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Feral Creatures and Thunderstorms
Rain pelted Eskel as he forced his way through the storm, Scorpion wearily trudging behind him. The drops were the size of peas, and the only upside Eskel could find was that the water was warm enough. It was a summer storm, after all.
However, the rain had come on almost too fast to be natural, barely any humidity hailing it in. Lightning flashed, illuminating the path ahead, a path that was now churned and ankle-deep in mud, no longer the gentle dusty road Eskel and Scorpion had been walking along together.
Worse, there was no shelter. Barely a bush lined the sides of the road, open moorland stretching vast and empty on either side of them. In the distance, a lightning flashed, fire caught, and then dimmed, the rain suffocating it’s light. It was for the best, Eskel knew. Better the rain put the fire out than have it rage across the moor, eating any living thing that came before it.
Sighing, Eskel kept his head ducked, one arm raised to protect his face from the lashing of the rain. He could barely peer around his arm, so close was it pushed to his head from the howling wind, but he and his horse pressed on. They could not be out in the open in a storm. It was far too dangerous.
Gritting his teeth, Eskel dropped his elbow, dashed his sodden hair from his eyes. It didn’t help his visibility, but it meant he was no longer squinting against the irritation. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he prepared to continue onwards. But then he paused, stilled, tilted his nose forward and sniffed again. There was something in the air, something living but not animal… It was sweat and blood and life… Human (Ish).
If there was a living being nearby, there had to be shelter. Hope rising within him – even a Witcher couldn’t withstand a storm such as this for any period of time – Eskel began sniffing the air like a wolf, dropping Scorpion’s reigns so that he could follow without dragging his horse with him. The closer to the edge of the path he got, the stronger the smell. He was heading towards an outcropping of rock that led to a sheer drop on the other side.
Carefully, so as not to lose his balance on the moss-slippery boulders, Eskel leaned over the edge. Fingers gripping tightly, fingers freezing even through his leather gloves, he peered down. The rain made it difficult to see, but he was certain there was nothing at the bottom save for a ditch collecting stale brown water, churning with the pounding rain. No one was visible. Perhaps there was a cave in the rockface, invisible from his birds-eye vantage.
Backing slowly from the edge, Eskel regained stable footing and immediately began looking for a path down the cliff. Lightning flashed in the sky as he spotted it, shallow enough that he could guide a horse down, so long as he didn’t mount it. That was fine; he didn’t want to be struck by lightning, after all.
Together, just barely keeping from slipping and sliding, he and Scorpion – he found himself infinitely grateful that he had left Lil’ Bleater at Kaer Morhen this year – made it to the bottom. Purple heather – leached grey and watery by the rain – squelched beneath their feet as they made their way towards the ditch, water turned cold by contact with the ground seeping into Eskel’s boots, causing his stockings to stick, his toes to curl.
Eventually, Eskel was standing by the bank of the ditch, peering up at the rockface. Raindrops falling into his eyes made it difficult to see, but he was almost certain that there were no openings up there. Yet he could still smell the living being. Where was it?
Sighing, Eskel ushered Scorpion to hunker down within the bushes growing by the rockface, just enough space for the horse to slip behind them and lie down. Taking the blanket out, he spread it over Scorpion, patted the gelding’s nose, and turned back to the ditch.
From within the thorns, it was more difficult to make his way over, but he managed it. Scratches were etched into the supple leather, but the boots were so old they were falling apart anyway. What was some more damage, when the soles had already been stitched on by his own messy hand in the wilderness?
Back at the edge of the ditch, Eskel realised he would have to get closer to the rockface, perhaps even scale it. It wasn’t an activity he was looking forward to in the weather, but it didn’t appear as if he had much choice. Flattened between the gorse and the rockface, Scorpion would be fine for the night, if terribly wet. Eskel was still vulnerable. If there was any chance at finding shelter, he had to take it.
Carefully, he stepped forward, searching for solid ground before allowing any weight to rest on his foot. The water was churning harshly enough that he couldn’t see the bottom, thick brown swirls dancing in the water, meaning there was no chance of spotting any sharp rock or blades dropped within. Bubbles jumped playfully over the surface, the foam of them locking around his ankles like lacy manacles, holding him in place.
Something was wrong. Eskel could feel it.
Then, before he could even blink, a sharp tug was being given to his ankle and he was toppling backwards.
Water rose up around him, a waterfall in reverse, until gravity caught it, pulled it back downwards. It washed over his face, plugging his nose, creeping past his lips. There was rot on his tongue, dead leaves and stale water. He spluttered, hands flying backwards to press against the ground, push himself up.
Only he couldn’t do that. Something was straddling his chest, considerable strength pressing knees like mace-heads into his ribs. Furious, Eskel let out a growl, a low rumble in his throat that could certainly be felt in his chest. His assailant, whoever they were, would feel it certainly, would know it was not just an ordinary human they had ambushed, but a Witcher. They would be sorry, would scramble back and let him go, they would—
Eskel froze once more, statue-still. A sharp line of ice kissed his throat, a warning and a promise. With the way he was pinned, blood would be gushing before he could even push the man back, spilling vivid red into the little ditch.
Cursing himself for his stupidity, Eskel raised his hands until they were breaking the surface, open in surrender. Slowly, so slowly he didn’t dare breathe, the other man leaned down closer, close enough that Eskel could smell the rusty-iron that rose from him, warm even through the shivers that trembled his attacker’s frame.
When the man was so close they were chest-to-chest, his sodden hair tickling Eskel’s ear, he breathed out. His breath was warm and clammy, kissing over Eskel’s skin.
“What do you want with me?” the voice asked. It was deep, edged, but nowhere near as rough as Eskel expected. “You’ve been following me for days.”
Confused, Eskel frowned. He made to tilt his head, but thought better of it when freezing dirty water streamed into his eye.
“I can assure you, I have not,” Eskel promised, squinting as his assailant leaned back up. The man was silhouetted against the melancholy sky, his face invisible in the light. Lightning flashed, and Eskel caught only a glimpse of blue before the light was lost to him once more. “I didn’t expect to find anyone out in this storm.”
“You’re meaning to tell me,” the voice sounded amused, and Eskel was certain that an eyebrow was raised in his direction. “That you are not the unmistakeably huge man who has been following me all day, who must have been the one to throw me over the side of that rock facing there—” he jabbed a finger of his free hand towards the wall beside them, “—and thieve from me what few funds I had left?”
“I guess he wasn’t as unmistakeable as you thought,” his shoulders shrugged of their own accord, rolling water over his chin. “I don’t hunt people.”
“If you say so,” the voice sounded dubious, but not as threatening as it had earlier. “If I say I believe you and get off of you, would you be a darling and not throttle me? I’m afraid I rather panicked earlier, which led to me toppling you into this pool, but if you say you’re not the man who threw me off the side – and sound so earnest about it, as well – then I suppose I have to believe you—”
“I won’t hurt you,” Eskel promised, tensing his knees, ready to haul himself out of the chilling water. “Don’t worry.”
“Who’s worrying? I’m not worrying,” the voice informed him, but still the knife vanished, tucked away into a sleeve under a flash of astonishing white. “You’re worrying.”
Still, the figure hitched his leg upwards, rolling off of Eskel and sideways into the water with a splash. Eskel could hear a muttered complaint about ruined clothing, but as it didn’t seem to pertain to him, he ignored it. Instead, he hauled himself upright, frowning down at his sopping clothes. He would have rung them out, if he hadn’t been certain that they would be just as thoroughly soaked after a mere minute of being subjected to the storm still howling.
Finally on his feet, the water dancing around his mid-calves again, Eskel looked down at the other man. He was lying in the water, hair spreading around him like a filthy halo, a brown smudge smeared onto his cheek. Sighing, Eskel reached a hand down to him, but the other man merely batted it away, then waved his hand with a lazy grin.
“No point helping me up, Darling,” he declared, spreading his arms wide. “I may as well die in this ditch as in any. I certainly won’t be getting out of it on my own, anyhow.”
“What do you mean?” Eskel asked, though he wasn’t expecting any answer.
When none came, he knelt down in the pool, ignoring the shiver that racked his body, and fished under the water for the other man’s limbs. Feeling down them, he determined that both arms were fully intact, but when it came to his left leg… The sharp hiss already told him that the man was wounded, but when he pulled the leg out of the water and revealed it to the air, he could see the limb was soundly broken.
Again, to his surprise, instead of a cry of pain or outrage, all he received was a startled, pained yelp, and then a hand reaching towards him, batting his own rough hands away.
“Enough of that, now,” the injured man groaned, extending his hand to Eskel once more. “I suppose, now you’ve discovered my secret, you can help me up. There’s no dignity in dying in a ditch I suppose, is there? Though, it would embarrass my father, which could only be a triumph on my part.”
“Your father?” Eskel blinked, mind swimming. It was very hard to keep up with the talkative man.
“Yes, my father,” the man confirmed, allowing Eskel to pull him upright. Gingerly, he placed some weight on his broken ankle and limped his way out of the ditch, a fair bit of weight leaning on Eskel, but yet still less than he would have expected from someone dressed in such fine, if now ruined, clothing. “The Earl of Lettenhove. Terrible man. Hate him. On my way to see him now, if you would believe.”
“Actually,” Eskel pointed out, guiding the mud-smeared man towards the opening in the gorse where Scorpion was still cowering from the storm, “You’re going to be resting for a while. You certainly can’t make it to Lettenhove on that.”
“Why must people insist on spoiling all my fun?” the man asked, though he sounded resigned to the fact.
Deciding against answering, he led the other man over to Scorpion and then placed him carefully down, ensuring the ever-swelling ankle was not jostled too badly in the process. Leaning against the flank of Scorpion, Lettenhove let out a quiet groan, and then leant forwards again. Picking up the edge of the rough blanket, he ducked himself under it, folding the material in such a way that he wore it like a hood, while still allowing it to cover Scorpion’s steaming flank.
Finally settled, Lettenhove held out a fold of the blanket to Eskel, his offer unmistakeable.
“Wait,” Eskel told him, before wedging himself against the rockface and making his way over to the saddle-bags.
Rummaging within them for a few moments, it wasn’t long before he produced a lantern from within, one large enough that he used it to cover torch-heads in the rain. His brothers had always laughed at him for the invention, but it would come in handy now, maybe even produce enough heat to stifle Lettenhove’s shivers. Whispering igni, he let the lantern catch before closing the door. The flame within was protected, though it danced wildly within its glass prison.
“There,” he whispered, bringing it closer, along with the metal hooked pole he usually used to dangle his small cauldron over the fire, whenever he was cooking. Wedging the pole into the softened ground, he hung the lantern from it and then took up his spot besides Lettenhove, folding the blanket over his own head, making the hood deep enough that his hideously scarred face and cat-slit eyes were hidden from view. “That’s better.”
“Certainly warmer, thank you,” the man agreed, nodding his head. He was still shivering, and in the light of the fire Eskel could see that his lips were tinged blue, his skin clammy and pale. “May I know the name of my rescuer?”
“Eskel,” he responded immediately, tricked into answering merely through the medium of a friendly conversation. How long had it been since someone had treated him to even a kind word? And with this man, all he had to do was keep his face hidden. The idea was tempting, though he knew he would have to come clean soon. After all, he couldn’t leave the man out in the wilderness to die, and he was bound to find out sooner or later Eskel’s true nature, if he didn’t already know it from Eskel’s earlier display. Shaking off his discomfort, he forced a chuckle, added, “Though I hardly rescued you. You would have slit my throat just fine on your own.”
“But then who would drag me from that cesspit?” Lettenhove threw his arms to the side of him, indicating the ditch, then drew them back in with an exaggerated shiver. “No, it is much better that you came along, my dear Eskel.”
“What are you doing out this way, anyway?” Eskel wondered aloud. “There are only poor villages for miles around. A lord like yourself should have little business here.”
“Please, I’m hardly a lord,” Lettenhove scoffed, then appeared to reconsider. “Well, no, I suppose I am. Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Marquis de Lettenhove, at your service,” he sketched as much of a mock-bow as his position would allow for, the blanket slipping off of his head for only a moment, before he struggled back under it. “What I mean is, I’m a travelling bard. Best on the continent!”
There was real joy in his voice, pride of his own accomplishment, but there was something else underneath his tone, something far from pleased. It reeked of bitterness to Eskel, and he could only wonder why.
“I thought that – the White Wolf’s bard, what was his name? Jaskier? – I thought Jaskier was the best bard on the continent.”
“I said what I said,” Pankratz said cryptically, before squirming back further under the blankets. “Good thing my – my lute!”
He leaped up in surprise and Eskel flinched back, only to dash forward to catch him as he put pressure on his swollen ankle and crumpled, a doll falling to the ground.
As Pankratz fell, he grabbed onto Eskel’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. His fingers were freezing points of contact where they brushed his neck, and his eyes went wide when they crept over Eskel’s face. Firelight licked warm orange against his freezing skin, throwing shadows across his face, and Eskel could scarcely think of how grotesque his scars had to look under lightning and flickering flame. Worse, was when their eyes caught, and Pankratz’s once open demeanour began to harden, to close up.
Pushing his sigh back down within him, Eskel managed to lead him back over to Scorpion. To Eskel’s surprise, the lordling went without complaint. There was a pang of nervousness that hit Eskel’s nostrils, but not that sickening shot of terror and disgust that usually assaulted his senses whenever he travelled near humans. Still, reluctance and reticence had swept over Pankratz like a cloak, sealing his lips, forcing his gaze to avert.
“What is it you were looking for?” Eskel asked, giving the lordling some space. Retreating back to his saddle-packs, Eskel fished out his own cloak. It was pitch dark, made of a thick material, and already soaked through. Nevertheless, it would serve to keep the water out of his eyes, so he ducked under it, pulling the hood up as he came back around to Pankratz. The younger man was still averting his eyes, so Eskel sighed, folded to one knee, and reassured him. “I am a Witcher, but I do not hunt men. I know my people – I especially – look fearsome, but I swear I will not hurt you.”
That caught the Marquis’s attention, and he turned his head to finally meet Eskel’s gaze. There was something almost infinitely sad layered underneath the steady look he bestowed upon Eskel, something that was almost pity, but not quite. No, Eskel decided, it wasn’t pity, it was acceptance.
“Oh you stupid, dear, beautiful man,” the lordling assured him, reaching trembling fingers out to dip beneath Eskel’s hood, brush over his maimed cheek. Eskel wanted to duck backwards, but Pankratz’s fingers were so soft, so gentle, that he couldn’t bring himself to move. It had been so long since he had received a touch freely given. “I do not fear you. I have recently realised a relationship with someone dear to me was naught but a lie, and you remind me of him. I didn’t mean to make you feel as if you were lacking in any way.” With one last gentle stroke of his fingertips, Pankratz removed his hand from Eskel’s face, folding it back into the rough fibres of the blanket. “Now, if you would be a dear, could you find my lute case? I fear she’ll not survive this weather.”
Nodding, struck-dumb by Pankratz, Eskel rose from his kneeling position and squelched off towards the ditch. Even in the darkness – ever increasing, what with the drawing of nightfall – it wasn’t difficult for Eskel to pick out the case. It was caught on an outcropping of rock, latches held fast. At least the lute hadn’t tipped out and shattered against the ground, delicate instruments that they were. Unfortunately, it was too high up to reach. He would have to climb the rock-face.
Glancing back, Eskel saw Pankratz watching him, hovering over the tops of the gorse, wobbling enough that Eskel knew he was balancing on his one good leg. Shaking his head with a soft huff, he steeled himself for the cold, and then waded into the ditch. It rushed up to his calves, then to his knees, his cloak swirling across the surface as if coal dust had just been poured over the top. In the bright flashes, Eskel could admit that it looked almost beautiful.
It wasn’t long before he reached the cliff-face. It was rugged, knobbly and would have been easy to climb, if it weren’t shiny with water, miniature rivers running over its face, cascading down with such fury they became tiny waterfalls. Carefully, Eskel picked out where to put his feet, where to wedge the toes of his boots, which craggy lumps in the walls he could tighten his fingers around. Before he knew it, he was hanging off the wall in desperation, stretching one hand out almost further than his body wanted to stretch, fingertips just brushing the strap of the lute case.
A few seconds later, the stretch of his muscles announcing its presence with a welcome burn, Eskel had the lute off the wall and strapped over his back. Glancing down, he saw that he was only a few metres up. It was certainly a jump he could have survived with no ill effects, but he didn’t want to risk the lute on his back. Carefully, and with more difficulty, he picked his way down the rockface, wincing when the cold water rushed back over his feet, his calves, his knees.
As he moved backwards, something struck his leg. It was gentle, barely a tap at all, but it put him on alert. Warily, he turned around, ready to strike at whatever had touched him. As quietly as he could, he drew his cloak back behind him, readying himself for danger, crouching and tense, and then, yes, there it was…
It was a stick. Embarrassment heated him – Witchers didn’t feel, they always said. Eskel knew that was a load of horseshit – and he glanced over to Pankratz, pulling back the hood of his cloak on one side, just enough to peek at the lordling. His ears flared with heat when he realised Pankratz had seen his freak out, though embarrassment quickly turned to worry when he saw the lordling wobble, topple and then heard him cry out with a startled, then pained, yelp.
Wrenching the stick up, Eskel hurried back over to the lordling, ignoring the water that flew back up at his face as he splashed through it. Sinking into the mud, he had to slow on his way over to the lord, or risk having his boots pulled from his feet, but before long he was back at Pankratz’s side, carefully helping him lean himself back up against Scorpion, who snorted, as if to inform Eskel that he was helping an idiot. Eskel didn’t need Scorpion to tell him that.
“What were you thinking?” he growled, not considering his words himself. Who was he to treat the lord-bard as if he were an old, idiotic friend? He was just glad that the man seemed too preoccupied with the pain to worry about Eskel’s overactive mouth. “You have a broken ankle. Why didn’t you just stay down?”
“Oh, so it is broken?” the lord panted, fingers ghosting over the swollen flesh without applying pressure. “Wonderful. I expected so, but then, I have been known to exaggerate.”
“Well, it’s definitely broken,” Eskel huffed, gently grasping the other man’s hands in his own and moving them aside. To his surprise, Pankratz let him move his hands away without jerking them back, nor immediately returning them to their worried hover. Was he scared? Or did this man, despite the reaction of every other human out there, genuinely not fear Witchers? “Would you let me bind it for you?”
A nod was all he got, but Eskel nodded back in comfort. Carefully, as gently as he could, he tugged on Pankratz’s boot. The man groaned through gritted teeth, throwing his head back to loll against Scorpion’s flank, but he didn’t wrench his leg back, nor kick out with his other one. Eskel counted it as a win.
The same happened when Eskel removed the stocking and rolled up the legs of the silken leggings, carefully as he could. Pankratz muttered complaints, eyes squeezed shut against the rain, his skin bleaching further with the pain. With his ankle exposed, the skin mottled purple, black and red, with his ankle swelling up like an inflated pig’s bladder, Eskel found himself astonished. Most lordlings, even ones who travelled, did not survive such injuries without extreme complaints. Eskel was almost impressed.
Sighing, he reached for the stick, snapping it roughly in half. Setting it to the side, he reached for the bottom of his cloak, tore a long strip from it, and began wrapping it firmly around Pankratz’s ankle.
“Ah!” Pankratz let out a strained yell, his good leg twitching outwards in what would undoubtedly become a kick. Instead, he seemed to catch himself, pressing the sole of his boot to Eskel’s chest, a brown footprint left in its wake. “Goodness, that is quite tight, isn’t it? You’ll forgive me for putting my foot on you, I hope. I think I need something to ground me right now.”
“My cloak is ruined anyway,” reasoned Eskel with a shrug, before returning to his binding. With the ankle satisfactorily bound, he took the pieces of stick, carefully lining them up on both sides of the ankle. “Hold these in place.”
To his surprise – though it was less of one now, Pankratz was proving himself to be a worthy traveller of the road, at least – the lord did just as he was asked, even as he bit his lip against the pain he was feeling. Shivers travelled through him, jerking the sticks a little out of place, but he soon corrected their position, allowed Eskel to tear a second strip from his cloak and use it to bind the sticks in place as a makeshift splint.
“There,” he declared, after tying off the ends of his cloak. “That should do for now. I’m afraid you won’t be able to put that boot back on, but I couldn’t leave it there. It would have kept the bandage too loose.” He paused, looked at where the material of Pankratz’s leggings was pressing tightly into his skin, bunched up as it was. “Those will only cover this if I split the material. I can reimburse you for them.”
“I’ll not hear a word of it, my dear Witcher,” Pankratz waved him off, voice still strained, but his breaths beginning to come in a much more measured fashion, his panting tapering off. He was still shivering, still trying in vain to burrow closer to Scorpion, but he seemed as if he were calming. “You need that money far more than I. Besides, the ruin of my leggings is far from your fault. They were a gorgeous grey silk this morning – I had to dull my colour palette since I started travelling alone, you know. It doesn’t do to bring unwanted attention upon oneself – but now they are all brown and sodden.” He sighed loudly, the exhale of air shuddering due to his shaking form. “I shall just have to purchase more once I reach Lettenhove.”
With that decided, Eskel watched as the lord reached into his sleeve, retrieved the dagger he had tucked away earlier – and it was beautiful, made of steel, engravings of blooming buttercups covering it – and slashed open the cuff of his leggings, pulling them down to cover the wrapped wound, before tucking his foot into the wet blanket, his dagger back into his sleeve.
“Actually, that reminds me,” Pankratz said as Eskel moved to settle next to him again. When he spoke, he sounded more like he was coming up with an idea than remembering one. “I don’t suppose you’re free of jobs at the moment, Eskel, dear?”
“Just took down a kikimora,” Eskel confirmed, wiping his wrist across his mouth. Rivulets of water continued to run down his face, tickling his skin. “Was on my way to the next village when the storm hit.”
“In that case,” Pankratz declared, fumbling around under the blankets, tugging them away from Eskel’s shoulders in his hurry. “Would you kindly escort me to Lettenhove. Ordinarily I would argue I would be fine, but I fear with this injury I shan’t make it. I can pay you, of course.” He stopped patting himself down, looked sheepish when he admitted, “Though it would have to be at the other end. The man who threw me down the cliffs stole my money-pouch, I’m afraid.”
“Keep your coin, if you don’t mind making stops along the way,” Eskel responded without even thinking about it. “I’ll head that way myself, search for contracts as I go.”
Astonishment at what he had just agreed to swept through him like a hurricane, like the storm he was sitting in, being battered by. Why had he just agreed to guide Pankratz all the way back home? What possible reason could he have to agree to that? Was it because Pankratz was kind, and Eskel wasn’t used to it? Was it because there was something almost homey about his scent, a familiar tang rising to the air now that the sour scent of pain was clearing – still there, but gentler, less harsh? Sitting next to Pankratz, leaning against Scorpion, Eskel almost felt as if he were sitting with a brother, and he couldn’t tell why, but he liked it. Had he really agreed to escort the lord just for that reason? Eskel could have kicked himself.
“I have another favour to ask, Witcher, dear,” Pankratz interrupted his train of thought, leaning towards Eskel. His eyes shone cornflower blue in the lightning flash, softening again to a dark grey in the light of the fire. Earnestly, he asked, “Would it be possible for me to squeeze between you and your horse here? I fear that my poor human body wasn’t made to survive such weather.” He paused, cocked his head, then added, “Neither was yours, I fear, but it will certainly hold out for longer than mine.”
Eskel kindly didn’t mention the fact that Pankratz should have been long dead, if he had been lying in a ditch in a storm for hours. He kindly didn’t mention the way the lord’s ears seemed to finish at sharply tapered points when seen from the corner of the eye, nor the way Pankratz smelled just a little of sizzling magic, burnt-sugar and tingling electricity, like the lightning itself. If Pankratz was determined to keep his secret, his changeling nature, from conversation, then Eskel would follow his lead.
Lifting up the blanket between them, Eskel gestured with his head for Pankratz to come closer. As the bard-lord shifted, shuffling himself along the ground, thoroughly ruining the seat of his pants, Eskel quickly unbuckled his spiked armour, revealing his red shirt underneath. Placing the spiked plate on his lap, he allowed Pankratz to worm his way in between him and Scorpion, until the lord was tucked just behind his body, his temple resting on Eskel’s shoulder. Warm air blew across Eskel’s neck and jaw, his wet hair shifting gently with the movement as Pankratz settled.
Before long, he felt as the lordling began relaxing, his muscles losing their tenseness, his shivering softening from sharp jerks into a slight tremble, and then nothing at all. Blinking at Pankratz through the violently flickering gold light, Eskel reached down and tucked the blanket tighter around the other, smiling softly when Pankratz mumbled softly.
Taking a deep breath, wondering if he could use the other’s name, and then deciding he should at least try, if they were going to be travelling together for any length of time, he murmured, “Julian?”
“Uh,” was the only response he got, so he tried again.
“Are you hungry, Julian?” he made to lean over Scorpion, to scoop out the dried rabbit he had within his pack.
“Don’t you dare move,” came Julian’s voice, thick with sleep. “If you move, I’ll kick you.” He smacked his lips softly, then added, “And it’s Jaskier, dear.”
Eskel froze, eyes widening in surprise. Jaskier?
No wonder this bard-lord smelled like a brother. He quite literally smelled like a brother, like Geralt, to be precise.
“Where’s Geralt?” Eskel couldn’t stop himself from asking, chest tight, shifting just enough that he could see the top of Jaskier’s head, brown strands of hair plastered in place by the suddenly lessening rain. “Jaskier?”
“He’s fine, don’t worry,” Jaskier waved him off. Eskel hadn’t realised how worried he had been, until he felt his breath release in a great sigh of relief. “We just realised we had different views in regard to our relationship, and so we went our separate ways.” Eskel opened his mouth to ask more, but before he could, a hand shot up, covering it. The fingers didn’t even skip over his scars, touching his ravaged skin as if there was nothing at all unusual about it in the least. “Stop asking about that man, Eskel.”
“Why?” Eskel asked, knowing he was pushing his luck, but unable to help himself. “You travelled with him for a long time.”
“Yes, I did,” Jaskier agreed, nodding his head against Eskel’s shoulder. “But your brother has the emotional capacity of a bullrush, if that, and he hurt me. I understand why, I pushed too hard, but he still hurt me. So, I have decided that I shall give him space. And when we meet again, we shall have some stern words, at the very least.” Jaskier shifted again, settling further against Eskel. The warmth of his body – lower than it should have been, but still warmer than a Witcher’s skin – burned through Eskel’s shirt, lulling him towards sleepiness, too. “Now, as much as I am enjoying this line of questioning, I would kindly request that you let me sleep. It has been a long day, and I am not looking forward to walking on this tomorrow.”
Jaskier’s certainty that he would be walking on his ankle tomorrow made Eskel wince. Was it something he had said? Done? Or had it been his brother, making stupid decisions because he didn’t know how to let good things into his life? Whatever it had been, he had to reassure the bard leaning into him, at the very least.
“You can ride Scorpion,” Eskel informed him, reaching up without even thinking about it to stroke the strands of hair visible to him from underneath the blanket. He couldn’t feel it through his gloves, but he did feel the contented sigh Jaskier breathed against his neck, the exhale curling warm around him. “I wouldn’t make you walk.”
“Now, there’s a first,” Jaskier muttered, but his voice was so thick with sleep Eskel suspected he had all but dropped off. Chuckling to himself, he patted Jaskier’s head, before folding his own fingers into the blankets and leaning backwards against Jaskier and Scorpion, ready to settle down to rest himself. More mumble than word, Jaskier added, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Jaskier,” Eskel responded, letting his eyes slip closed as the raindrops began to become smaller, thinner, warmer. He let out a sigh, his breath – which had been curling steam into the air whenever it hadn’t been batted down by raindrops – no longer visible. “Sleep well.”
With that, Eskel settled down to sleep, a contented smile clinging gently to his lips. He was glad, he found, that he had met Jaskier, the human who had been working so hard for the reputation of the Witchers. More, he was glad that Jaskier was really as kind to his people as Eskel had always hoped he would be, should he ever meet him. Letting out a final hum of contentment, glad to be in the company of the bard, keeping him safe from the stormy world beyond, Eskel allowed himself to fall into a light, but soothing, slumber. The storm was clearing, and things were finally looking up.