me in Novigrad." 

"That hypocrite!" Jaskier turned to Geralt, who raised an eyebrow at Jaskier's indignant face. "Priscilla is definitely going to hear my mouth next time we see her."

Geralt rolled his eyes. "She was going to hear your mouth anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"You never stop talking."

"Who the fuck is Priscilla?" Lambert interjected, cutting off Jaskier's impending rant if the bard's spluttering was any indication.

"Jaskier's bard friend. Graduated from Oxenfurt together," Geralt answered, hiding a smirk in his mug of ale as Jaskier silently fumed beside him.

"She said I was the desperate one approaching you in Posada, but then she goes and woos Lambert- "

"Well, hold the fuck on. No one wooed anybody. We got drunk then fucked. There was no wooing."

"The audacity of this man!" Jaskier ranted, throwing his hands up in the air. 

Eskel shifted uncomfortably. His eyes kept dropping downwards, no doubt from the bags lurking beneath them. Eskel tried to keep some manners within Kaer Morhen, like keeping his elbows off the table, but when his head started to become too heavy to hold up, he allowed himself one arm beside his bowl, propping his chin in his hand. Gaze drifting lazily between the others, Eskel wracked his brain for a half-decent excuse to escape. He couldn't be here, not when the shadows in the corners of the room were starting to take shape more and more with every passing second. 

"I've had just about enough from your mouth, you heathen," Jaskier huffed, jabbing a finger in Lambert's direction when the witcher opened his mouth to speak. Lambert merely looked at him with an unimpressed look on his face, rolling his eyes when Jaskier turned away from him, shifting his body to face Eskel entirely. Eskel swallowed thickly and prepared for whatever scolding may come from Jaskier.

"What about you, Esk? How was your year on the Path?" At this, the rest of the table turned their eyes to him, and the room suddenly felt much colder than before.

Taking a moment to chew on his cheek, Eskel searched for a decent enough answer that didn't involve mentioning the... Fuck. "It was... uneventful."

Snorts came from Lambert and Geralt's spots at the table, while Jaskier visibly deflated, a pout on his face. The weight grew heavier in his chest. What had he said wrong?

"Oh, come on. Surely something must have happened," Jaskier prodded, bringing his other elbow on the table and leaning further. 

Eskel shook his head slowly, ignoring the hulking mass forming in the far corner of the room. "Not really," he replied, shrugging one shoulder. "Can't remember anything special. Mostly just drowners and kikimores, maybe a griffin or cockatrice here and there." Most of it was true, but the lies by omission felt bitter on his tongue.

Jaskier sighed, clearly disappointed. "You witchers are the least forthcoming when it comes to immortalizing your heroics feats in song. Honestly, how can a bard survive when his darling muses refuse to be anything but cooperative?"

"By getting new muses," Geralt scoffed into his mug.

Lambert snickered as Jaskier spluttered. Vesemir shook his head, huffing a resigned breath at their antics, more keen on watching them go back and forth than participate in the conversation himself. Eskel shifted again, feet angling towards the entryway. The hand not holding up his chin clenched into a fist, letting his nails dig into his skin as a way to startle himself awake like he did earlier. It wasn't working. The shadow in the corner stalked the dark edges of the room. Eskel focused on the bright bard in front of him.

"Very well," Jaskier sighed, "but if you remember anything..."

Eskel offered up a tired smile. "You'll be the first to know, Jask," he agreed softly. 

Jaskier gave a bright, toothy grin. "I'm looking forward to it." With that, he turned to the rest of the table. "On another note, is it not fucking cold for the rest of you? Dear Gods, what is the point of having walls if it's going to feel as though I'm sleeping in the blizzard outside? Honestly, I might as well."

"It could be arranged," Geralt muttered. Lambert snickered.

Vesemir rolled his eyes. "Does the fireplace not work in your room, bard?" he asked sarcastically.

"Ordinarily, it would. But alas, I have run out of wood to use."

"There should be some by the hearth in the library. All the shared wood goes there," Lambert said, picking at the remnants of his dinner. 

"None left. I checked last night."

Geralt hummed. "Should be able to head outside tomorrow."

Eskel already knew what Geralt was proposing. By midday tomorrow, the witchers should be able to withstand the aftermath of the blizzard, but would still be far too cold for Jaskier - not to mention how drenched his clothes would get from the height of the snow. The witchers were much more tolerant of extreme weather than the bard was. They would likely be put to work as soon as possible.

Judging by how hard it was now to avoid face-planting into his stew, Eskel knew he wouldn't be able to keep up with his brothers during their more arduous tasks, like fixing the roof or patching holes in the walls. Those chores required much more physical labor and strength than Eskel could offer. He ignored the claustrophobic feeling in his chest at that thought, clenched his fists tighter, and said,

"I'll gather more wood tomorrow then and make sure you have an extra stack of your own in your room."

Jaskier brightened, Lambert's indignant "What?!" and Geralt's pout frown disregarded by the bard. "That would be great, love! Thank you! Although, you don't need to put an extra stack in my room. I have no problem sharing from the communal supply in the library."

"Yeah. Why does he get his own stack? What about the rest of us?" Lambert huffed, elbowing Eskel in the side. Eskel jerked, and where he would have retaliated, he simply let out a half-hearted breath of laughter. Lambert furrowed his eyebrows, seemingly having been expecting a fight. He opened his mouth to say something, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by Vesemir.

"Have you forgotten, pup, that humans are more susceptible to the cold? Surely you wouldn't want to wake up with a frozen bard in the room across from yours because you talked Eskel out of giving Jaskier wood for his fireplace?"

"That's not what I said!" Lambert squawked over the sound of Jaskier's delighted laughter and Geralt's own huff of amusement. Eskel watched the table continue to bicker back and forth, a warmth filling inside of him at the same time as a chill crashed over his whole body.

Joy sparked within his chest as dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. Eskel loved nothing more than his family, desired nothing more throughout the year than the chance to see them together over the winter. He used to think he fit beside them, that he had a place within their merry band of misfits, but, oh, how he'd been wrong. 

The shadow crept closer, sticking to the edges of the room until it disappeared from his view. Shivers ran up his spine, the chill of the figure's stare pinning him down from behind. He could almost hear the thumps and crunching of footsteps as heavy paws trudged towards him. Body taut and rigid, Eskel held his breath, frozen as the beast loomed over his shoulder, snout just barely within his peripheral sight-

"Eskel?"

Eskel sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flickering to Jaskier, who was openly staring at him with concern. He'd caught the rest of the table's attention, too. He blinked, intelligently asking, "Huh?"

Jaskier furrowed his eyebrows, a small frown crossing his lips. "You blanked out there for a moment. Are you alright?"

"Um..." He could no longer feel the cold presence of the amarok lumbering over him, the silhouette gone from the shadows of the dining hall. "Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." Standing, Eskel grabbed his bowl and said, "I'm gonna head off for the night."

"So soon?"

His grip on his bowl tightened imperceptibly. Dammit, Jaskier. Why can't you leave well enough alone? As soon as the thought came, he wiped it away. It wasn't Jaskier's fault. He was only worried. Why, Eskel had no idea, but it settled warmly in his chest, anyway. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," he assured the bard. It didn't feel like something worth saying, like seeing Eskel was something to look forward to, but he figured that, at this point, it would put the bard a little more at ease. He didn't understand it, didn't see how he could possibly bring any comfort to the others, but he said it anyway in hopes that Jaskier would back off and allow him to escape. 

The bard pouted, but he didn't argue any further. "Okay," he sighed, Eskel's heart twinging at the saddened tone. "See you in the morning."

Eskel nodded, ignoring the skeptical looks shot his way by Vesemir and his brothers, and headed towards the kitchen. He deposited his empty bowl in the washbasin and heaved a deep breath. After a moment of collecting his thoughts, he turned on his heel and slinked out of the kitchen, waving good night to the others as he passed through the dining area to get to the hallway. 

Darkness shrouded the corridor, shadows creeping up the wall and looming over him on the ceiling. Eyes watched him as he stumbled his way towards the stairs, eyelids growing heavier with every passing step. Little figures darted in and out of his vision. Hallucinations, maybe, from exhaustion, but he didn't think so. The figures weren't shaped like the beast that haunted his nightmares. No, it was something much worse, which he hadn't thought was possible until he reached the base of the stairs.

Eskel looked up, and at the landing above him, a small, translucent figure stared down at him. Little, not only in size, but age, too. A child. A boy child. He looked almost the same as when Eskel last saw him, the sight of him as fresh in his mind as the weight of the body felt in his arms. The closer Eskel looked, the better able he was to pick out the gash slowly slitting across the child's abdomen, eviscerating the boy right before Eskel's very eyes. Various cuts and bite marks sprouted all over the boy's body, and his mouth fell into an open scream. A spike of terror flooded through Eskel's veins as he braced himself for the ear-piercing shriek.

Nothing came.

The apparition of the boy lasted mere seconds, from appearance to near-scream, but Eskel's body swayed like he'd stood there for hours. Then, as quickly as the boy first appeared, he vanished, leaving behind a vivid memory of a horror Eskel would prefer to forget. 

He bent his head to glance down, lifting his shaking hands into view. If he thought hard enough, he could see the blood staining his hands like they had only days ago. The boy, he remembered him. How could he forget? How could he forget how it felt when the boy trembled from the cold, the blood loss, and the struggle to breathe all at once? How could he forget how the sound of the child's last intake of air? How could he forget the overwhelming stench of copper flooding his nose?

"A h-hero…”

I'm no hero.

The urge to close his eyes overtook him for just a moment, taking advantage of his desire to rest. Bloody images flicked through his mind, children with faces he couldn't quite make out, but their corpses all too clear. His eyes shot open, a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth. He jolted, legs staggering forward as he scrambled to retreat to his room. The corridor was silent now, barren of any fragile figures or hulking beasts. Distantly, he knew he left the hallway reeking of fear, but he couldn't bring himself to care, not when his breaths came short and fast, but at least he could breathe, unlike the children rotting in the snow-

He shut his door with more force than he intended, absentmindedly lighting a candle with a short, slightly uncontrolled spark of Igni. He flinched at the loud thud but didn't do much else besides sliding down the wood until he sat on the floor. He tilted his head back against the door, gritting his teeth as he fought the need to close his eyes in despair. Instead, his eyes burned; the ghost of tears he wasn't physically capable of threatened to form. His world blurred, from the exhaustion and the lack of air. He wanted to welcome it, wanted to embrace the darkness of unconsciousness, but he didn't know what horrors awaited him in that sort of deep sleep. He recalled the nightmare - the memory? The flashback? - he'd had when he woke up on the table in Kaer Morhen on the first night. He didn't want to go through that again, didn't want to risk it.

Eskel shuddered, clasping his hands in front of his face as he stared distantly at his bed. His room was cold, wind seeping in through the tiniest cracks in keep's walls. He glanced over his unlit fireplace and the stack of logs next to it. Pursing his lips, he wondered. He wasn't going to sleep tonight, that much was for sure. He didn't want to spend the next several hours in his room, either. And it didn't matter if he was cold now or not, he didn't deserve to light his fireplace. Not when the kids were-

But Jaskier, on the other hand, had said that the nights were particularly freezing, and the bard loved his sleep. Mind made up, Eskel stood on unsteady legs and staggered towards the logs, unwilling to focus on how darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, or how his muscles were starting to protest at the movement. He was getting weaker, he knew, but sleep was far out of his reach, no matter how close it seemed. 

Gathering the logs in his arms, Eskel managed to open his door and make his way across the hall to Jaskier's room. He opened the bard's door, too, and dropped the logs off next to his fireplace. He turned to leave, only to hesitate. If he left the logs there, Jaskier would likely burst into his room later on when he finally came upstairs to throw the wood back at Eskel, preaching something about him needing to be warm as well and self-sacrificial witchers and whatnot. That was a scenario Eskel really wanted to avoid, even if he couldn't understand why Jaskier would act that way or say those things. So Eskel decided to give him no choice.

He turned back to the fireplace and threw a few logs inside. He signed Igni, only the controlled burst he'd intended to conjure ended up exploding his face, nearly burning him and the carpet below him.

"Fuck," Eskel hissed, jerking back as he glared at his offending hands. They shook like leaves in a storm, almost begging him to stop using them. He blinked slowly, not immediately understanding why his Igni failed that way. He was fatigued, yes, but surely that wasn't enough to get his Signs to fail, was it?

He didn't want to risk it. Instead of attempting again and potentially lighting Jaskier's room on fire, Eskel glanced around, searching for the flint the bard typically used. On some occasions, Jaskier would ask one of the witchers to light it for him, or they would offer to do it themselves, but on nights when the bard was up later than the rest of them or simply relaxing in his room, Jaskier would regularly use flint to get his fire up and going.

So where the fuck was it?

Eskel stumbled around the room, hands grasping weakly at every sturdy piece of furniture he passed in an attempt to hold himself up. His legs trembled beneath him, enervated from the lack of rest. It'd been literal days since he'd gotten a full night's sleep, one free of any nightmares. His body suffered the consequences, and with each passing minute, he felt compelled to give in, but the memories and tainted images flashed behind closed eyes and the urge fled. 

Whole body trembling, Eskel's hand wrapped around the flint sitting on Jaskier's bedside table, the steel attached by a short leather tie. He made his way back to the fireplace, unsteady on his feet, and collapsed rather than knelt on the floor. Striking the flint took more tries than he was comfortable admitting, but a spark eventually caught, and he stoked the fire until it was roaring in front of him. For a moment, he sat still (or as still as he could be with a body wracked by tremors of exertion) and watched the mesmerizing flames flicker and crackle, consuming the logs beneath it.

The height of the fire, the heat of it, the color and sounds...It reminded him of a smaller form of Igni. And, well, it was, technically, but more specifically, it reminded him of the Igni he couldn't make anymore, the Igni that didn't kill the amarok, the Igni that was once able to devour almost the entirety of Kaer Morhen but couldn't finish off a mythical beast. He used to be called the Dragon of Kaer Morhen. His talent with Igni impressed even his Signs teacher. What was he now without it? Just another witcher? Or just another kid who should have perished during the Trials? Only the weak died, and surely Eskel was weak. After all, he would have died, should have died, had Geralt not come to save him.

Yeah, he should have died in the forest. He should've died a long time ago.

With a shake of his head, Eskel clambered to his feet. He thought to return the flint and steel to Jaskier's bedside, but the simple, ten-step walk to the nightstand seemed like an exhaustive trek. He settled for placing the flint on the fireplace mantle. He'll apologize for misplacing it if Jaskier ever mentioned it. Taking one last glance at the blazing fire, Eskel heaved a resigned sigh and finally made his way from Jaskier's room, shutting the door behind him to trap in the heat.

From his spot outside Jaskier's quarters, he could see the faint glow of the candle he'd half-heartedly lit illuminating his room. It may have seemed inviting, but he knew what awaited him just beyond that heavy oaken door: a night of loneliness and hallucinations, haunting memories and restless pacing. Suddenly, that dim light didn't seem as welcoming as before. Gnawing at his cheek, Eskel decided to head elsewhere in the keep. Where, he had no clue. His feet would decide where to take him; that is, if they didn't give out before he got there.

If there were shadows reaching for him, he didn't notice. His blinks gradually slowed, eyes nearly shutting for more than a second before he slammed them back open again. The images would come if he didn't, and the impression of the boy's ghost lingered too freshly in his mind for him to feel even slightly comfortable with gathering some much-needed reprieve. Much-needed, but much-deserved? Not likely.

Eskel groaned lowly, a tortured sound reverberating off the cold walls. In the distance, he could hear the others starting to shuffle out of the library and to their rooms for the night. His mouth dried. How long had he taken to light Jaskier's fireplace? He staggered away from the bedrooms as fast as his weary body would allow. He wanted to get away from them, put as much distance between himself and the others as he could. The less he saw of them, the less likely hard questions would be asked. He wanted to spend more time with them, yes, but, as of right now, he wanted to avoid the scrutiny more. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

He took one of the long, winding paths through the keep, leading himself back to the kitchen. He bet the dishes were still there. It had become a nightly ritual at this point, and someone was bound to notice, but who cared if they did? Who complained about dishes being washed? Certainly not Vesemir, given that he was always the one trying to get him and his brothers to do it without being asked. 

Eskel huffed, casting a forlorn glance at the dining hall as he passed through. The shadows nearly encased the entire room now, figures hard to make out when everything melded together. In a way, it was a good thing. He wouldn't have to worry about a massive beast or a small child when the shadows were too vast to form a specific silhouette. At the same time, though, it also shrouded the room in darkness, leaving little to the imagination, nothing to preoccupy Eskel's mind from his own intrusive thoughts. He gnawed on his cheek, flinching at the slight coppery taste flooding his mouth, and continued on into the kitchen. 

Just as he predicted, bowls and mugs and utensils piled up in the washbasin, ready and waiting to be cleaned, dried, and stored away. It wasn't as much as the first supper of the season, given that tonight wasn't as large of a feast, but if Eskel moved slowly enough, he could prolong the task to perhaps the middle of the night if he so chose. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to be.

With a heavy sigh, Eskel rolled up his sleeves and set to work. He swayed as he picked up bowls and dragged the washcloth over them. The darkness of the kitchen threatened to lull him asleep; he had half a mind to light a candle or two, but his Igni was shit and it had taken him over an hour to conjure a spark from Jaskier's flint and steel (which he didn't have currently). Darkness, then. He'd have to be a little more resolute in his avoidance of rest.

Time passed slowly, almost not moving at all. Or maybe it was, and he just couldn't tell. The moon wasn't visible from his position, so he had no clue as to what point in the night it was. Five minutes could have passed just as easily as five hours had. Eskel didn't know. What he did know was that, right when the telltale sounds of children screaming started to echo in his ears, light footfalls broke the silence.

Eskel's breath caught, and his hands stilled on the mug in his grasp. The footfalls grew closer, light and quiet, but not crunching on snow and not as heavy as...Who would be up at this time of night? Sure, Eskel was, but he had a reason. So who was-?

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Eskel startled, dropping the mug in the basin with a loud thunk. A whispered, "Fuck!" tumbled from his lips as he whipped around, coming face-to-face with Lambert, who was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. His brother's eyebrows furrowed, clearly displeased at the scene in front of him.

"What the hell, Lambert?" Eskel hissed, unable to stop the annoyed remark from slipping past his exhausted defenses.

Lambert scoffed. "You didn't answer my question. Why are you up? You said you were going to sleep hours ago."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't," Eskel snapped, clenching his jaw. Deep down, he was aware of how irrational he was acting, but he couldn't seem to stop himself, mouth moving without him asking it to.

"So you decide to come wash dishes? How often have you been doing that, anyway? Since you got to the keep? Are you the reason the dishes from the night before are mysteriously gone the next morning?" 

Rapid-fire accusations flew at Eskel, muddled brain scrambling to catch up. "Fuck off. What does it matter to you?"

Lambert narrowed his eyes. "You haven't been sleeping at all."

"You don't know that."

"Right, because I'm so fucking stupid and blind to not see how you can barely keep yourself up straight, or how sunken in your eyes are. Get a grip, Eskel," Lambert snarled, his own scented anger starting to flood the air between them, mixing in with Eskel's ire. 

"It's none of your fucking concern," Eskel growled, fists clenching at his sides. His nails dug into his palms, threatening to break skin. Once upon a time, the pain would wake him up. Now, he didn't think anything short of a not-so-extinct monster could revive his dwindling energy.

Lambert shook his head, crossing his arms. "Something's wrong with you."

"Fuck you."

"You haven't been acting the same since you got here." Lambert pushed off the doorway with his shoulder and took a step forward into the kitchen, effectively blocking Eskel from escaping. On a good day, Eskel's superior bulk and strength would have shouldered Lambert out of the way easily. Tonight was definitely not a good night.

"I'm fine."

Lambert's expression darkened. "Bull. Shit."

"I'm fine," Eskel repeated, voice growing lower and more threatening than he could ever remember it being. Anger flooded him, irrational anger. Eskel didn't get angry. He never liked the feeling of a pounding heart and tense muscles, never liked lashing out uncontrollably. Eskel was calm, kind, sturdy. Who the fuck was he right now, and why couldn't he stop snapping at his younger brother, who may be a prick but whom Eskel loved dearly? Why didn't he feel compelled to?

A deep, ragged breath escaped Lambert's lungs. "You're not going to make me do this," he whispered, but his tone was anything but gentle, more accusing and disbelieving. "You are not going to make me do this twice in less than a month."

Eskel rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "What the fuck are you are talking about?"

"Go to sleep, Eskel," Lambert said, voice quiet but edged with something dangerous.

Eskel narrowed his eyes. "No."

"I'm giving you one last chance. Now."

"You don't fucking get to tell me what the hell to do, Lambert," Eskel snarled, muscles tensing for a fight he would never win in this condition.

"Good thing I'm not fucking telling you anymore." Before Eskel could stop him, Lambert's hands formed into the shape of an all too familiar Sign. "Somne."

Fear immediately overrode anger, spiking through his chest like a heart attack in the second it took for Lambert's Somne to take hold. He could barely think a terrified "No!" before his whole world went dark. Sleep welcomed him, and deep down, it was what Eskel had wanted for days now. But at what cost? The growling of a mythical beast and the screams of children told him, "Too high."