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When Eskel finds the graveyard, he can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign to dig himself a plot and just lie down. Finally give up. Considering this thought the way one considers stepping into fire on an especially cold day, with longing but only vague interest, Eskel moves forward between the tombstones. The stones are old and weathered, their faces stained and covered in various lichens and moss. Protruding from the ground at odd angles, they remind Eskel of broken limbs, twisted arms and legs, and jagged, cracked teeth. He shudders.
There’s a faint smell here, one that is not part of the damp earth or dust. Inhaling, Eskel finds very old and faded notes of herbs. He recognizes anise and wormwood, but the other individual components of this scent have been lost to time. Curious now, he continues to walk slowly between the stones, senses alert.
Because of this, he hears the rumble of danger before it manages to catch him off guard. He responds robotically, without even really meaning to, his instincts ever stronger than his absent wish for a final rest. A bulbous pod erupts from the ground right where his feet had been a mere second before. His hand flashes instinctively, drawing on the fizzling in the air and inside his body, and fire bursts from his fingers in a powerful gout that instantly incinerates the pod. Screeching fills the air.
Eskel has dealt with enough archespores in his time in Toussaint that his body takes over, executing the moves that he has obsessively perfected instead of processing his— The monstrous plant spits a stream of acid at him, but he has already leapt out of the way, the caustic fluid missing him by inches. Snarling, he bounds forward, and in one practiced motion, he lops off the monster’s head.
He stands and watches, panting, as the creature’s body spasms, its acid blood splattering all over the ground. Two drops strike his unmarried cheek, but he doesn’t even flinch when they burn against his skin. When the monster finally stills, he steps over it without second thought, not even pausing to collect any ingredients, and walks further into the cemetery.
He finds the door to the single crypt and gives it an experimental shove. It’s locked. For a moment, his blood thuds in his ears. Fury fills him, burning his skin more than any acid ever could. It boils inside him, rising and rippling through his flesh. He steps back, bares his teeth, and raises his hand. The force of the sign he makes nearly knocks him backwards as it blows the crypt door off its hinges, but he recovers his footing in time to hear the clatter of wood as the shattered planks fall inside. Thrusting his emotions back into their proper box, he steps inside.
The smells hit him first, and they are not the ones he would expect inside a crypt. Dust is present, certainly, but so is linen, herbs, paper, wine, and— Eskel sniffs again, not sure if he read that scent properly. No, he was correct the first time. Blood had been spilled in this crypt, many months previously, but the faintest trace of it still remains in the air. It’s blood he thinks he recognizes, and the thought sends waves of grief pounding into his chest.
“It’s not possible,” he mumbles, rubbing eyes that suddenly ache with exhaustion. “He couldn’t—”
But curiosity has him now. Had someone been living here? If so, where were they now?
Eskel walks slowly through the first landing and down the stairs, his sword aloft, his feet light and silent. Just because he can’t hear or smell anything doesn’t mean that the crypt is empty. He pads slowly through the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, emerging into the main room of the crypt. It appears to be unoccupied, but he maintains his guard. His foot brushes a small stone, and the tiny sound it makes echoes in a way that makes him stiffen, then turn and look up. Adjusted to the darkness, his eyes tell him that there are stairs leading to an upper section of the room, one he could very well have missed if he hadn’t been paying attention.
He seems to move as if in water, his feet carrying him up the stairs without his mind even commanding them to do so. A strange metal container meets him at the top of the first section of stairs, sparkling faintly in the darkness. He examines it for a brief moment, then turns and continues up the stairs.
A cozy, if slightly barren living area has been set up in the small stone outcropping. Straight ahead is a worn but still elegant desk and chair. On the wall above the desk, someone had pinned two pieces of paper, both depicting what looked like different species of plants. A string of dried herbs and garlic hang above the illustrations, likely the source of the herbal scents.
To his left, he sees a small futon, a nearly empty bookshelf, and another small desk with a book propped open on its surface. He walks over to the book and flips through a few pages, but it’s written in a language he doesn’t know. Even if he could recognize the strange lettering, he isn’t sure he would be able to focus on the words. The rusty, metallic scent of a witcher’s blood is strongest in this room, digging into his nose with piercing claws. He inhales, then his breath escapes in a tiny sound, a smothered sob, and he sinks down onto the dusty futon. His hands shake as he covers his face.
Grief. The pure, icy coldness of it sinks firmly into his skin, his flesh. He is hollow, nothing but empty pain and sadness inside the shell of his former self. Another dry sob rips from his chest.
He’s gone.
Oh, it’s a truth he has been denying with determined focus, diligence, for months, one that has followed him across time and distance. It trailed him as he fled Velen, traveled through Sodden, then wandered listlessly into Toussaint, always on his heels no matter how hard he tried to shake it. Now, sitting in this crypt, it catches him and rips him apart.
He has run over it in his mind more times than he can count, but there had been no mistaking the remains he’d discovered in Crookback Bog, the shock of seeing white hair spread out on the ground, matted with mud and congealed gore. The body itself had been unrecognizable, but Eskel had known the armor, remembered the feel of it, warm beneath his fingers, heated by the living body that had filled it. Seeing that armor, that body, cold and lying in pieces, strewn about the floor—
Eskel gasps for air, lowering his hands, then to his shock, a drop of wetness rolls down his cheek. He reaches up and touches it with a numb finger. The last time he had cried, or been able to cry, over anything, he had been a young boy cradled in the arms of his best friend. They had sat in that dark, quiet corner of Kaer Morhen for hours, finding comfort in each other’s company. When Eskel had finished crying then, he had shared whispers with his friend, discussing hopes, dreams, and fears. There will be no comfort for him this time.
He shifts, and something hard meets his hand. Momentarily startled out of his grief-stricken haze, he uncovers the partially concealed book. It appears to be a journal of some sort, and though part of him protests the intrusion upon this unknown person’s privacy, he opens it anyway.
My last thought before falling asleep, he reads. Pages of short sentences follow this title, and as Eskel continues to read, he begins to frown. The owner of the journal had written some rather disconcerting things. Eyes skimming over the words, one jumps out to him, and he focuses on the entry.
I hope Geralt will remember to regularly change the bandages I used on his shoulder wound.
Even just reading the name feels like a knife between his ribs. His nose had been right, as always. Geralt of Rivia had once sat on this very futon, blood pouring from some sort of wound in his shoulder, and the owner of this journal had treated the injury. Who had it been? If it is the same person who had written the previous entries, Eskel isn’t sure what to think. He turns another page, and several free pieces of paper slip out.
Examining one of the papers reveals a beautifully rendered sketch of a man with an angular, bony face, a long nose, a thin mouth, and cat-like eyes. A scar runs down his forehead and over his left cheek. Eskel’s fingers shake. Grief floods him all over again, pain and longing and anger all muddled together into a terrible mixture he can hardly bear. A tear falls onto the drawing, then he tucks it carefully back into the journal.
He picks up the next piece of paper. It’s another beautiful drawing, this time of an angular, scarred back. Eskel knows that back, those scars, just as well as he knows his own, if not better. The next piece of paper shows a detailed drawing of a hand with lean, scarred fingers.
Eskel’s own fingers have begun to shake again when he picks up the next piece of paper. It’s a hastily scrawled note in messy handwriting that is achingly familiar.
Regis, need notes on giant centipede variations if you have them. Stopped by to ask but you were out. Send one of those birds if you have anything and I’ll drop in as soon as I can.
Eskel reads the note again, then folds it and picks up the next paper. It’s another note, written a bit more carefully.
Regis, I have reason to believe that I know who cast the curse on Marlene. Won’t write the name, but ask me about it next time I see you. It’s a wild story that might pair well with your mandrake cordial.
Mandrake cordial, Eskel thinks. I think I remember him mentioning something like that once.
The last paper is another note, scrawled in the same hand.
Regis, I found the body of this creature in one of the rivers south of here while tracking scurvers— there’s a terrible sketch of something that looks like an amalgam of a duck and a dog and a drowner— I’ve never seen anything like it before. Do you know what it is? I’m fairly certain the barbs on its ankles are poisonous, but nothing potent enough to kill a witcher… as I discovered.
Eskel chuckles weakly. Just like him to go poking at the body of some unknown animal, he thinks. He slides the notes and drawings back into the journal, closes it gently, then puts it back where he had found it.
Leaning back against the stones behind him, Eskel falls into his memories.
Flashes of ginger hair, youthful voices raised in laughter, then in agony. White hair, yellow eyes with slit pupils, soft lips on his. Long nights on the path alone. The joy of unexpectedly meeting those beautiful eyes in a crowd. The feel of cool, scarred skin under his hands. The warmth in his heart. The cold, harsh touch of death.
It hits him again, slowly and almost gently this time. The grief swells into his lungs, freezing the air in his throat, sinking into his stomach. The loss threatens to drag him under a surface he is barely able to stay above, gasping for air. He wraps his arms around his knees, closes his eyes, and does his best to breathe.
Hours, or many minutes later, he rises to the surface again and opens his eyes. The strong scent of herbs gives him just a moment of warning.
“I must admit, I was not expecting to find anyone here,” a voice says from somewhere nearby. Eskel is on his feet, sword in hand, ready for an attack before the voice is even finished speaking. He locates the speaker with ease, both with his eyes and with his nose.
The speaker is a thin man, dressed simply in worn clothes. He stands beside the desk, an old book in his long, thin hands. A lit candelabra flickers from the desk corner, illuminating him. His hair is gray, smoothed back away from a high forehead and bony temples, the style accentuating his sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose. Black eyebrows shot with gray curve over dark, slightly bloodshot eyes. Those eyes are wary yet curious as they watch Eskel.
“Who are you?” Eskel rasps, his fingers clenched tight around the hilt of his sword.
“My name is Emiel Regis,” the man replies. He has yet to blink. “Am I correct in assuming that I am speaking to Eskel?”
A shiver runs through Eskel at the sound of his name.
“Have we met?” he asks. The man shakes his head.
“No, but Geralt has told me about you several times. He spoke very highly of you.”
The words are a well-aimed arrow to the chest; Eskel recoils, lowering his sword, and drops back onto the futon.
“Regis,” he mumbles. “Mandrake cordial.” The memory returns to him. He and Geralt had once had a conversation about home-brewed booze over a few mugs of truly heinous beer, and Geralt had reminisced about the mandrake cordial that his friend Regis made. There had been something about the way Geralt had talked about the other man that had made Eskel just a bit jealous, a warmth in his face and voice that spoke of a deep friendship. Knowing better than to say anything about it, Eskel had kept quiet and drunk his awful beer.
“This is your house, then?” Eskel asks. He looks up at the man, who shrugs.
“It’s been months since I was last here, but yes, I did once stay here, though only temporarily.”
“And you knew—”
His voice sticks in his throat. Regis looks at him oddly.
“Yes, I knew Geralt,” he says. “Quite well, in fact. We traveled together several years ago.”
He studies Eskel’s slumped posture for a long moment, then closes the book in his hands and sets it down on the desk.
“Do you have news of him? I haven’t seen him since he was last in Toussaint, nearly half a year ago.”
The grief returns full force, lodging in Eskel’s throat, choking him. He coughs, retches, then coughs again. He wants nothing more than to claw out the aching, writhing contents of his chest in a desperate attempt to free himself from their weight.
“Gone,” he finally rasps, unable to form the proper explanation. “He’s… gone.”
And it’s fresh in his mind again, the white hair, the dried blood— he gasps again, and another tear spills from his eyes, sliding down the scarred furrows in his cheek. There’s no catharsis in these tears, just emptiness. Maybe that’s why they had learned to suppress them; it was just a useless waste of water. He swiped a hand angrily across his face.
“Gone?”
The word is soft, anguished, and Eskel can feel it resonate in his cracked heart. He looks up. Regis’ face is suddenly tight as he stares down at Eskel, his eyes filled with all of the things that are eating away at Eskel’s insides. Eskel nods, then covers his face with his hands. The darkness is cool and soothing against his burning eyes. He can hear Regis take a tentative step forward, then another, then a weight sinks into the futon beside him.
“This isn’t the news I was hoping for,” the man says, his voice pained. “I’m... very sorry to hear it.”
I’m sorry to deliver it, Eskel thinks, but his voice refuses to cooperate. A strangled sound escapes between his clenched teeth.
“Oh, my journal,” Regis says, and Eskel heard the shuffling of pages. “Hm, this water spot wasn’t here before.”
“Sorry,” Eskel manages. “I read it.”
Remembering all the strange things in there, he looks over at Regis. The man is reading one of the notes, a deep sadness aging his face by years. Eskel surveys him. The hands holding the paper are thin, their fingers tipped with surprisingly sharp, pointed nails. A slightly more focused inspection of his face shows Eskel muted shadows from the candlelight, just slightly dampened, as if they are attempting to refuse to be cast against the angular visage.
“I have lost several close friends over the years,” Regis murmurs. “But this loss... hurts. More sharply than any of the others.” He runs gentle fingertips over the drawing of the scarred hand.
“Geralt was a unique man. Very curiously so. He threatened to kill me at least once.”
This last thing he says with a slight, close-lipped smile.
“Once he was finished with the death threats, we became friends. Good friends. We traveled together for a time, sharing stories and good times with our whole group. It was some of the happiest times I have ever had the honor of being a part of.”
The smile becomes achingly sad.
“I would’ve died for him,” the man says. “In fact, I did, once. And I would do it again.”
The strange lines in the journal, the muted shadows, the pointed fingernails, the smile— Eskel understands, but suddenly it isn’t even important.
“It didn’t matter to him that you were a vampire, he still treated you with the same gruff decency that he treated everyone with,” he mumbles. “And he grew to care about you, a lot. Loved you, even.”
“Yes. He felt the same toward you too, Eskel,” Regis says softly. Eskel jerks. “He loved you deeply. In fact, he told me so himself.”
“...For a witcher with supposedly no emotions, he sure loved a lot of people,” Eskel replies after a moment, doing his best to suppress the faint tinge of bitterness that still lurks in the depths of his heart. “Love got him— got him killed.”
“Yennefer?”
“No, not this time, luckily for her, or I would’ve— no, not her. He thought— he had been told that his daughter had been killed. Went to avenge her. Didn’t come back.”
“I… I see.”
They sit in silence for a long moment, each lost in their thoughts, their mourning.
“I loved him too,” Eskel whispers eventually. “Didn't manage to say it properly before he— before he left.”
Regis lays a hand on his arm, squeezing softly.
“I understand,” he says. “I really do.”
Another long minute of silence passes.
“I hope you don’t find this unfitting,” Regis says slowly, cautiously. “But would you care for a drink? Geralt and I always drank my mandrake cordial when we were together. I was actually hoping he would try this new recipe when I met him again and tell me his thoughts, but…”
“Yeah, sure.”
After a moment of rummaging in his bag, Regis produces a dark green bottle.
“To hell with ceremony,” he mutters, uncorking the bottle.
He takes a long drink, then offers it to Eskel, who accepts, and drinks. The liquid is fire that burns through the ice in his stomach. He gasps, then drinks again before handing it back.
“It’s a bit rough, this batch,” Regis remarks wryly as Eskel coughs. “Geralt would’ve… well, he probably would’ve tried to be subtle in his critique of it, at least.”
“And he would’ve failed,” Eskel adds, his voice rasping from the burn of the alcohol. “He was never good at diplomacy.”
“He really wasn’t,” Regis agrees with a small chuckle. “It’s almost amazing that he got out of so many tight spots without the use of proper diplomacy. Did he ever tell you about his brush with— oh, I shouldn’t say it out loud— a certain seller of mirrors?”
“I don’t think so?”
“You would remember,” Regis says. “It’s a memorable story. It’s not every day that you hear about someone you know dancing with the devil and coming out unscathed.”
He takes another drink, hands the bottle back to Eskel, and begins the tale. Eskel listens, drinking in the words even more desperately than he could ever drink any alcohol. Every twist and turn reminds him of his friend, his love, filling him with sadness, then amusement, then curiosity.
“—and then Geralt said he just disappeared into the reflection, walking backward with an ominous parting message.”
“Did he end up coming back?”
Regis shrugs.
“I don’t believe so, but this note—” he picks up one of the pieces of paper— “mentions the same entity, though indirectly. Geralt put the pieces together and told me that he was fairly certain that the same entity was responsible for the curse that turned Marlene de Trastamara into a spotted wight… until Geralt lifted the curse, of course.”
“Of course,” Eskel mutters. He returns the bottle to Regis, his head feeling light and fizzy. “What about the other notes?”
The vampire laughs softly.
“He always came to me with questions about different monsters in the area, since he knew I had been living here for quite some time. The animal though…”
He taps the sketch in question with a long finger.
“I still have no idea what it was. I haven’t seen anything of the sort before, and didn’t find another when I went to look afterwards.”
“Maybe he imagined it.”
“Possibly. More likely it was the remains of a mutated drowner, or some sort of other biological anomaly. In any case, I was never able to give him an answer.”
Eskel snorted at this, feeling lighter than he had in months. To be able to talk like this with another person who had cared for Geralt the way he had— it meant more to him than he could ever explain.
“Did he tell you about the bumblebee we caught as kids?” Eskel asks.
“No, but please elaborate.”
“Well, first I have to say that it was enormous,” Eskel began.
They sat together for hours, drinking from the green bottle and swapping stories long after it was empty. At some point, drifting in memories and the warmth of the alcohol, Eskel fell into a doze.
When he woke, Regis was still sitting beside him, staring down at one of the drawings, the one of Geralt’s angular, grumpy face.
“I feel as if I am sinking into a long, dark well,” the man says quietly. “As if the force keeping me buoyant has suddenly… vanished.”
Unable to find the words, Eskel hesitates, then wraps a careful arm around Regis’ thin shoulders.
“I’m glad you found me when you did,” he mumbles. “I might’ve been in an even worse condition if you’d found me in a few weeks.”
Regis lets out a weak, watery snort of laughter.
“I am glad as well. Talking with someone who cared for him too, it… means a lot. Thank you.”
“Yeah, I feel the same. Thanks.”
After a beat of silence, Regis offers Eskel the drawing of Geralt.
“Please take it,” he says quickly, seeing the refusal in Eskel’s eyes. “I have several more. Plus, if my memory serves, he was talking about you when I drew this. He made this face when I asked him to be quiet and sit still.”
Sadness and warmth fill Eskel, mixing and twining together until he can’t separate one from the other. He retrieves his arm and accepts the paper with trembling fingers.
“Thanks,” he says.
“My pleasure,” Regis replies. “He would be grumpy if he knew I had given his likeness away, but since it’s you, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
Eskel smiles.
“I should probably be going,” he says, and pushes himself to his feet. “I should try to make it back to town before nightfall.”
“There are still a few hours of daylight left, you should make it just fine. I’ll accompany you out.”
Regis rises with liquid grace and walks beside Eskel as he makes his way out of the crypt. Stopping at the top of the staircase, Eskel looks guiltily at the splintered remains of the door.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” Regis replies. “I’ve been thinking about replacing it anyway.”
Chuckling, Eskel turns to the man.
“Thank you again, Regis,” he says, holding his hand out to shake. Regis smiles.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to give you a hug.”
If he had been anyone else, Eskel would’ve refused, but Regis had loved the man he had loved, and understood the pain that he felt now, in every possible way, so he opens his arms and allows the vampire to wrap his arms around his middle. After a surprised breath, he returns the hug with warmth.
“Come visit any time,” Regis says when he pulls away. “Even if I’m not here, the ravens will tell me that you stopped by.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Eskel says. “Maybe I’ll even go look for that creature Geralt thought he saw.”
This makes Regis laugh, just as Eskel had meant it to.
“Best of luck then, Eskel. Tell me if you find anything.”
“I will.”
Then Eskel walks out of the crypt into the warm afternoon sunlight, and takes his first real steps forward into a future without Geralt of Rivia.
Back inside the crypt, Regis closes the book on his desk with a quiet snap.
“I know you’re listening,” he says softly. “Even without mentioning your name, I’m sure retelling that story drew your attention.”
“Good afternoon to you too, my old friend. It’s been a while.”
Regis snorts.
“It’s very considerate of you to not appear during the tale and give us a hard time. I suppose you heard everything, then?”
“No, I was nearby but I only began to pay attention when you mentioned our dearest Marlene. What did I miss?”
Turning to face his visitor, Regis surveys him sadly.
“Geralt of Rivia is dead. Though I would hesitate to assume that you would deign to care about such a thing.”
There is a long moment of silence, then the man shifts slightly, his ever-present smile fading just enough to make Regis raise his eyebrows.
“Dead you say? ...Mortal lives really are depressingly short.”
Regis doesn’t grace this comment with a reply. He stares at his visitor instead, thoughtfully twisting the ring on one of his fingers.
“I’ve got another bottle of cordial,” he finally says. “If you’d like to stick around for a drink. It seems like a good day for it.”
“Another time, perhaps,” his visitor says. “As much as I hate to refuse a generous offer, I believe that I have just remembered an important appointment in Velen.”
“Have you?”
His visitor smiles.
“Indeed. Save that cordial, if you would. I’d like to try it when I’m finished with my business.”
“I know you’re fond of deals, so I’ll save it, if you do me a favor in return,” Regis says, walking over to the futon and picking up his journal.
“Interesting. What do you want, then?”
Regis rifles through the book until he finds the sketch he is looking for, then holds it out to his visitor with a wry smile, saying,
“Would you please tell me what on earth this creature is?”