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A Witcher’s senses are such delicate things. It takes great strength to bear them, to adapt to the constant, overwhelming input that never ceases. Time does not make the burden easier, only more familiar, the minutest of changes becoming commonplace enough to sometimes fade into the background, sometimes not. The less rest he has had, the harder Geralt finds it to quiet the cacophony in his mind, to make the sounds less painful, touch less abrasive, the light quieter, and smells less insulting. Come the second sunrise without rest, he is frayed, held together only by the determination to take just one more step, just one more, towards where he needs to be.
The town lies ahead. He can hear it already, sharp sounds cutting through him, the familiar scent of human habitation forming a force that he has to push against to make headway. Roach is tired too, moreso than him, so he wants to spare her, but the last mile down into the hollow that cradles the town seems like a thousand leagues. He mounts Roach, keeping her to the grass as he has done since nightfall, the clip of her hooves against the stones too jarring to bear. He knows there is an inn. He doesn’t know if he will be able to sleep once he reaches it, but he knows he has to get there. Lambert is waiting for him, for the information he brings.
Lambert… it will be good to see his brother after so many hard months. Gerald pulls the hood of his cloak up, sheltering his eyes from the overcast sky and finding it does less to ease the discomfort than he’d hoped. No matter, he tells himself. This journey is almost done. He might be able to snatch some brief rest before the next begins.
He’s been here before. An old memory helps guide him to the inn as much as the overwhelming scent of stale beer and human sourness. The stable is dry, and clean enough, at least. The inn itself…
When he reaches the door, Geralt finds that he couldn’t care less. A jolt of unease hits him at exactly the same moment as unexpected elation, the noise and pain dulling for a moment as he recognises the scent. Eskel. Eskel is here, instead of Lambert, and he needs to know why, but at the same time he is glad to know that Eskel is safe. The inn is quiet, even for this time of day, a mercy Geralt will reflect on if he ever has the time later. In the far corner a figure rises to greet him, and Geralt barely remembers the steps he takes to close the distance between them.
“Wolf,” Eskel murmurs, embracing Geralt. The warm, comforting scent of home rises up from him, and Geralt grips hard at the embrace, sighing as he realises he doesn’t have the strength to pull away.
“Lambert?” he needs to know.
Eskel breaks the embrace for him. “He had to go west, asked me to come in his place. We’ll meet him in ten days time.”
Geralt nods. “He’s well?”
“Last I saw.”
All he can do is nod again, grateful for the news but almost too tired to share his. He sinks onto the rickety bench and finds broth and bread before him as he begins. It makes for a sombre meal, Eskel’s gaze on him the whole time Geralt speaks.
“We have to act sooner than we thought, then,” Eskel says.
“We do.”
“Get some rest first though. You look as if you haven’t slept in a week.”
It feels like it. The stairs are too loud, too jarring, beneath Geralt’s feet as he climbs them, his body leaden, the last of his energy slipping from him as water from a net now that his task is done. Somewhere nearby a pot clatters from its stand and bangs against a stone floor, making him wince, and even though Eskel is gentle with the door the sound of the key in the lock scrapes against the inside of his skull. The fresh straw crackles beneath his weight as he settles on the bed, the scent of the room’s last occupants lingering on the cloth.
“Too fucking loud,” he snarls.
“Shall we leave?” Eskel offers.
“No,” Geralt dismisses. “Just…” He hesitates, wishing he’d drunk more water. “Can you come here? Just until I’ve fallen asleep.”
Eskel smiles in answer, moving softly towards the bed without offering any further comment. Geralt is thankful for the understanding, at least of his need not to share words. They settle, as they have done a handful of times before, face to face, and Geralt lets his eyes fall closed, the steadiness of Eskel’s breathing the first soothing sound he’s heard in days. The touch of fingers against his is too raw for his frayed nerves, but he doesn’t pull away.
It’s Eskel’s scent that helps him sleep. It’s the warm, rich, steadying comfort of it that allows him to relax, to fill his senses with something pleasant and reassuring. Geralt knows thousands of scents and smells, but there is no name for Eskel’s, beyond the one he came to know it by years and years ago. He doesn’t know if Eskel realises, if he knows, or if he would care should he finds out. He wonders if one day he’ll ever tell him.
But, for now, Geralt falls asleep, his mind filled with the thing he loves most: Home.