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This is not Roach , is the first thought in Eskel’s mind when he comes to, gasping for breath. He holds on to the name on the cusp of his breath. Don’t wake the others. Geralt is safe. Roach has white socks, not black socks. Or at least the last time he saw Roach she did. It’s a weird thought to have first thing when you wake up but Eskel has spent so much of his life dreaming the most bizarre dreams. Yennefer and Triss both believe it’s the not-quite-dormant, unsettled chaos in him acting up. He doesn’t question his brain anymore. Or how he reacts to his own dreams, for that matter.
Why did his brain conjure Not Roach? He focuses, trying to remember if it was just the one horse, or if there was a stampede, but he only saw a single horse, he’s quite certain. Not Roach. Nor any other horse he’s familiar with, for that matter. The lingering panic that was waiting at the periphery of his mind, ready to jump in and take over, quiets down.
He groans and peels off the pelts and furs he burrowed into whilst he was sleeping, swings his legs sideways until his feet make contact with the braided rug by his bed. A quick look at the hearth shows a few coals still glowing incandescent red amongst the grey ash remnants and Lil’ Bleater, resting in her straw bed. It’s probably early enough that even Vesemir is still sleeping.
Eskel runs a hand over his face. He knows there’s no point staying in bed right now, he wouldn’t fall asleep. He knows how to spend that time right before dawn though.
He dresses quietly and leaves the door to his room open on his way out so Lil’ Bleater can find him when she wakes up instead of crying and waking the others in the nearby rooms.
Lambert has always been grumpy in the morning, but it’s been worse this year and Lil’ Bleater cutting his nights short is not the way to go. He’d arrived at Kaer Morhen a full three weeks later than customary, too. It was unusual enough that even the placid Coën had started to express his worry before Lambert finally walked through the gates with his packs and swords last week, brow furrowed and jaw clenched tightly.
Eskel hasn’t managed to entice the truth behind his soured mood out of him yet, but he’s started small. He knows his brother and the direct approach is the worse way to get Lambert genuinely talking about anything, let alone his feelings or personal matters. Eskel’s also eased up on the teasing, too, until he gets to the bottom of that particular issue.
Besides, if he presses too hard or if he’s too inquisitive before Lambert is ready to talk, he knows his brother will retaliate, counter-attack without restraint. And Melitele knows Lambert never misses a target when he sets his mind to it. He uses a lot more finesse nowadays than he did when he’d just set out on the Path, too.
Lambert doesn’t lash out wildly anymore. His words and his weapons strike with deadly precision at a weakness in your armour you hadn’t even noticed yet, and he hits deep. Eskel’s gone too far a few times over the decades, he’s more mindful these days. They all know so much about each other, that it’s easy to make it hurt in the heat of the moment and then carry the burden of regret on their shoulders for days, or weeks before they find the right words and apologise.
Eskel reaches the kitchen area and stokes up the fire in the stone oven with Igni before grabbing the dough Vesemir had set up to rest overnight and dividing it into smaller boules. He then grabs what he needs to start the bread they’ll have at dinner, and once that dough has been properly kneaded, he lets it proof, covered, in a basket, and sets up the boules to bake in the oven. Next, he sets water to boil over the open hearth. Enough for tea, and porridge for everyone.
He’s almost done cleaning when he hears the distinctive sound of Lil’ Bleater’s cloven hooves skipping enthusiastically on the stairs, and the fond, exasperated tone of Vesemir at his goat’s antics. He turns with a smile, which grows even larger at the sight of his old mentor gently chiding his pet for almost losing her footing. Lil’ Bleater stops in her track, looks Vesemir straight in the eyes and bleats indignantly at the veiled insult.
Eskel cracks up. These two.
Vesemir shakes his head at the goat. ‘Alright, alright, you do you, young ‘un. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up taking a tumble one of these days.’ His smile is indulgent, yet his eyes, when he looks up at Eskel, show concern. ‘You’re up early, pup.’ It’s not a question per se, but Eskel knows it’s Vesemir’s way of offering to lend an ear.
He crouches down to pet Lil’ Bleater, who’s munching on the leg of his trouser. ‘I had one of those dreams.’ His eyes meet Vesemir’s, and he knows his old mentor understands what he means. ‘A bay horse, galloping at full speed.’
‘...Roach?’
Eskel shakes his head. ‘Probably not? It had black stockings. All I could see were its legs. I had the feeling the horse was trying to get away from something or had to go somewhere... a life or death sort of situation, y'know? But I couldn’t get a glimpse of its rider or if it even had one. Then I woke up.’ Lil’ Bleater lets go of his trousers and licks at his fingers insistently, a reminder that she’s a Very Hungry goat thank you very much, and food comes before scritches first thing in the morning. He chuckles.
Vesemir hums and putters around the kitchen for a couple of minutes, grabbing a mug, dropping a handful of tea leaves in and ladling steaming water on top and setting it aside to steep before he picks up the conversation. ‘He can still make it up the Trail in time, you know.’
Eskel nods. ‘I know.’ Not what he really wants to say, so he takes a deep, slow breath, holds it in, then lets it out at a controlled pace and tries again. ‘He doesn’t usually arrive so late in the season. And when he can’t make it, Ciri usually finds one of us to let us know...’ He shakes his head. He knows Vesemir knows all of this but voicing his uncertainties out loud helps. ‘I’ll go feed everyone in the barn.’ He looks down at Lil’ Bleater. ‘Breakfast?’
‘MAAAAA!’
He chuckles and grabs one of the overcoats on a hook by the door that leads to the greenhouse and the barn. ‘Alright, alright, you. That’s enough sass. You don’t really want to wake your uncle Lambert now, d’you sweetie?’ She stares at him and blinks slowly. ‘Yeah, thought so. C’mon, then.’
Lil’ Bleater skips right ahead and jumps over the fence surrounding the barn where the other animals are kept at night. In a few weeks, they’ll move them all to the stables with the horses for the winter but not quite just yet. He checks the troughs for feed and water, makes sure everyone is accounted for and opens the door to the fenced-in area. Lil’ Bleater will join him later. She’s the only one who ever bothers jumping the fence and demanding to be let in (not that any of the other animals are allowed inside the keep anyway).
He still feels antsy so he decides to walk the ramparts that overlook a part of the Killer before going back inside for breakfast. And that’s when he spots a tiny silhouette down in the valley, a rider and their mount.
‘Wolf.’ It’s barely a sigh escaping his lips, a promise.
He should reach the keep before nightfall. It feels like a massive weight’s off his shoulders. Eskel finally relaxes and smiles. He backtracks and decides to take care of the horses, too.
By the time he’s done making his rounds, his stomach is rumbling loudly. Once inside, he finds the kitchen is empty. He hangs up the overcoat and walks deeper into the keep, Lil’ Bleater trotting by his side. Coën is sitting across from Vesemir at the communal table, the boules, a large pot of porridge and a spread of butter, honey and jams laid out. Coën is pouring tea into two mugs and setting them by the empty bowls at his and Vesemir’s side. If he focuses his attention beyond the normal noise of the fire crackling, Lil’ Bleater eating crumbs under the table, and Vesemir and Coën’s conversation, Eskel can hear rustling upstairs. Lambert will join them shortly.
He sits by Vesemir’s side and helps himself to some food. He’s worked up quite an appetite. From the corner of his eye, he catches Vesemir not so subtly raising an eyebrow at him. The old man is far too observant for his own good. Eskel shrugs as casually as he can, and blows on his tea to stall some... As if that would throw the old wolf off his tail. ‘I spotted Geralt down in the valley. He should be here by sundown.’
A pair of hands grabs Eskel by the shoulders and he startles, caught unaware.
‘I told you Pretty Boy would be here before long,’ Lambert says, resting his head briefly on top of Eskel’s before releasing his hold on the other man and vaulting over the table to sit next to Coën. The teasing in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Eskel can appreciate the effort for what it is.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at Coën and the Griffin nods mutely. He’s noticed, too. ‘Now eat before it gets cold, Lam. Besides, it’s almost time for Lil’ Bleater’s second breakfast, right sweetie?’
Lil’ Bleater hops on the bench right by Lambert and looks at him.
‘MAAAAA!’
Lambert snorts and chokes on a spoonful of porridge, then threatens to make roasted cheeky goat for dinner as everyone else laughs.
Eskel knows that the current levity around the table is temporary, but his family will finally be whole again after three seasons by the end of the day, and he decides it’s okay to enjoy the moment for what it is. Plus, once he’s settled, he can always ask Geralt to help him and Coën figure out what’s eating at Lambert.
For now, he has a second breakfast to put together for a Very Hungry goat.
[Jaskier eventually blames it on the overwhelming feeling of panic when he finally has a moment to reflect on that particular series of events, but he does not remember how he managed to haul the heavily wounded, unconscious man on the horse’s back.
At the time, all he knew was there was no time to waste, he needed to get to a healer as soon as possible, he could not let him die, and thus he dug his heels deeper in the poor steed’s flank with a whispered apology as it galloped at full speed toward Novigrad.
It was the only horse that was still around by the time the fight had died down, its reins still caught around the low branch of a tree. A bay horse with black socks that, strangely enough, reminded him of Geralt’s darling Roachie.]