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Eskel’s not entirely sure what he expects to find at the end of the thin motes of magic swirling around edges of Temple Island, but the alchemist Lambert told him about doesn’t seem to be there yet, just another one of those thrice-damned Eternal Fire priests, and he’s a bit bored.
What he doesn’t expect is for the path to end in a straight drop off a wall. He stares off the ledge, watching the lavender motes dance over the edge, then shrugs and turns to leave - he’s not jumping off cliffs if nobody’s paying him.
“...and the corruption of elven blood and their infernal curses flowing through our city shall come to an end!” The priest cries. The notable absence of an audience does not answer him.
Well. The choice is to linger as unobtrusively in the square as a Witcher can, and hope the preacher doesn’t turn his vitriol onto Eskel, or to investigate a magical mystery and hope the alchemist is there when he returns.
There isn’t much of a choice. Eskel jumps off a cliff.
The sparks of magic lead him down to a cave, and the buzz from his medallion grows promisingly stronger - until he hits yet another dead end, as the cave has apparently collapsed into a pile of rubble. “What the hell,” he grumbles. These weird magic puzzles are Geralt’s thing, not his.
He absently toes at one of the looser rocks in the pile, and freezes as a shock of electricity skitters up his leg as soon as he makes contact.
The wall isn’t blocking him from the source of his medallion’s vibration. It is the source.
Several judicious Aards and a twisting hallway full of levers and statues later, Eskel's entirely forgotten about the alchemist when he finds himself at an elaborate, locked door that rattles his medallion against his breast. Aard doesn’t even crack the door, and he doesn’t spy any easily-breakable protection runes, so he finds himself digging through his pack for the lockpick set Geralt had laughed at him for buying almost a decade ago.
“‘When will you ever need lockpicks’,” he mutters in a mocking growl as he fiddles with the lock. “‘Your Aard’s strong enough to blow through any door.’ Well, what if we can’t solve all our problems with brute force, Geralt. What if we have to try tact every now and then, Geralt.”
The last tumbler gives way, and the door swings open with an ominous creak. Eskel freezes, waiting for the trap to spring, but the hallway remains disconcertingly quiet. The ring of his steel sword being drawn from its sheath is disturbingly loud in comparison, and he readies his off hand in Quen in case -
An inhuman screech and a blur of motion are all the warning he has, throwing up Quen just in time to deflect what appears to be a sword aimed right at his neck.
The next moment, it’s dead silent again. Eskel turns in a slow circle, sword up in a guard position as he drops the Quen so he can peer into the laboratory without the golden shine narrowing his pupils. Nothing moves, and his medallion doesn’t ratchet up any more than the ambient buzz of magic that’s been present since he stepped foot into these halls.
Nothing else to do, then. At least this is more interesting than the preacher.
He creeps in one slow step at a time, hand formed into Quen again. Whatever had attacked him had used a weapon, that much was clear, which excluded all non-sentient monsters. It was too fast to be human, though, and he could have sworn the appendage attached to the sword was... red? A fiend with a sword? Weirder things have happened, he supposes, but that is a new one.
“What the fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely a whisper of sound.
There’s a barely-there gust of wind behind him, and he tucks and rolls instinctively as the sound of steel through air informs him that that was entirely too close, and he might be able to skip his haircut this month.
“What the fuck,” he grunts louder, throwing a Yrden down behind him as he rolls, sheathing his steel and drawing his silver in the same swift action. Whatever this is, it’s not human, and he whirls, pressing his back to the wall he pops up beside.
Whatever’s attacking him either isn’t smart enough or isn’t fast enough to have dodged the trap, though, and is stuck in the glowing purple ring, now screeching at an ear-splitting register as it seems to realize it has lost the advantage of stealth.
Eskel creeps closer to the trap, sword still up in guard, and pushes a little bit more Chaos into the trap. It flares a shade brighter, and the creature shudders and throws itself away from him, then almost faster than he can blink, is again at the closest edge of the trap to him.
“ Only pain! ” The creature hisses, pounding on the edges of the trap with bloodied, peeling fingertips.
Eskel watches it warily for a few more heartbeats, but it does seem to be well and truly trapped. He sheathes his sword, though his off hand remains formed into Quen, and skirts around the trap deeper into the laboratory, keeping the creature in his line of sight. When he’s about three arm lengths away from the creature, it appears to settle, his shrieking settling into a continuous stream of muttering about blood and death and pain. A moment more, and his body drops into - a kneel?
That’s a Witcher’s meditation position if he’s ever seen it.
What in the absolute thrice-damned fuck is going on here?
Deeper in the laboratory, there’s a skeleton in mage’s robes hunched over a table covered in notes that provides at least a few answers. Eskel disdainfully kicks the skeleton over to reach the journals and notes, which are mostly magical theories that he can’t quite parse, but a few key phrases leap out at him. Binding sigil. Demonic possession (which he hadn’t believed was possible, with no known creatures simultaneously sturdy enough to be a vessel for that much Chaos, and weak of will enough to be controlled from the inside).
Most importantly, though, Eskel finds a name: Kiyan of the Cats. A Witcher. One that he’s heard of before, though Aiden and Gaetan insist that he died nearly a decade ago, just after the fall of Stygga.
Even a year, let alone a decade, of continuous torture would certainly break down a Witcher’s will enough to allow for possession. Eskel grits his teeth and resists the urge to set the notes on fire, lest they hold the answer to reversing the process.
They do. It’s nearly sunset (and five cautious trips to ensure that Kiyan is still trapped in his Yrden) by the time he picks through enough of the cramped, dense writing to decipher the three runes the mage has marked as lodestones of the possession sigil.
He lets out a deep sigh and rolls out the cramp in his neck that’s been building for the past hour. He gathers the notes in a pile, ready to be burned if his plan works, and heads back towards Kiyan, keeping his steps as quietly as he knows how, carefully staying at least four arms lengths away.
“Seems like you are already bleeding,” Kiyan mutters under his breath, barely audible. “No end. Only pain. Only blood and pain, no good.”
With Kiyan Witcher-still in false meditation, the sigils carved into his back are easy enough to pick out among the wounds and scar tissue. They pulse a faint red, about the speed of a Witcher’s heartbeat, a slight surge of Chaos noticeable at each one when Eskel concentrates. The one at the top, carved into the base of Kiyan’s neck, is one of the lodestones the mage identified, as are two carved just about where his last floating ribs would be, expanding slightly with each breath.
Eskel inches over until he’s looking at Kiyan from the side. He’s got one shot at this, and if he misses or this doesn’t work, there’s no telling what a blood-crazed Kiyan will do.
He draws two thin silver knives from his pack, usually used to prep apothecary ingredients, but well-weighted enough to be used as weapons in a pinch. Aiden - and by extension Lambert - are better at throwing knives than him, but, well, they aren’t here right now.
He takes a deep, steadying breath. Now or never.
By the grace of whatever god is watching him, the knives fly true. One slices through the top rune, and the other through the bottom two in a straight line, embedding themselves against the far wall.
Kiyan roars , a primal, inhuman sound. His back arches sickeningly, the intact sigils on his back flaring almost blindingly, and a black ooze, like ichor, oozes out of his mouth, his nose, his ears.
The roar morphs slowly into a scream of pure pain, and the ooze continues to flow determinately downward and the sigils flare brighter and brighter, until suddenly, it all stops, and Kiyan slumps like a puppet with its strings cut.
The laboratory is silent once again, save for Kiyan’s raspy, pained breaths. Eskel watches his chest rise and fall, and cautiously drops the Yrden.
Getting within three arms’ length doesn’t set Kiyan off, which Eskel takes as a sign that whatever force was controlling him is well and truly gone. The sigils on his back are now charred and fuzzy around the edges, and there’s no trace of the black ooze anywhere on Kiyan or the floor.
Eskel sucks in a sharp breath. With injuries this severe, any healing potion or Chaos could overload the body and cause it to go into shock. On the other hand, without intervention, Kiyan will most likely die within the day.
Better to try something than nothing, then. Eskel fishes one of Lambert’s prized triple-strength White Rafford’s and one of Yennefer’s stabilizing runestones out of his bag. With as much care as he can, he turns Kiyan onto his back, tucking the runestone into one of his ruined hands, and watches... There it is. Kiyan’s jaw drops fractionally, and his breathing is a hair less labored. He’s not entirely beyond help.
He trickles the White Rafford’s into Kiyan’s mouth drop by drop, watching his throat carefully to make sure that he swallows and keeps it down. The wounds on Kiyan’s body, bit by bit, lose their angry redness, and his breathing returns to a more normal register, no longer wheezing concerningly out of his nose.
Eskel looks through his pack and grimaces. He’d like to administer a Swallow for safety, but with Kiyan as weak as he is, the added toxicity would probably do more harm than good, and the runestone should have enough healing energy left in it to sustain him until he can have another dose of Rafford’s in about eight hours.
Eskel sighs. As much as it pains him, there’s not much more he can do, and so he settles two fingers onto Kiyan’s wrist to feel the steady beat of his heart, and slips into a meditation of his own.
Eskel’s startled awake by the pulse under his fingertips skipping and almost doubling in speed. When he opens his eyes, Kiyan’s green ones are staring back at him, wide open and full of terror.
“Shit,” Eskel swears softly, and telegraphing as much as he can, removes his fingers from Kiyan’s wrist to settle it back in his own lap. “Not gonna hurt you, Kiyan. Can you blink if you can understand me?”
A heartbeat, and then another, and Kiyan’s eyes slowly flutter closed and back open again. His throat works, but the only sound that comes out is a pained rasp.
“Don’t move or talk, please,” Eskel says, getting another triple strength Rafford’s out of his bag as slowly as he possibly can. “I cleared the lab - nothing but a long-dead mage and some notes I need to burn. I can give you another dose of White Rafford’s in about an hour, which should heal you enough to move, and then we can get the fuck out of here and get you a bed to heal on.”
Some of the fear has leached away from Kiyan’s stare, but most of it’s still there - and when Eskel looks up from setting the potion within Kiyan's eyesight, he catches Kiyan’s eyes darting from his medallion back to his face.
“Ah,” he says. “My name’s Eskel, I am indeed a Wolf, I know you’re a Cat, and I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve been down here a while, and... Well, some things have changed. I count Aiden and Gaetan among my friends, and they count you as one of theirs, which means, if you don’t disagree, you’re my friend too.”
Kiyan blinks almost glacially slowly. Eskel can’t help the half-smile that cracks over the unscarred half of his face, but quickly sobers.
“We thought... Well, Geralt found your medallion and swords in a shipwreck. We had no idea you were... here. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth, that we didn’t look harder for you.”
At that, Kiyan lets out something close to a dry snort, although it quickly turns into a single, racking cough that sprays a fine mist of blood into Eskel’s eyes. The look in his eyes, though, is now warm, and they slide closed as his breathing and heartbeat settle once again into meditation.
Eskel’s not entirely sure what to do with injuries like this. Kiyan’s obviously too weak for a portal, even if he could tolerate a mage casting around him long enough to go through one. Witchers, historically, bounce back quickly from injuries that don’t outright kill them - even lost bits tend to heal over to stumps within the month. While none of Kiyan’s individual injuries are mortal, he’s got so many of them that his body is struggling to heal them all at once, which will hamper his progress significantly.
Eskel sighs. He gets to his feet and uses his remaining hour to burn the mage's notes, and then, for good measure, anything that looks magical, useful, or semi-functional. When the back room of the lab is a charred mess, he heads back to Kiyan, who rouses with a low groan at movement but is aware enough to down another Rafford's. It doesn't heal him nearly as much as Eskel would like, but it does enough to allow Kiyan to be touched without hissing or grimacing, which in turn lets Eskel carefully use all of the clean cloth in his pack to dress his wounds, and then wrap a spare cloak carefully around him and bring him into the cool night air.
The inn Eskel's staying at is nothing fancy, but a mattress of fresh straw is a sight better than the cold floor of the lab.
He looks around. His armor's clean, his swords are honed, and there's no chance he leaves Kiyan alone in here in such a fragile state.
With a sigh, he sets a mental hourglass for five hours so that he can get some food and a bath in here as soon as the innkeeper wakes, and settles at the bedside into meditation once more.
After a few days of rest, Eskel judges Kiyan to be well enough for another move, and secures a long-term room at an inn that is, coincidentally, halfway between Hattori’s and the Chameleon. Hattori’s happy to ply them with endless dumplings in exchange for Eskel’s testing of his more inventive weapons. (There’s a sword that’s almost as tall as he is and half as wide, which is fun but entirely impractical for anyone but a Bear. Kiyan laughs so hard that he coughs up blood when Eskel nearly takes off his toes, which causes Eskel to nearly take off his toes again in his haste to unearth more Swallow.)
Dandelion drops by at least once a week, usually more, and is surprisingly adept at rewrapping a Witcher’s injuries and surprisingly knowledgeable about potions ingredients, bringing enough for Eskel to brew the Swallow and Rafford's that he needs. Eskel is impressed but unsurprised, and grateful when Dandelion shoos him out of the room every now and them to go work off some steam at some of the city's ever-present drowners or necrophages.
At Dandelion’s urging, in one of the many long stretches in which the contract boards are empty of easy kills but Eskel’s jittery enough that his hands almost begin to shake, he xenovoxes Geralt and Yennefer.
“Wolf,” he says quietly enough that the closed door behind him will block the sound from even Kiyan’s Witcher-sharp ears. He’s not sure how Kiyan will react to the magic, and Eskel would like to prevent him from re-injuring himself before he’s even done healing.
After a moment, a soft rustle emerges back from the xenovox. “Eskel,” Yennefer’s dusky tones respond. “The Duchess has stolen Geralt for an unfortunate centipede infestation on the Tourney grounds, but he should be back within the week.”
“That’s alright,” Eskel says. “Just... let him know I found another Witcher. Kiyan. He’s in bad shape.”
“Do you need me to find Triss?” Yennefer’s voice has sharpened into urgency, and Eskel can’t stop the half-smile that stretches across his face even as he shakes his head. She’s a consummate professional.
For her benefit, he says out loud, “It was a mage that did this to him. I can’t even do Signs without him flinching."
"The Cats, then?" Yennefer's voice softens again.
Eskel lets out a shaky breath. "Hold off until I can be more sure that he'll pull through. I don't... want to give them false hope. For now, I just wanted to let Geralt know that I might not be back this winter, and if I am, I’ll have company.”
“I’ll let him know, then. I presume an unannounced xenovox call is also out of the question?” She asks, and he can hear the furrow in her brow, the deep well of caring in her that she tries so hard to hide.
Eskel lets out a breath and feels the tension drop out of his shoulders a bit. Of course she understands. “Please. I... I hope I can make it back this winter. With company. I’ll let you all know when I can.”
“Do try, dear. Geralt gets so sad when he has to fertilize the grapes all on his lonesome.”
Eskel breathes out a laugh. “I miss you both too,” he says, and he can almost hear her blush.
“Hm,” is all she says, before the xenovox goes silent again.
Dandelion pats him on the shoulder when he comes back in and tucks the xenovox away. The companionable silence is punctuated by the crackle of the low fire in the hearth, which makes Eskel sweat in his armor but keeps Kiyan from shivering.
It’s not home, but at the moment, it feels close enough.
Almost two months pass before Kiyan can talk with any consistency and begin to walk on his own, and Eskel is almost certain he’s going to pull through. Coincidentally, it’s about that time when the air in Novigrad gets crisp enough that Eskel begins to think about Touissant again.
He broaches the topic one day after going through his reserve coin pouch - it’s not nearly as much as Geralt or Yennefer would like him to have, but it’s dangerous to carry too much money on the Path. If Kiyan refuses Toussaint, it’s enough to get them a month or so more of inns, by which point Kiyan will be healed enough to be left alone for long enough that Eskel can take some more long-term, lucrative contracts. It’s doable, but Corvo Bianco will certainly be easier and more comfortable, and will definitely be warmer through the winter.
Eskel clears his throat, and waits for Kiyan to turn his head from where he’s slowly but determinately sharpening a lightweight dagger. “My brother- Geralt, has a... property, that we stay the winter in, now that Kaer Morhen’s empty.”
“White Wolf,” Kiyan rasps wryly. “Heard of him.”
Eskel snorts. “Of course you have. He's a ridiculous man.”
Another rasp of the whetstone, and then Kiyan asks, “Who’s we?”
“The last of the Wolves: me, Lambert, Geralt’s child surprise, Ciri. You, if you’d like. And... a few others. Letho of the Vipers. Aiden. Gaetan. All the Witchers we could find.”
Kiyan blinks slowly. “Just seven... left. Really thought... Schrödinger. Wily bastard.”
“Seven’s a magic number. Destiny likes it,” Eskel says wryly. “If it helps, we’ve yet to find Schrödinger’s medallion, so technically we can’t call him dead just yet.”
“I-” Kiyan starts, then clears his throat, swallowing fruitlessly. “I’m not... who I used to be.”
He’s not wrong. From Aiden and Gaetan’s accounts, he used to be handsome and charismatic, the kind of Witcher that people could almost pretend was human. Now, there’s extensive scarring over almost every inch of skin, no individual one worse than Eskel’s but dense enough that humans wouldn’t talk to him without a mask covering almost all of his face, and would take all effort to avoid looking him in the eye.
“Besides,” Kiyan says, a wry smile pulling at his scars, “I’m... burden now.”
A few years ago, that might have been true. Even disregarding his limited range of motion and the constant pain that clouded his mind and slowed his reactions, a Witcher that couldn’t talk to humans, and therefore couldn’t take contracts, was as good as dead in a world where Schools and trainers had crumbled to dust. Now, though...
“Geralt’s got enough,” Eskel says, a smile of his own pulling at his face. “The ridiculous man broke every rule and got himself all caught up in Destiny and Chaos and kings, but he ended up with a vineyard that makes some damned good wine. Doesn’t even have to go on the Path anymore, really. Spends his time clearing neighboring vineyards of archespores and keeping up our home.”
Eskel waits patiently as Kiyan carefully sharpens the knife. One pass, two, then three ring out in the silence before Kiyan speaks again. “Be good... see brothers again. If you’re sure.”
“Geralt’s got a room dedicated to the swords and medallions we’ve found. It’d be nice to see the collection shrink, for once.”
Kiyan’s hand ghosts over his scarred throat. It bobs as he swallows and dips his head, eyes shuttering closed for a moment.
“I have to warn you, though, there’s a sorceress. Yennefer. She’s good people, but I thought-”
“Good... warn me,” Kiyan interrupts, before Eskel can stutter too much, though his shoulders are tense and his breathing rasps louder. “She... knives?”
“No, no, not at all. She’s Aretuza trained, through-and-through, wouldn’t be caught dead with something so simple as a knife in her hands.”
“Hm,” Kiyan considers, and Eskel has to bite back an inappropriate laugh at the familiar sound from an unfamiliar mouth. He and Geralt will get along, alright. “S’long as she doesn't... Chaos me. Be fine. Probably. Slow, anyway.”
Eskel sighs softly, and collects the knife and whetstone from Kiyan’s loosening grip, tucking them away in his back as he unearths the xenovox. “Get some rest. We’ll talk details when you wake.”
It’s times like this when Eskel’s almost glad they don’t winter at Kaer Morhen anymore. The wagon he’d purchased half-price (it had been stuck in the mud and broken an axle, and had given the poor merchant enough trouble over the past few years that he’d been more than happy to let it go for a few gold and some help transporting his wares the rest of the way into the city) would never have made it up the base of the mountain, let alone the Killer.
In Toussaint, though, it makes its way down paved trails easily enough, and has enough room for Kiyan and a few extra supplies, as well. Eskel stops by a few caves and rivers on the way to collect the few apothecary ingredients that Geralt can't grow, and discovers that Kiyan, true to his School and regardless of ribbing, goes nearly feral for fresh-caught fish. The fish jerky he smokes on a few of the colder nights isn’t as welcome, but makes for a delicious snack and handily fills the rest of the wagon space, so it stops feeling like too extravagant of purchase.
By the time they make their way through the winding maze of the vineyard, Geralt’s waiting at the door with a medallion handing from his hands. Kiyan’s sitting up front in the wagon, basking in the Toussaint sun, and eyes Geralt semi-warily as he dismounts and makes his way over.
“Be welcome, Kiyan of the Cats,” Geralt rumbles, and without ceremony, presses the snarling cat into Kiyan’s hands.
Kiyan looks up from the medallion, eyes bright with unshed tears. It’s one thing to hear your medallion’s waiting, but another entirely to see it, Eskel supposes.
“Thank you,” Kiyan chokes out, “Don’t have much... debt of gratitude.”
Geralt shakes his head. “None of that,” he interrupts, clasping Kiyan’s shoulder warmly. “There’s precious few of us left. You’re family, surely as any of my brothers.”
Kiyan gapes silently. The best of us , Eskel thinks, something warm settling behind his breastbone.
“Come on,” Geralt says quietly. “Your brothers are already here.”
Kiyan swallows audibly, then lets his breath out in a soft wheeze. “Yes. Brothers.”
Geralt releases Kiyan and meet’s Eskel’s eye. Eskel nods, taking Geralt’s place and urging Kiyan forward through the manor as, by the sounds of it, Geralt begins untacking Scorpion and Giles patters up to help unload the wagon.
Aiden is sitting at the table, leg shaking with poorly-disguised anxiety as Kiyan walks in. Eskel can see Aiden utilizing all of his self control not to tackle Kiyan as soon as he spots him. Gaetan, pacing frantically behind him, freezes on the spot and stares with wide eyes.
Kiyan’s face splits into a painfully wide smile. In a moment, Gaetan and Aiden are clinging to him. Kiyan lets out a long sigh, and Eskel watches as bit by bit, the last of the tension he’s been carrying for the past few months drains away, and he leans heavily into their embrace.
“Damn, brother,” Aiden says cheerfully, pulling back to grasp at Kiyan’s shoulders and looking him up and down with his remaining eye. “We match now!”
“Kidding yourself,” Kiyan grunts. “Got you beat by a mile.”
Gaetan laughs a little manically, muffled by his careful clinging to Kiyan’s chest. Kiyan’s hand comes up to pat soothingly at the back of his head. “S’okay, kitten. Made it.”
“You sure did,” Aiden shakes his head in disbelief. “Gods, I can’t believe you’re here. I- We-”
“None of that,” Kiyan says, free hand coming up to clasp at the scruff of Aiden’s neck. He tips his head forward to rest his forehead against Aiden’s, eyes sliding shut, hand tightening around Gaetan’s neck. “Nobody’s fault. Just bad luck.”
Aiden breathes out a shaky laugh. “Enough of that to go around.”
Gaetan nudges the group over to the table. Still muffled, he says, “Sit. Marlene made a feast. Food, then bed, and I’m never letting go of you.”
Chest hitching in a choked half-laugh, Kiyan lets himself be prodded onto a seat, in front of what is, indeed, a fest of cold foods. “Marlene?” He questions.
Gaetan plucks a slice off an artfully arranged tray of raw fish, almost shoving it into Kiyan’s face, who takes it with a surprised squeak that Eskel’s never heard before. “Geralt’s got a cook. She used to be a wight. Less talking, more eating, I can count all of your ribs.”
Eskel tactfully backs out of the kitchen for the food-presenting competition that follows, grabbing the last few apothecary ingredients from the wagon and waving to B.B. as he and Giles lead the now-empty wagon off. He finds Geralt in the cellar, humming atonally as he tucks bits of longrube onto their shelf, drops the bag of buckthorn on the center table, and wraps himself around Geralt’s back.
He squeezes a little, just to feel the ribs creak and bounce back, whole and unbroken and healthy. Geralt’s stomach ripples as he laughs. “Hey, Esk.”
“Wolf,” Eskel whispers, tucking his nose into the back of Geralt’s neck and smelling fresh earth and the sweet whisper of ripe grapes. “It’s good to be home.”
“Wherever you are,” Geralt says, pausing in his sorting to place a hand over Eskel’s, rising and falling with his diaphragm.
Eskel inhales again. Soil, fruit, gooseberries, and lilac. “You and our strays.”
Geralt laughs and maneuvers them into a proper embrace, dropping a light kiss onto Eskel’s forehead. “No strays here. Just family.”