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Chapter Text

Eskel doesn’t do parties. 

If it was up to him, Eskel would never attend another party ever again. Unfortunately, it seems that part of being a witcher nowadays means mingling, socialising and doing the whole song and dance that comes when one deals with the nobility. His most recent employer, Marquess Something of The-Back-End-Of-Nowhere, insisted that Eskel took part in the masquerade taking place at the Marquess’ estate after Eskel rid his lands of several ghoul nests. The witcher, ever the diplomat, politely declined the offer but the Marquess was nothing short of determined to have Eskel join the festivities.

“Master witcher, I insist . Just one evening is all I ask. Help yourself to my food and one of my beds. Hell, help yourself to my servants as well, I’m sure one of the lasses will tickle your fancy. Come see me tomorrow for your payment and you’ll be on your way. I insist , master witcher, I insist.”

The only reason Eskel resigned himself to his fate is because his employer won’t pay him the fee that Eskel is due until morning. Since he will have to wait for his coin anyway, might as well enjoy himself while he’s at it. Only, Eskel isn’t enjoying himself. For one, his social skills are beyond rusty and ridding the land of ghouls has tired him out. He barely has enough energy to stand upright, nevermind to actively interact with the other guests. Eskel also hates crowds, feeling more and more claustrophobic as the evening progresses. The stupid mask he is forced to wear for the occasion feels too tight around his face and irritates his scars. Eskel has two minds to tear the damned thing off his face, but he knows that the sight of his scars would probably attract the wrong kind of attention, so he soldiers through the uncomfortable sensation. 

Eskel declines a glass of wine, but even so the young maid lingers around for a chat. She’s pretty, Eskel thinks to himself, a sight for sore eyes with her fiery red locks, her emerald eyes at the freckles on her face. She, unlike the other guests, is not wearing a mask because servants don’t take part in the festivities. Eskel offers a polite smile as he only half-listens to the girl, noticing the way she flutters her long eyelashes at him and the pink tinge colouring her cheeks. The girl is probably no older than fifteen. Eskel averts his eyes at the thought. A child . She’s only a child. 

“Girl! Stop bothering the handsome gentleman.” 

Another woman appears in Eskel’s line of vision, but before he has a chance to come to the girl’s defence, the servant mumbles a mortified apology and scutters away. The woman huffs indignantly at the girl’s audacity, then flicks her hair with an air of importance. She’s wearing a navy-blue mask in the shape of a fox, probably made from silk or velvet, and decorated with arabesques sewn into the expensive material with golden thread. Eskel’s own simple mask, black with very little flourish and the cheapest one he could find on such short notice, seemed impossibly bland in comparison. Eskel can only make out the stranger’s eyes - rich chocolate orbs - and her full lips painted red. Well that, and the impressive bosom which is nearly spilling out of her far too tight corset. Eskel makes a point not to stare, and in fact, he does his best not to make eye-contact at all in the hope that the woman will leave him alone. 

He doesn’t have much luck with that. 

“And who might you be, handsome stranger?” the woman asks in a low sultry voice that is clearly meant to sound seductive. 

“Isn’t the point of these parties to remain anonymous, my Lady?” Eskel knows he’s being bold - for all he knows, this woman could have friends in very high places who can make Eskel’s life a living hell if he’s not careful. Fortunately for him, the woman’s response is to let out an artificially crystalline laugh that doesn’t quite sit right with Eskel. 

“Oh my, handsome and mysterious. What a treat.”

Eskel feels the heat rise to his cheeks at being called handsome twice in the span of several minutes. He hasn’t been called handsome very often since he got his scars. Before that, admittedly, Eskel guesses that he could have passed as an attractive man, though he personally never saw the appeal. Even without the facial scars, people would still step away in fear at the sight of his freakish eyes or the swords strapped to his back. And even on those rare occasions where Eskel had paid for whores, even though he had done his very best to make the experience pleasurable for them, he could still pick up on the underlying smell of fear at his touch. 

Eskel is so unaccustomed to being called handsome anymore that he’s stunned into silence when this stranger deigns to compliment him in this fashion. 

“And, as it appears, humble as well. Oh handsome stranger, I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.” The woman trails her fingers over her bosom, almost enticing Eskel to look. He swallows thickly around the nervous lump forming in his throat. “Can I interest you in a bite to eat?”

Eskel looks over at the lavish table, around which a considerable crowd has already gathered. Eskel watches people fill their plates with all kinds of meats - venison, wild boar, pork, beef, pheasant. His nose also picks up the salty smell of roasted lobster, marinated shrimp, fried cod and haddock, and cullen skink. Next to the main courses are a whole array of side dishes; potatoes, vegetables, salads, bread rolls and other nibbles. A second, slightly smaller  table, has been set up next to the main buffet and features all sorts of sweet-smelling deserts. Cakes, pies, biscuits, whipped cream, fresh fruit, sweet sauces, honeycomb and all sorts of sweet delights are displayed for the guests to feast on, both visually and gustatorially. A feast fit for kings, and yet Eskel’s own appetite fails him.

He declines the offer tactfully, keeping his voice soft and pleasant. “Thank you for your generous offer, my Lady, but I already ate earlier today.”

This, of course, is a lie. Eskel can’t remember the last time he ate a meal that didn’t consist of berries and meat scraps. 

“Oh, of course,” the woman agrees, her chocolate brown eyes sparkling with mischief, “a man such as yourself probably sticks to a very strict dietary regimen.”

“My trade demands it,” Eskel offers a simple explanation, but before he can swiftly move on from that conversation, he feels the woman’s hand squeeze his bicep probingly, her pupils dilating at the firmness she finds there. Eskel resists the urge to push her away. Her fingers linger on his arm for a while before trailing up to his bicep, then down again along his narrowing waist.

“Forgive me my brazenness, handsome stranger, but curiosity got the better of me. You truly are as strong as you look. And so good-looking .”

Eskel wants to tell her that there’s nothing good-looking about the scars marring his body - not just the ones on his face, though admittedly those ones are hard to miss. Eskel can’t think of a single spot on him that isn’t covered in scars. Some are more impressive than others, but all of them ugly in their own right. 

“My Lady is too generous with her praise.”

Those are the first honest words that leave Eskel’s mouth since the start of the evening. 

“And you, my darling, are too harsh on yourself. Besides, it’s refreshing to talk to a man who isn’t constantly stuffing his face with food. Look at them,” the woman motions at the crowd gathered around the buffet, “eating like there’s no tomorrow, getting fatter by the day. Like they’re not fat enough while there’s children out there who go hungry because of this dreadful war.”

Eskel strongly believes that the woman’s moral stance is not as genuine as she will have him believe. 

“They’re enjoying themselves. Nothing wrong with that.” Eskel scans the room for an escape, which he finds in the form of an open balcony door. If he moves quickly enough, he can disappear without the woman noticing he’s gone. Before he can put his plan into action, Eskel feels the woman’s hand on his unscarred cheek and he freezes. Her eyes meet his as her fingers gently trace the edge of his mask. 

“I want to see your face,” she whispers to him, her bosom heaving suggestively as she does so. Before she manages to expose him, Eskel steps away as softly as he knows how. He flashes the woman a secretive smile. 

“Not yet, my Lady. This isn’t how the game works.”

Thankfully, the woman doesn’t take offence at his words or actions, instead mirroring his smile and blowing him a kiss. She doesn’t follow him as Eskel steps onto the balcony, and he can’t quite explain the feeling of relief that washes over him at the realisation. Now would be the perfect time to take off his mask, but Eskel finds that the anonymity it provides gives him a sense of security after all. He keeps it on, at least for the time being. Eskel hears the sound of laughter and general merriment coming from inside and he has two minds to slam the balcony door behind him, go find Scorpion and flee these lands never to return again. The only reason he doesn’t is because he’s literally penniless and he needs the Marquess to pay up so Eskel can buy supplies on his way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. 

Just because Eskel hates parties doesn’t mean his brothers have to go hungry. 

This past year has been hard on Eskel. He could sense a war brewing in the North, spurted on by Nilfgaard’s own self-interest in various northern regions. War means that while the rich get richer, they also get stingier with their money in anticipation of the hardship they know will soon befall their regions. The poor, however, often get poorer and when these people happen to need a witcher, well, matters of payment get trickier. Eskel has lost count of how many times he worked a contract for nearly nothing, even for free at times, because he couldn’t bear the sight of a mother’s tears or couldn’t refuse a grieving father’s plea to avenge his son and make sure the cockatrice never hurts anyone ever again. 

Eskel is usually good at managing his finances on the Path. Unlike Lambert, who tends to lose a whole contract’s earnings in one night while playing Gwent (or double it, depending on his luck), it is not unlikely for Eskel to return to Kaer Morhen at the start of winter with coin to spare. This year is different. Eskel has had a terrible year and the Marquess’ money is a necessity at this point. Eskel takes a deep breath through the nose and exhales loudly, as a way to ground himself. 

He can’t wait to get home. 

His stomach makes itself known when Eskel catches a whiff of roast chicken as one of the guests steps outside with their plate of food. Eskel is quick to cover his middle with his hand, as if the action alone could muffle his body’s natural response to hunger. Eskel can’t remember the last time he ate. The little coin he managed to save up had gone towards a new saddle, repairs on his armour and swords, and making sure Scorpion could feast on as many oats as his heart desired whenever Eskel stopped in a big enough town. Scorpion needs the sustenance more than his owner does. Without his faithful stallion, Eskel would probably not make it back to Kaer Morhen before the snow blocks off the mountain trail. Besides, Scorpion is the best horse Eskel has ever owned, so he deserves to be spoilt to death even if it means that Eskel has to go several days without eating. 

Eskel could certainly do with losing a couple of pounds anyway.

Eskel has always been bigger than the average person thanks to the mutagen, but he’s also always been larger than most of the other witchers he’s known over the years. Geralt and Lambert, his brothers, were both much more slender. Even as a child, Eskel was the biggest and heaviest boy in his group at Kaer Morhen. Eskel’s hill-folk origins were always most noticeable in his broad shoulders, his height and his sturdier build. Children can be cruel, or so the saying goes, and Eskel experienced this first hand when the other boys in his class started taunting him for the way he looked. Too slow. Too soft. Too jiggly. Eskel trained harder to prove himself to them, to show everyone that he had what it took to become a witcher, but the jeers kept coming and Eskel realised that the best policy was to simply ignore them. 

At that point, the damage to his mind had already been done.

The other boys in his group, Geralt included, grew into their bodies. Eskel, on the other hand, could never quite shake the layer of puppy fat and had to work twice as hard to keep up with the other boys in terms of speed and agility. After the first round of Trials, Eskel’s signs became the strongest in the entire keep. The boys who used to pick on Eskel’s appearance stopped now that Eskel was able to overpower them with a simple flick of the hand. He also grew stronger, often forfeiting speed for brute force, and established himself as one of the most promising young witchers. Now, Eskel is probably at the slimmest he’s ever been, thanks to an especially bad year. His clothes were starting to feel a little too baggy, but Eskel certainly didn’t have the money to buy them new and not enough sewing skills to take them in himself. He will just have to wait until he’s back at the keep and hope that Vesemir can help. 

Eskel is at the slimmest he’s ever been and he likes it that way. He’s faster than he used to be without the additional body mass weighing him down. He feels more in line with what a witcher is supposed to look like, in his experience. He doesn’t feel as intimidating anymore. People used to stink of fear and anxiety whenever he approached them, even if he always did his best to keep his voice soft and friendly. Eskel didn’t like people cowering away from him in fear. He would never hurt innocent people, and much less use his strength to coerce people into doing his bidding. Recently, on those rare occasions when Eskel would spend some coin on a whore for the night, he would preen at the compliments he received. Your body looks good, sugar… how handsome… what a figure… Being complimented on his slim yet muscular physique by the mysterious fox-lady tonight only drives the point home that people, society, like him better this way. 

Eskel also knows that he’ll put on five pounds if he just looks at a cream pastry for too long, so it’s just easier not to eat at all. He could probably still stand to lose a couple more pounds. The notion that a witcher should be concerned about his physique is ridiculous at best, if not downright laughable. Losing weight won’t change the fact that Eskel is a freak feared by humans and non-humans alike. Losing weight won’t change the fact that Eskel is a witcher, a mutant , with nothing to offer anyone other than his friendship. Losing weight won’t change the fact that witchers are still seen to be solitary, emotionless killers only marginally more favourable than the monsters they kill. 

Losing weight won’t change any of that, but it certainly can’t hurt. 

“There you are again,” a now familiar voice speaks to him, pulling him out of his spiralling thoughts. Eskel looks over to find the woman in the fox-mask staring at him with a soft smile curling the corner of her lip. “You ran away from me earlier.”

“I needed some fresh air, my Lady,” Eskel admits. She nods her understanding, but otherwise doesn’t comment on his sudden disappearance. If she’s displeased with him she has yet to show it. 

“I brought you some food,” she tells him and hands over a plate filled with… a very specific choice of different foods. Asparagus, artichokes, figs, oysters and strawberries. Eskel raises an eyebrow at her, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Her chocolate brown eyes sparkle with unbridled mischief. 

“Interesting selection,” he then adds,  “but you didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

“And what trouble would that be, handsome stranger?” She plays coy, but the growing smile tells Eskel that the woman knows exactly what she’s doing by handing him over a plate of aphrodisiacs. 

“I told you, I already ate.”

“What if I told you that I seek to satisfy a different kind of hunger?” 

Eskel pauses at those words. Her intentions were clear as day before, but she seemingly grows more desperate in the face of Eskel’s dismissal. Eskel didn’t plan on falling into bed with anyone tonight. All he really wants is to leave this place with his coin as soon as he’s physically able to. Then again, who knows when he’ll be offered another opportunity to wet his dick with a woman who doesn’t expect him to hand over money after he spends himself? With a face like his, you take whatever is readily available to you, and what this stranger is offering is too good to pass up.

“Your room or mine?”

The food on the plate remains untouched as Eskel lets the woman lead him away from the crowd to somewhere more private.

__________

Eskel and the masked woman don't make it to her room. As soon as they exit the main hall where the festivities are taking place, it doesn't take long for her to press Eskel against a nearby wall and stand on her tiptoes to capture his lips in a heated kiss. Her hands are everywhere at once - his shoulders first, then his biceps, then his pecks, then his waist, his defined abdomen. Her hand lingers there and a small moan pushes past her lips as she feels the firmness of Eskel's muscles. Meanwhile, Eskel doesn't quite know what to do with his own hands, so he keeps them situated on her hips. She's so slender he can almost completely encase her waist in his hands. The masked stranger pulls away from his lips with an obscene wet noise. She catches his lower lip between her teeth and bites, pulling a groan from Eskel. He doesn’t think he wants rough just now, but he’ll take whatever she’s willing to give at this point. 

“I think we should take our masks off,” she breathes between them. Eskel catches a whiff of her sweet perfume and the smell is almost intoxicating. 

“Should I remind you the point of this masquerade?” 

The masked stranger’s hand resting on his abdomen travels lower until she’s gently tracing the waistband of Eskel’s trousers. He hisses in a sharp breath as his cock stirs in interest. The woman’s voice is barely above a whisper when she answers:

“If I'm going to unveil the mystery under these clothes, I should be allowed to see the mystery under the mask.”

“Not every mystery is worth uncovering.”

The woman pauses, though her hands still tease the ties of Eskel’s trousers. She pulls at the shirt which Eskel had so carefully tucked into his britches and slides her hand up the firm expanse of skin, tracing every dip and ridge of Eskel’s abs, her eyes blown wide with lust. Eskel shivers at the light touch and flinches when those nimble fingers stutter over one of his more noticeable scars. 

“Isn’t that for me to decide whether I want to uncover this particular mystery?”

Eskel bites back the comment sitting on the tip of his tongue, something about it also being his decision whether he shows his face or not. Instead, Eskel leans down and kisses her languorously, taking his time. She melts against him and digs her nails into his stomach. They kiss for another while before the woman decides to pull away from Eskel. The sudden loss causes Eskel to open his eyes. He watches as she removes her mask to reveal a face as pretty as Eskel imagined it would be, with elegant cheekbones, freckles and long dark eyelashes. 

“Like what you see?”

“I do,” Eskel admits, unable to deny it. The woman smiles, revealing charming dimples. 

“Now that I’ve uncovered my identity, it is only fair that you do the same, don’t you think, handsome stranger?”

Her hands, which until now have been exploring the expanse of his abdomen, are now trailing up his arms, biceps and shoulders, before cupping his cheeks and meeting his gaze. Up close, Eskel can guess the beginning of wrinkles forming at the edges of the woman’s eyes, strategically covered up with make-up but betraying her mature age nonetheless. Eskel has two minds to stop her, but he’s so tired of hiding behind a mask. He allows her to slide her delicate fingers under his mask, pushing it off his face and revealing the scars underneath. Eskel closes his eyes in anticipation of her inevitable outburst, unable to look her in the eye as she stares at him with disgust and fear , but deep down hoping that she won’t mind all that much. 

Eskel hears her stagger backwards as well as the way her heart beats faster as she unravels the mystery that is Eskel. Anticlimactic as far as reveals go, Eskel thinks cynically. He opens his eyes eventually and sees the woman pressed with her back against the opposite wall, one hand covering her mouth and eyes widening at the sight of his face. 

“Oh…,” is all she is able to say for a while, “ oh , I… I guess you were right about one thing. Some mysteries are better left covered up. I just thought with a body like yours…”

She trails off, biting the inside of her cheek as if to stem the flow of nasty words about to fall from her lips, but Eskel can guess her meaning nonetheless.

“I guess mother was right when she said that there’s a monster hiding in all of us.”

__________

Eskel collects his coin from the Marquess the next morning and reunites with Scorpion in the morning. He declines the Marquess’ invitation to join him for a quick breakfast. Eskel’s appetite has completely forsaken him. His stallion is glad to see him - at least someone is, Eskel thinks bitterly as he feeds his horse a cube of sugar for his trouble. Scorpion nudges Eskel’s chest with his long head, nickering softly as if sensing his owner’s inner turmoil. Scorpion has always been smarter than the average horse. Eskel tacks him up and is on his way before midday. 

His stomach rumbles stubbornly at him, but Eskel ignores his own hunger. The coin he earned on his last contract will have to last until he reaches Ard Carraigh, where he will buy supplies for the winter. If he presses Scorpion, he can reach the city in a week’s time. 

Eskel can’t wait to go home. 

Chapter Text

Winter can be cruel, unfairly so. Freezing winds and unbearable icy paths hinder Eskel with every step he takes. He long since clambered off of Scorpion, taking his steed’s reins into his hands and leading him on through the frigid night. More than once, he thought about camping, starting a fire and warming up, but sitting around means doing nothing, and nothingness only invites emptiness these days.

Ard Carraigh isn’t far. He suspects he will be there in about a day or so. Less than a week has passed since the masquerade, and the words the Lady spoke still haunt him. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before – live as long as he has, and words become nothing but background noise – but something about them cuts deep. Eskel hates it almost as much as he hates the incessant gnawing in his gut. After days of not feeding it, Eskel hopes it will get the hint, but his stomach growls loudly, sounding more like a werewolf than an internal organ, complaining about the lack of food.

Suck it up, Eskel thinks, eating isn’t the main priority right now.

His focus remains splintered between the trail ahead and the horse beside him. Eskel has done his best to keep Scorpion well-fed and warm, but, unfortunately, not even Eskel could stop nature. Scorpion keeps his head up and trudges strongly through the encroaching blizzard. They’ll make it before the pass closes to Kaer Morhen, but it will be a near thing. Before they head up, Eskel will stop in Ard Carraigh, hunker down for a night in the inn and let Scorpion rest before daring the trek up the Witchers’ Trail. Will he enjoy it? No, but some matters are more important than small comforts.

His stomach growls again, and Eskel places a hand over his stomach. It’s a useless tactic, but his fingers dig into the skin anyway. He grips himself tightly as if the pressure will halt the noise when it starts. Through that one action alone, Eskel notes a thousand reasons why he can’t indulge in the spare fruits and meats sitting in Scorpion’s pack.

His body has slimmed down considerably over the year, and Eskel can’t be more pleased about it. Never has he been a small target, but the last contract he took before the masquerade proved that the weight loss is more beneficial than the blatant aesthetics. He moves lighter now, quicker on his feet and agile. Gone are the clumsy maneuvers, the stock-still grounding tactics he used to perform. Once, Vesemir likened him to something of a tree, unyielding and sturdy in his defense. At the time, Eskel remembered pride settling in his chest. Now, he sees the comment for what it really was. Wolves aren’t made to be trees. That’s something best left to the Bears. No, he’s supposed to be faster than that, nimble and quick. One look at Eskel screams nothing remotely similar to “nimble.”

All he feels through his armour and underclothes is softness. He hates the feeling of it. The softer he is, the heavier he is. Puppy fat means exactly that. Puppy fat. Eskel isn't a puppy anymore, no matter what Vesemir calls him, and it's not cute to carry around that extra layer of blubber. It weighs him down, an unnecessary addition to his structure. The added layer of fat serves as a protection layer, if he recalls the old medical tomes correctly. Eskel doesn’t need protection; he just needs to be better. Improvement comes with change, and Eskel has embraced change. The results he’s gotten from simply resigning himself to the shortage of food have done more for him than any workout he’s ever adopted during winters at Kaer Morhen. 

He thinks that’s what he dreads the most about returning home. Of course, he’s thrilled to walk through the gates every year. Nothing compares to the joy and relief of seeing his brothers alive and well. Still, Vesemir tends to have this infatuation with stuffing his pups for as long as he has them during the winter months. He doesn’t spoil them - no, they get teased enough for that - but portions are much larger than they’ll ever receive on the Path. Again, small comforts Eskel cannot afford. He should come up with excuses now, figure out ways to remove himself from future problems, but the wind is starting to howl, and Eskel is starting to falter.

Scorpion whinnies next to him, tossing his head in annoyance as he shakes off the dusting of snow wetting his mane. Eskel tilts himself away from the spray, a small smile gracing his lips as he gives a quiet laugh.

“Really, Scorp?” Eskel asks, grinning as Scorpion huffs, the cloud of hot breath puffing out around the stallion’s nose. “I thought you were a knight’s horse. Where’s the chivalry?”

Scorpion turns his head slightly to fix Eskel with what appeared to be something akin to a deadpan stare. Had Eskel been a lesser man, he probably would have been startled at the sight of an expression so humanistic on a horse, but Eskel has grown far too accustomed to Scorpion’s mannerisms to let this one faze him.

“Ah, don’t look at me that,” Eskel replies, running a hand down Scorpion’s mane. “I treat you like the princess you are.”

Scorpion bumps his head against Eskel’s chest in retaliation for that remark, sending the sturdy witcher a few steps back. Eskel pauses, blinks in surprise, then recovers. 

“Okay, fine. Handsome prince. Handsome, strong prince. Does that suit your fancy?”

Raising his head up proudly, Scorpion picks up the pace as much as he can with Eskel still holding his reins. Eskel squawks in protest, but his smile never fades as he strides to keep up with his horse. For a moment, his steps fumble. His legs wobble as he takes a particularly quick step forward, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head before continuing on.

“You know, sometimes I wonder who’s in charge here. Got a feeling it ain’t me.”

Scorpion neighs, ignoring Eskel completely for a few moments before craning his neck and bumping Eskel’s unscarred cheek gently. Eskel can’t help but laugh, burying his face into Scorpion’s neck for a couple of seconds, relishing in the warmth against his freezing skin. He places a kiss on Scorpion’s nose as he pulls away.

“Aw, I love you, too, bud. Now, c’mon. I know it’s late, but Ard Carraigh isn’t far now.”

Scorpion nudges him again, stopping in place and stamping his hooves impatiently. Eskel raises an eyebrow at the small tantrum, taking a moment to figure out what his stallion is trying to tell him. It’s only when Scorpion shuffles closer to him with a knowing look that Eskel understands.

Eskel rolls his eyes, grabbing hold of the pommel and swinging his leg over. He settles into his seat slowly, arms quivering with the strain. He huffs and gathers Scorpion's reins more firmly, quelling the tremors and preparing to lead his stallion through the dark. 

"Alright, Scorp. Let's go."

They progress slowly, mindful of the needle ice protruding from the ground. Most days, Eskel can admire the beauty of winter, but the appeal never lasts long. The frigid weather and howling winds always dampen the mood, bringing misery and despair in its wake. What does it say about this year if Eskel is already miserable and desperate? He sighs heavily, hot breath billowing from his mouth as the cold air dries his dehydrated throat further. Eskel rolls his shoulders back, tilts his aching head side to side to stretch his neck, and settles in for the long haul. Ard Carraigh is no more than a day away at this rate. He can make it. He’ll beat the blizzard. He hopes his brothers will, too, if they’re around to. 

He shakes the morbid thought from his mind. No sense in wallowing over “what if” scenarios. Worrying only serves to make him nauseous, and he experiences enough of that on his own. As if to join the internal conversation, his stomach suddenly clenches in pain. Eskel grunts, gritting his teeth as he waits for the hunger pang to pass. A couple of seconds and then it will be gone again, just as it always did. 

It doesn’t take a few seconds. It takes minutes. Eskel hunches over on Scorpion, bringing the horse to a halt and clutching his midsection. The pain gnaws away at him, a sharp and throbbing thing, persistent despite Eskel’s best efforts to quell it. After long moments of pain stronger than the hunger pangs before it, Eskel’s stomach releases one last loud growl, one that stretches for almost six seconds, steadily increasing in volume and dragging the agony up with it. By the time it stops, Eskel’s heaving gasps disturb the night. The pain disappears after the growl ends, leaving behind a blissful void in his stomach that is much preferred over the constant ache of starvation. His vision swims, and his body feels a little too light. It almost seems like he’s not within himself, an outsider looking at the pathetic sight he’s sure he is. Eventually, Eskel settles, groggily blinking away the dark spots in his sight.

At least he’s not hungry anymore. Small mercies, he supposes.

Scorpion flicks his ear, clearly unamused by the past events. Eskel clears his throat and urges Scorpion on without a further word. He would be more concerned if he still felt pain, but the aching has disappeared. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s fine. If anything, he’s proud. He’s lasted this far. Surely he can last a little longer, right?

__________

Arriving at Ard Carraigh is as much a blessing as it is a curse. Now that he’s finally here, Eskel can grab all the supplies he needs to bring up for the winter, and Scorpion can grab the rest he deserves. The sun hovers between the mountain peaks of Morhen Valley, still early dawn. Having pushed through the day before and the entire night, exhaustion wears down on Eskel’s shoulders. He climbs off of Scorpion, giving his horse a gentle caress down his neck before guiding them to the nearest inn. 

Sure enough, Ivan is awake and waiting when Eskel walks in.

“Ah, was wonderin’ when ya’d show up,” the old innkeeper greets, idly wiping down dishes behind the bar. Eskel absently notes the complete loss of hair. Ivan had been balding when Eskel came down at the end of last winter. He must’ve decided to rush the inevitable.

“Got a room?” Eskel asks, voice gruff and hoarse. He wishes he could blame disuse, but he used it far too often these past couple days while talking to Scorpion. No, it has more to do with the fact that he feels like he’s consuming glass each time he swallows. 

“Same one as always.” Ivan lifts his gaze, eyes narrowing when he sets his sights on Eskel’s cloaked form. “Huh. Ya doin’ somethin’ diff’rent?”

Eskel reaches out, taking the key from Ivan when the old man offers it. “What are you talking about?”

“Ya look diff’rent is all.”

“So you’ve said,” Eskel grunts, pocketing the key and shifting the bags on his shoulders. Have they always been this heavy?

Ivan rolls his eyes. For as familiar as they are with one another, Ivan and the witchers have an acquaintanceship at best, a mutual respect at worst. Ivan provides shelter for the witchers before they head up for the winter and after they come down. In return, the witchers complete a few maintenance tasks Ivan’s older body can’t perform anymore. All in all, their relationship isn’t quite the friendliest, so Eskel’s not exactly sure why Ivan decides to entertain the conversation further.

“Whatever. Ya look good. Better than last year.” Ivan chuckles, resuming his task in cleaning off the dishes before breakfast. “Really let ya’self go last winter, huh? Musta been hard ta get back inta shape.”

Eskel tenses, his grip on the handle of his bags tightening until his knuckles turn white. So Ivan noticed, too. Why hadn’t his brothers said anything? How could they and Vesemir just let him pig out all winter, becoming a disgusting and fat mess? It’s like they wanted Eskel to embarrass himself and have successfully done so for decades. At least he’s better now. Like Ivan said, he looks good. Even if his face is still torn to shreds, the Lady at the masquerade had been right: he looks better this way.

“It was a process,” Eskel grits out, teeth clenched as he fights back the words he wants to say. For as much as Eskel appreciates the compliment, he doesn’t appreciate the insinuation that followed. Ivan doesn’t know what happens in Kaer Morhen; he has no right to judge what Eskel does or does not do up there. Still, Ivan hosts his family, too. If Eskel places the wrong foot forward, he risks a rare safe space for Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir. It’s simply not fair of him to be selfish over one measly comment.

“I’d bet. Head on up, witcher. Ya look like Lilit Herself had Her way with ya.”

“Thought you said I looked good.”

Ivan snorts derisively, seeming far too amused than Eskel thought he had any right being. “Don’t let it get ta ya head, Eskel. Ya still got a long ways ta go before ya become a real stud for the ladies.”

A shiver runs down Eskel’s spine at the image those words conjure up, but he clamps down on the feeling. Ivan’s offering him an out; Eskel’s going to take it.

“Thanks, Ivan.” The words choke him on their way out, not at all the words Eskel wants to say. Ivan pays no mind.

“Whatever. Just be ready before afternoon. I got a list.”

Eskel doesn’t comment. He trudges up the stairs, his footsteps light on the creaky wooden floorboards. Eskel nearly preens at that. Better than the clomping footsteps he once had. Lambert used to call him “a bastard child of a giant.” He wonders briefly if Lambert will continue to say it once he reaches the keep. 

That thought brings another to mind as he sets his bags down on his bed, locking the door behind him. Both the nobles at the masquerade and Ivan claimed Eskel looks better, good, handsome. What will his family say when they see him? Will they be just as proud? Will they think he looks attractive this way, too? Eskel genuinely hopes so. For as much as he enjoys hearing the flattery from strangers, he seeks his family’s praises more. Too many winters have passed by without much more than a hug at the beginning of winter and another hug when they depart in spring. Maybe this will finally close the gap between him, his brothers, and Vesemir.

Now that he considers it, had they simply seen him as too revolting to touch? Do they abhor his softness as much as he does? His body trembles at the thought, a shiver of disgust running through him as he places a hand over his belly. If he presses hard enough, he can feel through his armour. It’s not enough. He sheds his clothes, practically tossing them onto his bed until he wears nothing but his braies. Against his better judgment, he turns to the mirror, and his heart stops at what he sees.

A layer of fat lingers over his abs, drooping over the waistband of his braies. He places a tentative hand to it, watching in the mirror as he’s able to scoop up the excess flab. It pours through the gaps between his fingers like a gelatinous dessert. His stomach turns at the sight. Revolted, Eskel squeezes his paunch, entertaining the insane thought of ripping it off and being done with it. He wants to burn away the fat with a well-cast Igni. Anything to make that potbelly disappear. The others had said he’d slimmed down, but it certainly doesn’t seem like it.

Eskel twists away from the mirror, trying hard not to think about how his belly jiggles with the movement. He quickly dons his armour once more and leaves without a wink of rest. He can’t sleep now, not when he has the memory of his fat bouncing with every step he takes. He all but bursts into the taproom, Ivan’s eyebrows shooting up at his sudden appearance.

Eskel scowls. “What did you need done?”

__________

Scorpion trails lazily after Eskel, having made the best of his hours of rest. After helping Ivan repair a few things in the tavern and chopping wood for the inn’s fireplaces, Eskel continued to run a few morning errands for himself before coming back for Scorpion. They picked up the cart waiting for them in Ivan’s stables. Not only did the man give the witchers a free room for two nights of the year, but he also let them keep their supply carts in his stables until they returned for the winter. Now that Eskel has the cart, errands should go by faster.

As time passes, the roads start to spark with life, people entering the market after going through their morning routines at home. Eskel tries to make his errands quick, but some things can’t be rushed, especially when things go awry.

“What do you mean the price is different? It’s the same order as always!” Eskel asks, furrowing his eyebrows in annoyance.

The butcher shrugs, a bored expression on his face. “Don’t know what you want me to tell you. Times are rough.”

Eskel takes a deep breath, reigning in his gathering anger. “Fine. Just hand it over.”

“I don’t like your attitude,” the butcher sneers, waving his cleaver around as if Eskel should be scared of it. 

“Trust me, I don’t give a shit.”

Eskel storms out of the butcher’s shop, scowling as he makes his way back to Scorpion. Truthfully, he’s less annoyed than he is nervous. As more people spill onto the streets, Eskel’s nerves bristle with the irritating feeling of being watched. Rationally, he knows people are more than used to the witchers coming through their town, but he can’t help but feel like some people are taking more than their fill.

Gently stroking Scorpion’s mane, Eskel glances over at the supply cart. With the meats from the butcher, it’s nearly full with everything he needs to provide for the winter. As far as Eskel’s concerned, Geralt handles the feed for the livestock and animals, as well as the majority of their armoury equipment. Lambert grabs materials necessary for repairing the keep itself and smaller foods like fruits and vegetables. Eskel still has to pick up the medicinal herbs from the healer. At least the healer was always kind to him.

Eskel enters Winifred’s hut, knocking lightly on the door. The young lass whips around from where she’s restocking her cabinets, a bright smile crossing her face at the sight of him. 

“Ah! Eskel! It’s so nice to-!” Winifred cuts herself off, her eyes widening at the sight of him. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, words failing her. “I, um, you look...different.”

Eskel huffs, averting his eyes. What else did he expect? As a healer, Winifred knows what unhealthy looks like, and clearly, it’s Eskel. “Yeah, you’re not the first to say that.”

“No, I mean, you look...really good.” When Eskel glances back at her, he nearly steps back at the blown pupils and the lascivious way she licks her lips. Her gaze lingers around his arms before drifting to his chest then lower...and lower. 

“Uh, thanks, Winnie,” Eskel stammers out, heart clenching at the sudden scent of arousal drifting in the room. He clears his throat. “Did Vesemir give you a list?”

Winnie blinks, momentarily startled before sending him another smile. Eskel’s stomach churns at the flirty expression. “Right, yes, of course. I have it behind the counter. Just a moment.”

She makes her way to the counter, and Eskel is almost embarrassed when he takes note of her hips swaying. He looks away, only to catch his reflection in the mirror Winnie has on her wall. Eskel flinches, grateful Winnie’s back is to him, only to pause and stare. His armour hangs loosely around his abdomen, and his britches sag around his hips. He can’t tear his eyes away as he grabs the hem of his shirt and tucks it more securely into his pants, hoping to fill the empty space between his hips and the material enough that his blatant state of indecency isn’t too noticeable. 

So that’s what Winnie was looking at…

“Here you go!”

Eskel snaps his attention back to Winnie, whose eyes are still too low to stare at his face. He nearly blushes at the constant attention, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably. Winnie hands him two heavy, wrapped packages. He doesn’t miss the way her fingers purposely touch his.

“Thanks, Winnie,” he replies, trying to sound as sincere as possible without grimacing at her touch.

“No problem, Eskel,” she says, smiling as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “See you at the end of winter?”

“Uh, yeah. Definitely.” Eskel nods his goodbye, dropping the last of his coin into her hand before hurrying out of the hut and to Scorpion’s cart. He dumps the packages on top of the meats and heaves a deep breath. He can almost feel Winnie’s eyes boring into him from out here. 

Eskel clicks his tongue, and Scorpion falls into a steady trot beside him as they make their way out of town. Once Ard Carraigh is behind him, he reaches into Scorpion’s saddlebags and pulls out the last apple. He holds it out to his horse, only for Scorpion to nudge his hand back towards him. Eskel grins at the implication.

“Nah. I’m all good, handsome. This one’s for you. You earned it.”

Even so, Eskel’s stomach growls as the sound of Scorpion munching on the juicy fruit fills his ears. The pain has returned, gnawing at his gut incessantly. Eskel rests a hand over it, frowning at the reappearance of aggravating and nauseating noises. The smell of the apple wafts in the air, and Eskel nearly goes dizzy with the way his stomach growls louder at the tantalizing scent. Eskel shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Eating isn’t a priority, not when the looming challenge of the Witchers’ Trail appears before him.

Chapter Text

Eskel clicks his tongue to urge Scorpion along when his stallion gets distracted by a juicy patch of grass sticking out of the thin layer of powdery white snow just off the dirt path. The horse huffs his disapproval, but obediently falls into step with Eskel, dragging the cart of supplies behind him. “We’re almost there, boy. Vesemir will spoil you rotten all winter.” Eskel knows what he’s talking about. The past couple of winters, Geralt and Vesemir got into arguments involving Roach needing to lose weight before she and Geralt hit the Path again because Vesemir couldn’t resist feeding her several apples a day. Eskel smiles fondly at the memory. He can’t wait to see Vesemir and his brothers again. Scorpion mouths greedily at the pocket where Eskel keeps his treats, demanding recompense for being treated like a simple draught horse even though he descends from a very noble line of war horses. The stallion harrumphs moodily when he’s denied this humble request. Dramatic! 

In the distance, Eskel can already make out the keep against the flank of the mountain. The sight of Kaer Morhen, standing proud and tall on her mountainous sanctuary, causes something in Eskel’s chest to unfurl in relief. A small part of him always worries that he’ll one day return to find the witchers’ keep reduced to rubble after fanatics came back to finish the job they started decades ago when they first sacked Kaer Morhen. Even though his brothers don’t talk about it, Eskel knows they feel the same. Scorpion’s ears flicker forward in interest at the sound of snapping twigs nearby. Eskel hushes him softly.  

“Just a stag, boy. You’re all good.” 

Whether Scorpion understands or simply picks up on Eskel’s relaxed disposition doesn’t really matter. They make a brief stop to let Scorpion graze and drink from the spring of fresh water. Eskel doesn’t eat anything, but he does fill up his waterskin and takes several tentative sips. He can feel the liquid travel down his oesophagus and hit his stomach, which then proceeds to gurgle loudly in response. Eskel presses a hand to the area in the hope that it will stem the noise. 

Eskel is starting to hate the noises his stomach makes. 

They don’t stop for long, mostly because Eskel wants to avoid having to set up camp for the night if he can. Trailing a cart behind him slows Scorpion right down, but his brothers will be in the same boat as him. They all have to make the best out of a bad situation and take one for the team. The more supplies they manage to carry up the trail at the start of winter, the less often they’ll have to brave the cold to go hunting. That being said, one of them would usually get antsy after a couple of weeks (usually Lambert) and offer to go hunt fresh meat anyway, but Eskel knows that once the snow storms start to hit the mountain pass even Lambert won’t want to step a single toe outside. This, of course, meant that Lambert will become unbearable as a result of being cooped up with Vesemir and his brothers for too long. 

Eskel truly can’t wait to get home, despite everything. Though, at the same time, a feeling of dread washes over him at the thought. His stomach hurts for an entirely different reason now as it twists into an anxious knot. Vesemir usually greets the wolves with a hug, a pat on the back and a bowl of hot stew. The past years, Eskel had easily gulped down three or four bowls at a time, his stomach eager for something that wasn’t toxic potions, white honey, cheap booze or oily tavern food. Vesemir’s hearty cooking used to be something Eskel looked forward to every year, but this time round? He thinks back on the previous years where he would stuff his face all winter and put on weight in the process. He’s disgusted with himself. 

“C’mon, boy, let’s go,” Eskel tugs at Scorpion’s reins to get his attention, “you’ll get to feast on all the oats and hay your heart could possibly desire as soon as we reach the keep.”

The sun filters through the thick foliage of the trees as Eskel resumes the treacherous journey up the mountain path. If he hurries, he’ll make it to Kaer Morhen just before sunset. 

__________

It's snowing by the time Eskel reaches the main gates. Thick white flakes fall from the sky, powdering the surrounding landscape in a delicate sheet of white. Come morning, Eskel knows, the valley will be covered in a thick layer of snow. He hopes Geralt and Lambert have made it back already. The pass will be uncrossable soon, he guesses. 

Eskel usually travels back to Kaer Morhen much earlier than this, but considering how bad this past year has been it really shouldn't come as a surprise that his return was delayed as well. None of that will matter as soon as Eskel steps through the gates, effectively putting this not-so-good-truly-awful year behind him. Eskel gives a sharp whistle to announce his arrival, and minutes later he hears the familiar sound of clanking chains of the old portcullis as they raise the century-old metal gate. The rusty metal creaks in protest, as it always does, and yet the sound washes over Eskel in soothing waves because he's finally made it home. As he steps into the courtyard, Scorpion and cart in tow, Eskel wonders why he can't manage a smile. He's happy to be back, right? The knot in his stomach begs to differ. 

Eskel is met by Vesemir in the courtyard. The old wolf, as usual, wounds his arms around Eskel's shoulders. This feels different somehow. Vesemir doesn't have to stretch his arms quite as far to reach around Eskel's broad shoulders. Vesemir's grip is unusually strong and the force of his hug nearly crushes Eskel. When they part, there's a concerned frown on the old wolf's face. 

"It's good to have you home, pup."

"It's good to be back." Eskel repeats these words over and over in his mind, as if to convince himself of their veracity. It is good to be back. Right? 

"You lost weight," Vesemir remarks and Eskel preens at the compliment. Well, Eskel assumes it's a compliment until he sees the concerned frown deepen as Vesemir's hands paw Eskel's midriff probingly. "Don't you feed yourself out there boy?" 

"It's been a rough year," Eskel dismisses Vesemir's concerns vaguely, "people don't waste their coin on hiring witchers when there's a war."

"You got that half right, my boy. But knowing you, you probably worked some contracts for free, didn't you?" 

When all Eskel offers is a noncommittal shrug of the shoulders and a bashful smirk, Vesemir shakes his head and sighs. 

"There's a bowl of soup waiting for you in the kitchen. I'll take care of the supplies and Scorpion. You go inside, get some heat in your bones!" 

Eskel manages a grateful smile before heading inside the keep. He feels oddly relieved that Vesemir won't be joining him for dinner, because that way Eskel can simply pretend that he felt too tired to eat and head straight to his room instead. Eskel is suddenly very aware of the weight of his spiked pauldrons on his shoulders, so he takes off his gambeson the minute he enters the kitchen. He doesn't hear nor see Lambert stalking up to him from behind, silent as a feline as he prepares himself for his attack. Suddenly, Lambert pounces and tackles Eskel to the ground, which, thanks to the element of surprise, he manages easily enough. Eskel hits the kitchen floor with a loud 'umpf' and soon finds himself pinned to the ground with Lambert straddling him and wearing a shit-eating grin on his face. Eskel squirms against Lambert's iron grip, but finds himself unable to move. 

"Lambert, get off me ," Eskel hisses between clenched teeth. His attempt to throw Lambert off him fails, and when Eskel's eyes meet Lambert's, he sees his brother staring back at him with a confused expression plastered on his stupidly smug face. 

"This is the first time I manage to one, catch you off-guard, and two, tackle you."

"Well, there's a first for everything," Eskel heaves a sigh and raises an eyebrow, "Lambert, I'm tired. Can you please get off me?" 

Lambert doesn't respond for a while, but Eskel barking his brother's name a second time effectively pulls Lambert out of his stupor. He rises to his feet and offers Eskel a hand, which the latter gladly accepts. Lambert hoists him up forcefully and Eskel has to steady himself by leaning his weight on the nearby table when his head spins from getting up too quickly. 

"Eskel, are you alright?" 

"I'm fine." 

"You look rough. And starved. Rough year?" 

"Something like that," Eskel mumbles under his breath as he goes to paw at his scars. "I'm going upstairs. Been a shit journey up the mountain and I'm exhausted."

Eskel barely manages to take three steps towards the exit before he feels Lambert's hand coming up to rest on his shoulder and hold Eskel back.

"Oh, Eskel, c'mon. We haven't seen you in a year! Come join us. Geralt just served dinner. Tell us about your shitty year and we'll tell you about ours. That's what we do, right?"

"Lambert, please…" 

"We missed you, brother," Lambert adds, his tone growing more serious and genuine as he squeezes Eskel's shoulder for emphasis, "fucking hell, Eskel, we need to fatten you up. I can feel every bone in your shoulder."

Eskel flinches at those words. Isn't it good that he's skinnier than he used to be? Why would Lambert want to undo all of Eskel's hard work by stuffing him like a bird at a banquet? Eskel has two minds to ignore Lambert’s invitation and head straight upstairs, but admittedly he missed his brothers too and the need to see Geralt alive and well is stronger. So Eskel reluctantly follows the youngest wolf out of the kitchen. The crackling fire in the hearth managed to warm up the room considerably so that Eskel doesn’t feel the need to go back into the kitchen to fetch his gambeson. 

“Look what I found lurking in the kitchen,” Lambert announces with all the pomp and circumstance Eskel doesn’t deserve, “Eskel in the flesh.”

Geralt perks up as Lambert speaks those words, but when Geralt's gaze meets Eskel’s, the white wolf tenses and frowns. Eskel isn’t quite sure what to make of that reaction. Is Geralt not happy to see him? Eskel guesses that he must look more tired and worn out than he initially anticipated. Geralt recovers quickly, promptly rises to his feet and goes to embrace his brother. Eskel and Geralt don’t tend to hug all that often - usually once when they come back to Kaer Morhen in the winter and once before they part in the spring. That’s the extent of their displays of affection, but it’s enough. At least, Eskel convinces himself that it is. Witchers don’t need to be comforted. Good witchers are able to conceal their emotions. When Geralt steps away from Eskel, his hands linger briefly on Eskel’s shoulders, warm and heavy. Eskel only slightly flinches when Geralt’s thumb traces the line of Eskel’s protruding collarbone, palpable even through his clothes. 

"There’s soup there for you and some bread. Eat. You look like you need it. There's enough for seconds.” Geralt looks at Eskel pointedly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Eskel is to eat his soup or he'll have Geralt to answer to. Eskel bites back the comment sitting on the tip of his tongue, something about Geralt looking and acting more and more like Vesemir in his old age. 

"Plenty of soup for seconds and for thirds," Lambert pipes up before sitting down at the table and buttering his roll of bread, which he then uses as a makeshift spoon. 

Eskel has no energy to argue with either of his brothers, so he resigns himself to his fate. His eyes land on the steaming bowl of soup waiting to be devoured. Lambert has already nearly finished his first serving when Eskel decides to sit down next to him. He looks up to see Geralt shovelling bits of turnip into his mouth, taking his time whereas Lambert acts like he hasn’t been fed in weeks. Eskel swallows thickly as the heavenly smells of fresh bread, carrots, turnips and potato fill his nostrils. After all, he hasn’t eaten in… far too long now. What harm will soup do? It’s mostly vegetables, after all. Maybe he can leave the bread and butter for now. Eskel picks up his spoon with shaky fingers, ignoring the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him as he takes his first sip. The soup is hot and tastes just as delectable as Eskel expected it to. His stomach chooses that moment to make a noise very similar in pitch and volume to the mating call of an archgriffin in heat. Eskel feels his cheeks heat up as the loud noise echoes in the mess hall. 

“Chrm. Sorry."

"What for?" Lambert asks without looking up from his dinner. 

"Uh…," although Eskel doubts that the obscene noise went unnoticed, he decides not to draw attention to it unnecessarily, "nothing."

Eskel bites the inside of his cheek and waits until the uncomfortable clenching in his stomach subsides before swallowing another tentative spoonful. The same happens again, though this time the noises simply won’t stop . The constant gurgling is mortifying and Eskel is far too embarrassed to look up from his bowl. Both his hands now cover his abdomen, pressing down on the area in a desperate effort to stop the noises his stomach is determined to make. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder with a loud clap, startling Eskel out of his trance. That’s twice now someone managed to sneak up on him today. 

“Pup, are you feeling alright?” Vesemir asks, and if the ground could swallow Eskel whole right now…

“Mhm,” he manages to say between two cramps, “yeah, yeah I’m good, Vesemir. Just exhausted from the journey.”

“You’ve hardly eaten anything. You look like you haven't eaten in weeks,” Vesemir remarks. Eskel refuses to look at his mentor, or at any of his brothers for that matter, so he stubbornly stares at the bowl before him. He’s only had two spoonfuls of Vesemir’s soup, but Eskel decides that he’s had enough. His stomach twists painfully at the thought of any more food entering his body. 

“I’m sorry. I think I really need to get to bed.” 

Eskel rises to his feet, and unlike Lambert, Vesemir doesn't try to hold him back. It’s all Eskel can do not to run out of the mess hall. He feels Geralt and Lambert’s gazes follow him out of the room, but Eskel is in too much pain to care about what his brothers may be thinking of him. He can guess the answer anyway. Pathetic. Gross. Disgusting. Freak. What probably hurts more is the realisation that no one is holding him back. No one is calling out for him to stay, no one asks him if he needs or wants anything for the pain, and no one is following him upstairs. Not that Eskel wants any of this to happen, but the idea that his family, the people he was looking forward to seeing all year round, don't even care… that thought hurts more than the cramps wrecking his body. 

When Eskel reaches his room, he locks the door behind him.

_________

Eskel didn’t lie when he told everyone he felt exhausted, but no matter how long he tosses and turns, he simply cannot fall asleep. The cramps are getting worse and have Eskel lying in a foetal position on his mattress and shaking like a leaf. He tried to light a fire in his room earlier, but his Igni felt incredibly weak and had barely been hot enough to kindle the logs in the hearth. So Eskel had buried himself under the covers, but his body is struggling to keep the heat in. 

To make matters worse, the pain in his abdomen is unbearable at this point. 

Eskel can’t take much more of this for much longer. His eyes scan the room and land on his packs. He still has some pain-numbing herbs in his packs that could help take away the worst of the cramps. Eskel wants to get out of bed to check his saddle bags, but another contraction dissuades him from moving even a muscle. Eskel tenses, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as he bites down hard on his tongue to refrain from groaning in pain. It feels selfish to keep the others up just because Eskel couldn’t handle a little bit of pain. The cramp eventually subsides, and when it does, Eskel unclenches the muscles in his jaw. The coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. 

All because he wanted to eat some soup. 

The tears that spill from his eyes leave a wet patch on Eskel’s pillow. He wonders if he should try to get to his herbs now, but decides against it. He’s so tired. So fucking tired. He’s bound to fall asleep eventually, but his body stubbornly refuses to give him a break. When it’s not the pain, it’s the sounds coming from his stomach that torment Eskel. The gurgling, the growling, the acid reflux. Eskel bites back another burp desperately trying to dislodge itself from his throat. He wants to hold onto that last bit of dignity and control over his body. 

Pathetic. Gross. Disgusting. Freak. 

Monster. 

Eskel has been replaying Ivan’s and the masked lady’s words over and over in his mind since their encounter over a week ago. Really let ya’self go last winter… musta been hard ta get back inta shape... Ya still got a long ways ta go before ya become a real stud for the ladies… There’s a monster in all of us… monster… monster… monster… At the end of the day, that’s what Eskel will always be to people - a despicable, disfigured and unlovable monster. 

Now more than ever, Eskel wishes the mutagens had done their fucking job and stripped him of all these emotions he’s not even supposed to feel. Eskel thinks back on Winifred, the healer in Ard Carraigh, the way she had looked at his body, the way her pupils dilated and the way her smell spiked with unmistakable arousal at the sight of him. She desired him, but after the fiasco with the masked stranger, Eskel didn't want to risk facing another rejection. The memory of the last one still cuts deep. 

Monster. 

Disgusting fat fuck. 

At some point through the night, Eskel’s cramps dissipate as his stomach finally settles. Eskel lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding until now. He allows his muscles to relax as he melts into his pillow and his mattress. Eskel pulls the covers up to his chin, creating a warm cocoon for himself. He absent-mindedly trails his fingers down the length of his body, taking comfort in the feeling of his protruding ribs and hip bone, but flinching the minute he feels the softer areas around his distended stomach. Ugly. Gross. Disgusting. Monster . 

With these words echoing in his mind, Eskel falls asleep. 

Chapter Text

Eskel wakes to the sound of rapid pounding on his door. Loud, sharp knocks bang against the oak wood, the noise reverberating against the stone walls of his room. Eskel groans quietly, sluggishly opening his eyes. Bright, white light greets him through the crack in his curtains. The blizzard must have arrived, but so has someone else if the incessant hammering on the door is any indication.

“Eskel? Eskel! Open the door!” Lambert’s voice calls, a tinge of what sounds like anger coating his voice. Great. Eskel’s been here not two days and has already managed to piss off his brother.

Eskel lets out a deep breath, blinking slowly and rubbing the bridge of his nose to soothe away the forming headache. His stomach continues to growl softly, but not enough for it to become too much of a nuisance. Eskel hopes it stays that way. Lambert, on the other hand, is starting to get on his last nerve.

“Eskel!”

With a low huff of frustration, Eskel calls back, “I’m awake, Lambert! Stop poundin’ on my door like that, or you’re gonna end up breakin’ it.” His voice, raspy from the dryness in his throat, barely echoes in his room enough to reach Lambert’s ears. Still, it’s evident his brother hears him when he snaps,

“What the fuck are you still doing in bed? It’s nearly noon!”

Eskel groans again, raising his palms to rub at his eyes irritably. Noon already? He slept in far longer than he should have. Gods, no wonder Lambert sounds so pissed. 

“Just really tired,” he answers, and it’s as close to the truth as he’s willing to go. Despite the hours of rest, his eyes refuse to stay open and the rest of him feels sluggish. How he’ll make it through the day remains a mystery he’s not eager to solve.

“Well, get your ass up,” Lambert snarls, all the joy he’d shown last night at Eskel’s arrival gone from his voice. “I can’t carry the damn kegs by myself, and Vesemir won’t shut up about it for the next century if we don’t get it done.”

Eskel bites back a growl of frustration. It’s not his problem that Lambert can’t finish his chores. He comes very close to saying that out loud, but he chokes them back at the last second. It is his fault, isn’t it? It has to be. Some way, somehow, this is on him, too. He shouldn’t have slept in, shouldn’t have gotten so complacent last night. He made himself sick over two damn spoonfuls of soup, lost out on sleep, and now he can’t even get his lazy ass out of bed. Had he just done what everyone expects of him, Lambert would still be happy to see him...if he ever had been.

“I’m coming,” Eskel grumbles, gathering the energy to push himself up from bed. The thought of it makes his heart sink. Combined with the ache from the emptiness in his stomach, the exhaustion weighing down on him threatens to pin him to the mattress. He has half a mind to let it, to allow himself to waste away in his bed until he can no longer differentiate what part of him lives and what doesn’t. Lately, it feels like no part of him should live.

"Whatever. I'll be waiting by the cellar entrance." Lambert's footsteps click against the stone floor as he walks away. Eskel turns onto his back, gazing absently at the ceiling. 

He should get up. He knows this. He knows it just as well as he knows the pain in his gut, the desperate pleas for food. His stomach clenches in on itself, growling and gurgling as it lets its dissatisfaction be known. Eskel lifts a hand to his chest, prodding through his shirt as he makes his way down. 

His ribs stand out, bumps rising through his skin like a stretch of hills. His hand dips when it passes the area near his seventh rib. There, he's softer, the fat stubbornly lingering no matter how hard he tries. Sudden rage encases him, and he pinches the blubber between two fingers, squeezing until a sharp pain pierces from that spot. His eyes well up with tears of dismay as he lets that skin go, traveling further down until he feels the rest of the paunch. He's too soft still, able to toy with the flab covering his muscles. He palms away at it, revulsion and nausea creeping their way up his throat. He can pull and stretch at it as if it were slime oozing through his fingers. He's a fucking pig. He knows this.

Eskel hates the potbellied lard-ass he's become. He'll be better soon, though. Just like Ivan said, he still has a long way to go before he's good enough. He's not yet, but will be, can be. Soon, he'll look exactly as Winnie wanted him to. One day, the Lady at the banquet will see past his face and embrace his body for what it has become. At that moment, Eskel will finally be the witcher he's supposed to be: faster, agile, smaller, flexible. 

But for now, he's a tubby, repulsive piece of shit who can't even roll his fat ass out of bed. 

He starts to move, but his body refuses to budge. He remains in his spot, the weight of him sinking into the mattress. Just the thought of getting up drains him, and that only creates a feeling heavier than himself. He can’t lift his own weight; how can he expect the others to? Eskel brings more stress than he’s worth, unable to support himself on his own. Less than a day since he’s arrived in Kaer Morhen, and he already manages to piss off Lambert enough that his brother wants very little to do with him. 

Eskel eventually rolls over onto his side and moves to push himself up. His arms tremble as he lifts his upper half, vision spinning as his stomach lurches. He risks raising one hand to his grotesque, bulging abdomen in the hopes of quelling the constant ache. It’s not growling right now, but he doubts it’ll be long until he has another episode as he did a few days ago on Scorpion. He hates those moments with a passion, hates the pain of it, how loud he can be for so long. In a keep where everyone has enhanced hearing, it won’t take much for the others to hear the roaring of his empty stomach. 

He can’t roll out of bed without threatening to fall over. His own mass brings him down, leaving him without enough strength to stand. He doesn’t know how he’ll possibly help Lambert like this, but he scorns the idea of doing nothing all day. Gods, he can’t even imagine how he looks when he sleeps. When he’s unable to hide himself properly, does his double-chin show? Does his belly protrude further at night, when he can’t suck it in? Does he snore loudly now that he has all this weight around his neck?

His breathing spikes at that, but he’s unsure if it’s from the sudden clenching of his heart or from the exertion it takes to climb to his feet. He clutches at his chest, breaths coming short and fast. His head aches from both the lack of air and the hunger. Closing his eyes, Eskel wills himself to breathe in deeply, calming himself. He doesn’t have time to slip into meditation to relax. Lambert is waiting for him.

Getting dressed is a harder task than he remembers it being. After every step, he has to sit down and catch his breath before trying again. He lowers himself slowly in front of his clothing trunk and braces himself against the lid, gasping heavily. He pushes up the top and holds his hands there for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. He searches through his outfits, looking for the warmest thing he can find. It’s been so cold lately, even with the fires blazing. By the time he’s dressed in thick, woolen clothing, Eskel thinks he’ll pass out if he so much as looks at his bed. Underneath all of his warm layers, his skin still raises, a shiver running through him that leaves his teeth chattering. Why is it so cold?

He places a gloved hand over the doorknob, taking note of the trembling, and twists. Stepping out from his warm room and into the freezing halls of the keep nearly sends him into shock. Since when has it ever been this unbearable? As a witcher, he should be able to handle extreme temperatures. Eskel nearly scoffs at himself for that thought. He long since established he’s never been a good witcher.

Eskel reaches the door to the cellar. By now, his teeth chatter and his throat burns from the harsh panting. Lambert looks up at the sound of him approaching, a deep scowl on his face. Eskel’s heart sinks. He remembers how Lambert grinned at the sight of him last night, how he helped Eskel up from the ground, how he announced Eskel’s arrival to Geralt like Eskel actually meant something. All semblance of that prior happiness has disappeared, leaving nothing but disdain behind. Then again, Lambert also tackled him the minute he saw Eskel, so perhaps Eskel’s trying to see something that isn’t there, never has been. Lambert was far too proud of himself in beating Eskel. Maybe his brother finds pleasure in watching Eskel struggle beneath him. He shakes the thought from his mind. He’s being ridiculous.

“Took you long enough,” Lambert huffs, glaring at Eskel with almost enough anger to make him flinch. Lambert’s eyes rake him up and down, and his scowl deepens at what he sees. 

"Sorry," Eskel responds, but he's not entirely sure if that's what Lambert wants to hear right now. "I didn't realise how late it is."

 "Yeah, no shit!" Lambert lifts his gaze again and huffs out an irritated noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. “You can catch breakfast or lunch after you've helped me carry the kegs upstairs. The sooner I deal with that godsdamn chore, the better. Vesemir has been on my back all week, and if he mentions them again, I'm gonna lose my shit.” 

Eskel wants to remind him that his lack of time isn’t Eskel’s problem. It’s his first day back to the keep; Vesemir doesn’t expect him to do chores right away. Still, Eskel nods because he needs to do something. He needs to carry his own burden, needs to prove that he can help even when he can’t help himself at all. 

“Fine. Let’s go.” His voice hasn’t improved since this morning. Lambert furrows his eyebrows at him and frowns, but he says nothing otherwise. Instead, the two of them head down the stairs to the cellar.

With each step, the air grows colder. Eskel places on hand onto the wall to steady himself, his legs faltering each time he drops the entirety of his weight on them. The light footsteps he had in the inn the other day are gone, leaving him unable to carry himself enough to avoid having himself fall onto the next stair rather than simply stepping down. His shivering only worsens. He thinks Lambert can hear his bones rattling at this rate, but the other man doesn’t comment. Lambert doesn’t so much as glance in Eskel’s direction. Eskel grits his teeth and tells himself it’s to stop them from chattering so much.

At the bottom of the stairs, several kegs are ready for the witchers to carry them up and to the kitchen. Vesemir either moved quickly or had arrived at the keep early. A lot of the kegs hold the drinks for the season. Other barrels are sealed tight, likely containing the meats Eskel brought up yesterday and waiting to be brought to the ice house outside. Eskel takes a deep breath. He can do this. He does it every year. Lambert only has it today because Eskel got here later than usual. Other than that, it's one of the easiest chores he has on his list, despite how long it can take and how physically taxing it can get. This should be simple.

Lambert sighs heavily, crossing his arms and staring at the heavy containers. “Fuck. There’s more than I thought. And it looks like the old man already got the meat set for the ice house.” He turns to Eskel, looking decidedly annoyed about the whole situation. “Gonna go open the door so we don’t have to worry about it when we got our hands full.”

“Sounds good,” Eskel replies, nodding curtly. “I’ll move a few up to the top of the stairs while you’re gone.”

“I’ll grab whatever you bring up.”

“Sure. Just be careful. Wind’s howling outside. Make sure it doesn’t lock the door behind you.”

Lambert doesn’t respond, just waving him off flippantly and heading back up the stairs. Eskel bites back the hurt in his chest at the dismissal and turns to the kegs. He rolls his shoulders, preparing himself to grab the first one. He places his hands on either side of the container and bends his knees slightly. Then, he starts to lift.

It barely gets an inch off the ground.

Eskel strains against the heaviness of the keg, fingers clenching at the wood as his biceps burn from the exertion. It won’t lift any higher, his hands and the keg shaking like he’s coming down from a fisstech high. After a few more seconds of that, when Eskel starts to feel sweat beading at his forehead, he drops the keg back down the scarce inch he raised it. The wood hit the ground with a loud thump, but Eskel can hardly hear it over the sound of his heavy breathing. His vision blurs, body suddenly feeling light as he wavers from side to side. He gasps and pants loudly, limbs trembling as he searches for something to hold onto. 

He leans onto the keg, forearms bracing himself above it as he bows his head, chest heaving from the effort. He couldn’t...he couldn’t lift it. Fuck, since when were the kegs so heavy? He closes his eyes, refusing to let the brewing tears fall. Something’s wrong. He’s wrong. How has he let himself fall so short like this, to the point where he can’t lift a single keg? Lambert’s counting on him to help, and Eskel’s useless.

Eskel has half a mind to try again, but before he can, the sound of Lambert’s footsteps returning stops him. He barely has enough time to straighten himself out and turn around. Lambert comes into view, an irate look on his face as he spreads open his arms.

“There’s nothing up there! What the hell are you-?” Lambert pauses, cutting himself off as he narrows his eyes at Eskel. Eskel doesn’t want to know what he looks like right now. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Lambert crosses his arms, glowering. “So why the hell are the kegs still in the same place as when I left?”

Eskel swallows thickly, blinking back dark spots in his vision. “Just...taking a minute.”

“Why would you need to take a minute? Lifting those kegs shouldn’t be a problem for you.” Lambert huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Know what? Forget it. I’ll just get Geralt to help instead.”

Eskel does his damnedest not to recoil at the words. It’s one thing to know them; it’s another to hear them. He knows what Lambert’s implying. He’s useless, he’s lazy, he’s less than Geralt. He nearly laughs. Of course, he is. How can he ever expect to be on par with the White Wolf himself? Eskel doesn’t have his own barker, his own famed moniker. He’s just a half-assed witcher who can’t even lift a godsdamn keg. Lambert’s right. He’s useless and lazy. He’s not needed.

“Fine then,” Eskel huffs, trying to sound like he has more breath than he actually does. “Get Geralt. I’m headed upstairs.”

He needs to go. He can’t stay here, not when his body urges to sink to the floor and his vision wants to fade to nothingness. Eskel isn’t sure he can make it up the stairs on his own, but dammit, he’s going to try.

Eskel forces himself forward, stumbling slightly on his first step but correcting himself on the rest. He thinks he hears Lambert make a noise, but he doesn’t turn to look. As he passes by, he sees Lambert’s hand move from the corner of his eye. Eskel pushes down the hurt and misery squeezing at his heart. It’s just like Lambert to flip him off, isn’t it? Eskel’s almost positive that’s what Lambert did. It’s not as if Lambert has any other reason to reach out. Last night proved to him he’s not worth stopping, not worth worrying about. Why would he be? He wouldn’t want him around either.

__________

The hot springs overwhelm him the minute he steps inside. It’s so damn hot in here compared to the rest of the frigid keep. The steam from the water wraps around him, twisting around his neck until it’s choking him and leaving him breathless. Eskel can’t wait to take a bath, even if it means sitting through this insufferable heat. He hadn’t bathed last night, and the miserable trek up the trail left him feeling dirty and sweaty. He just wants to be clean, and maybe take two seconds to simply be.

Eskel stumbles inside, clumsy feet tripping over each other, before stopping. He hesitates for a moment, staring at the door, then closes it, locking it behind him. He knows this isn’t the wisest decision, especially given how Lambert nearly broke down his bedroom door this morning, but he can’t stand the thought of something walking in on him undressed. He sees the way they look at him when he has his clothes on. Gods forbid they see him naked, with his fat drooping over his hips. 

He removes his shirt, brushing his sweaty hair back as he tries to breathe through the heat. It’s unbearable, more so than usual. He pants like the fucking animal he’s become, looking down to remove his britches. His stomach drops at what he sees, and for once, he doesn’t just mean literally. Light lines rise from his waistline to the middle of his abdomen. Eskel’s no stranger to scars, but these aren’t the scars he’s used to. He idly traces them, horror and revulsion bubbling inside of him as he focuses on the reminders of how much he used to let himself go. 

Panic grips him as he looks at his arms. White lines stretch there, too. He shucks off his britches, and, sure enough, stretch marks linger across his thighs. They mark him everywhere, taunting him with memories of jiggly skin and heavy bodies. He places a hand over his belly, closing his eyes as he tries to push away the images seared into his mind. He’s marked with the shit he used to be. He hates every bit of himself.

Eskel shakes his head, opening his eyes again as he drops his clothes onto the bench. He’s about to remove his braies when his vision blurs again. Frustrated, he blinks rapidly, hoping to clear his eyesight. It doesn’t work. His body goes weightless, just as it did back in the cellar. He can’t feel his limbs, can’t feel the wet floor beneath him. Eskel all but drops onto the bench, blearily looking over the hot springs. He knows he’s sitting upright, but the next time he blinks, he’s leaning towards his left. That’s not...he’s not supposed to be like that.

He seeks to correct himself, gathering enough energy to get himself to sit up again, but he overshoots his angle, leaning more to the right instead. After that, he gives up trying, and his body slumps over. He doesn’t have the energy to hold himself up. Every muscle within him loosens, and he’s toppling off the bench, hitting the stone floor with a loud thud. He blinks once more, vision going hazy, obscured by bright colors and flashes. His mind fuzzes over, no rational thought or understanding passing through. Eskel closes his eyes, and he doesn’t remember much after that.

__________

Eskel wakes to the sound of rapid pounding on his door. Loud, sharp knocks bang against the oak wood, the noise reverberating against the stone walls of...not his room.

Blinking his eyes open, Eskel goes warm with the heat around him, his face feeling flushed and sweaty. He casts an empty gaze around him, mind slowly coming to. He’s disconnected, and he can’t feel anything around him. All he can hear is the incessant banging, this time harder than what he can remember from...this morning? Had it been this morning? What time is it? How long has he…?

Finally, Eskel feels the wet stone beneath him, slicking his skin against the floor. He groans, registering the sight of the bench above him. He lazily flops his head to the side, catching the hot springs in front of him. That’s right. He...he locked the door and...something happened. Why can’t he remember…?

“Eskel! Eskel, open this fucking door!” Lambert’s voice again. Just like before. Except Lambert’s angry with him, hates him. Why is he here?

Eskel groans again, using trembling elbows to push himself up. He’s almost completely bare, wearing nothing but damp braies. He squeezes his eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, then hauls himself up from the ground. He’s lightheaded, body swaying dangerously as he tries to get a grip. Lambert continues to pound at the door, but Eskel, even in his sluggish mind, knows he has to get dressed before he goes over there. There’s...There’s something Lambert can’t see, something Eskel won’t let him see.

Getting dressed is a nightmare, and it only stifles him further. The woolen clothing becomes near insufferable under the sweltering heat of the hot springs. Eskel staggers over to the door, all but collapsing against it when he reaches his hand to the doorknob, fingers fumbling with the lock. He leans against the doorframe and swings open the door.

Lambert’s there, fist raised to bang again. His eyes are wide, the scent of anger suddenly flooding the room at the sight of Eskel, overwhelming the previous scent of...something Eskel's sure he knows, but his mind is far too cloudy to understand. Anger, though. That, he's familiar with, and it doesn't take long for him to dread what comes next.

"What the fuck?" Lambert snarls, amber eyes glowing with rage. "Why the fuck would you lock this door?"

Eskel blinks, the words slurring together in his mind. "...what?"

Lambert goes red with rage, looking not two seconds away from exploding. "What the fuck were you doing in there? I've been banging on this door for twenty minutes! Fuck's sake, Eskel! You look a step away from death! You could have drowned!"

It takes another couple of seconds for awareness to fully reach him. Once it does, Eskel reels back a bit, staring at the blatant anger in front of him. All he can manage is a quiet, "Lamb…"

Lambert raises his hand and scoffs. "Don't. I don't want to fucking hear it. I don't know what the hell's your problem, but I can’t take it anymore. Figure it out." With that, Lambert turns on his heel and storms off. Eskel can't find the words to call after him and apologize. 

Instead, Eskel's legs give out from beneath him, his knees hitting the stone and pain ricocheting up his thighs. He barely notices, eyes blinking slowly as he gradually shifts to lean his back against the wall. His head tilts back, chest heaving with exhaustion as he stares at the ceiling. Taking a bath is so far out of his mind. He doesn't know how he's going to get back to his room. It doesn't matter anymore, does it? That's a problem for the future. For now, he lets his eyes drift shut and embraces the darkness. It's certainly much less complicated than whatever else he's feeling.

Chapter Text

Eskel wakes up late for the fourth time in the week he’s been at Kaer Morhen. He distinctly wonders how often Vesemir will let him get away with this until it all explodes in his face. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyes are so heavy lately. Eskel drinks water, but he never takes in too much. He can’t risk gaining water weight. Still, he drinks enough to keep himself going, enough to function throughout the day. Why is he so tired all the time?

Rolling out of bed is the same thing every morning now. He lays there for minutes on end, losing track of time and trying to find the energy to stand. In the meantime, he idly does his morning check, running his hand from his chest to his waist. Each time, he’s severely disappointed when his hand doesn’t drop further after the dip in his seventh rib, when his midriff holds that layer of fat he tries so hard to get rid of. He bites his tongue, not at all shocked when the coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. He needs to work harder. Tonight...tonight, he’ll do better.

Eskel pushes himself from bed, blinks away the blurriness, and collapses in front of his clothing trunks. He pulls out the warmest clothes he can find. The same clothes have been in circulation for the past week. His body shivers, even in the warmest of rooms. It doesn’t matter how he dresses; everything feels numb. His chores are outside today, or so Vesemir told him last night. He throws on the heaviest cloak he has. He nearly topples over from the weight of it.

Making his way down the stairs, Eskel grips the railing tightly and moves slowly. Each step he takes, he does so lightly. He remembers how he let his weight drop on each stair as he walked with Lambert to move the kegs last week. His footsteps had been so loud then. He refuses to be that way now. He already takes up too much space in the keep; no need to announce his presence, too. 

His stomach growls when he reaches the bottom step. The smell of freshly made oatmeal floods his senses, and he winces as his stomach clenches in on itself at the promise of food. He places a hand over his midriff, massaging it lightly as he tries to rub away the pain and noise. Anyone in the kitchen could have heard that, though he sincerely hopes they didn’t. Against his better judgment, he walks into the dining hall. At the table, Geralt sits, looking equally as dressed as Eskel. In front of Geralt sits two bowls. He idly plays with one, stirring his spoon around the oatmeal, while steam rose off the other untouched one. At the sound of Eskel’s footsteps, Geralt raises his head. Eskel hides his wince. He supposes he wasn’t as quiet as he would have liked.

“Hey,” Geralt greets, nodding his head at Eskel. His eyes drift to Eskel’s chest, lingering over where his collarbone peeks out from beneath his shirt. Eskel tamps down on the urge to show it off proudly. “You slept in.”

Eskel clears his throat, coming closer to the table. “Yeah. Late night.” He looks at the bench. He’s tempted to sit down and join Geralt for conversation, but the more he eyes the wooden seat, the more worried he becomes. Could it hold his weight? Eskel doesn’t want to risk it. He turns his gaze back to Geralt. “You were waiting for me?”

Geralt hums. “Gotta fix the stables’ roof.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Tried. You locked the door.” Geralt finally lifts his eyes to stare at Eskel seriously. “You never lock your door.”

Eskel shifts uncomfortably, nearly faltering under the scrutinizing gaze. “It’s...a habit I haven’t shaken from the Path this year.”

Geralt hums again and says nothing in response. Amber eyes continue to pierce Eskel where he stands. His legs tremble, but not from fear or chastisement. No, he shakes from exertion, more tired than he has any right being as a lazy ass sleeping in. He eyes the bench again. He doesn't sit down. 

Clearing his throat, Eskel averts his eyes. Geralt's stare doesn't leave him. Instead, it drifts down like he's searching for something, some flaw. Eskel wants to hide away. He chooses to lean against the wall.

"Anyway," Eskel starts, "Lambert didn't seem to have a problem with nearly breaking my door down last week. Don't see why you would."

Geralt shrugs. "If you locked your door, I'm assuming it's for a reason." His eyes narrow a bit, suddenly more serious than before. "I was also giving you one more hour. If I didn't hear you, then I wouldn't have bothered knocking."

Eskel swallows thickly. He can't imagine Geralt breaking down his door to...what, check on him? See him at his worst? See him when he's in a position where his fat spills over, choking around his neck until he has to sleep with his mouth agape? What would Geralt say if he saw Eskel as the fat, disgusting slob he is? Eskel ignores the thought of "He already has."

"That's...fair, I guess."

Geralt hums again, casting a scrutinizing gaze over Eskel once more. Whatever he sees, he doesn't comment on it. He jerks his chin towards the two steaming bowls of oatmeal on the table. "Made us breakfast before we head out."

Eskel's stomach churns at the sight. Definitely not. "Oh. Uh...thanks. I'm not hungry."

That gets Geralt to pause, hand hovering over the bowl he intended on passing over to Eskel. His face is unreadable as he says, "You haven't eaten a meal with us since you got here."

"Just don't have an appetite," Eskel replies, shrugging as if that one movement alone didn't sap away at the wavering strength he had left.

"You can't not eat before we go out, Eskel," Geralt argues, scowling.

Eskel waves him off. "I'll be fine. I'll eat afterward."

"Eskel, our metabolism-"

"I'm gonna take care of Scorpion while you eat," Eskel interrupts, keen on avoiding that conversation. There's nothing wrong with his metabolism. In fact, it's probably been his best friend in this endeavor. 

Geralt's scowl disappears, a stony look passing over his face. No matter how unhappy Geralt looks, he stays silent as Eskel leaves the dining hall. Part of Eskel cries at the thought of Geralt not caring enough to reach out to him, to ask one more time if he’s okay. He’s aware of how mentally sick he is to desire something yet push it away once he receives it like it’s some kind of cat-and-mouse game. He wants Geralt to chase after him, to push and press when Eskel gets upset. Eskel craves that attention more than he should. He swallows thickly and makes his way towards the stables without another glance back.

Reaching the stables feels less like a blessing and more like a curse. The blizzard from a few days ago dealt significant enough damage to break a decently-sized hole in the roof. It’ll take some time to repair, meaning he has to spend hours with Geralt and hiding the gnawing in his stomach. How he will manage that, Eskel has yet to figure out. Maybe he should get a headstart now, do a bit of work while Geralt eats inside to shorten the amount of time they’ll spend together. It sounds terrible in Eskel’s own mind, but as his stomach growls loudly, Eskel knows it’s for the best. He needs to keep Geralt comfortable. Eskel has no right to subject his brother to his disgusting digestive noises and ugly body. He’s not worth Geralt’s time.

Scorpion nickers as he approaches, reaching his nose out to bump Eskel in greeting. Eskel chuckles, placing his hands on either side of Scorpion’s as he rests his forehead against Scorpion’s muzzle. The stallion is so warm, despite the gaping hole above the stall next to him. Witcher constitution be damned, Eskel’s body trembles incessantly, only worsening when the wind howls. He presses himself closer into Scorpion’s warmth. His faithful steed lets him.

“Hey, handsome,” Eskel murmurs, planting a kiss on Scorpion’s forehead. Scorpion bumps his nose against Eskel’s chest, sending Eskel stumbling into the wall. Eskel huffs out a startled laugh. “Whoa. What has Geralt been feeding you?”

Scorpion turns away, impatiently stamping his hooves as he tosses his mane towards the half-empty feeder. Eskel rolls his eyes.

“Scorp, it’s not empty. Eat your food,” Eskel sighs. Scorpion neighs in response, clearly unimpressed. Eskel doesn’t budge. “I’m ignoring you. You’re being greedy.”

The prospect of food, even if it’s just the apples and carrots sitting in the crate in the corner, has Eskel’s stomach clenching and growling. He almost wishes that he didn’t skip breakfast. The immediate feelings of disgust take the hunger away, but it doesn’t solve the blurriness in his vision. He stumbles, lightheaded, moving away from Scorpion’s stall. He braces himself against the wall, taking slow and deep breaths to reorient himself. After a few minutes, he shakes his head carefully and pushes forward.

Eskel makes his way towards the hole in the roof. Snow has fallen into the empty stall the hole hovers above, but it’s not enough to hinder Eskel or Geralt. He sets towards the corner of the stables, grabbing the necessary tools to get started. One of them will have to be below the hole while the other climbs onto the roof. Eskel will most certainly stay inside the stables. There’s no way the damaged roof could hold his weight. 

He carries the wooden step ladder over to the stall, propping it up and bracing it against the snowy ground. Once he’s satisfied, he grabs a hammer, chisel, and a bunch of replacement shingles. They’ll have to repair the wood around the hole, too. The whole idea of repairing the roof seems far too exhausting to linger on. Eskel blinks away the sudden dizziness overwhelming him and places the materials on the ground nearby. When he glances at the step ladder, his heart drops.

The step ladder is...Gods, he doesn’t even know how old. While the wood has always been sturdy and they have never had an issue, Eskel knows what he looks like, what he weighs. Placing a foot on a step just invites an injured leg from where the wood will splinter through his skin when he breaks right through it. The ladder will never support his weight, no matter how he positions himself. His stomach churns at the thought. If the step ladder can’t hold him, and if the roof can’t hold him, then how the hell is he supposed to help Geralt?

He won’t fail at another task. He won’t allow himself to. It was one thing to not be able to lift the heavy kegs in the cellar with Lambert; it’s another to not be able to repair a simple hole because he’s too fat for a step ladder. Eskel swallows past the lump in his throat. He’ll figure it out...somehow. He'll ignore the growling of his stomach and perpetual lightheadedness if it means he'll finally do something right.

The sound of the stable doors pushing open tells him he’s spent too much time thinking and not enough time doing anything. He turns around, noticing how Geralt furrows his eyebrows at the gathered materials and step ladder. He frowns at the sight of Eskel standing nearby, not doing anything productive. Eskel pushes down the bundle of shame building in his chest. It seems he’s heavy in all aspects, including how much he relies on his family.

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods to Eskel. “I’ll head up to the roof,” he grunts, starting to turn on his heel to leave the stables and climb up on the ladder outside.

Eskel nods, mouth drying as dread grips him. No, not dread. Eskel’s eyes widen, a sharp intake of breath slipping between gritted teeth as his stomach lets out a loud growl, steadily growing louder as the pain increases. Geralt whips back around, blinking as Eskel hunches over, pained gasps escaping him as his stomach churns. He clutches at his midsection, desperately pleading for it to stop. His vision blurs, flashing colors and lights obscuring his sight. His body sways dangerously, free hand blindly searching for something to brace himself with that won’t break under his weight.

He ends up grabbing someone’s arm. Out of the corner of unreliable vision, Eskel notices how much closer Geralt is. There’s a wide-eyed stare on his face, mouth pinched into a slight grimace. Eskel squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push through the lightheadedness that only seems to grow with every passing second. The growling starts to simmer down, but Eskel...Eskel can’t focus on much of anything right now. It hurts, he can hardly see, he can’t feel his limbs, and his legs threaten to give out from beneath him.

Geralt tightens his grip on Eskel, catching him by wrapping an arm around his waist when Eskel lurches forward. He brings Eskel closer to him, grip firm on Eskel’s hand, too. He grunts when he catches Eskel’s weight, and Eskel can feel the embarrassment bubble in his chest. He thinks he would be flushed red right now if he had the presence of mind to think anything coherent.

“What the fuck, Eskel?” Geralt growls. “You said you weren’t hungry.”

Eskel can’t respond. He doesn’t want to either. He doesn’t know how to explain what’s happening to him in a way that Geralt would understand. Instead, his fingers fall loose from their tight hold on the flab covering his abdomen. His head goes fuzzy as he slumps over, unable to fight against the darkness peeking at the edges of his sight any longer. For the first time in his life, he feels entirely weightless.

It’s a shame his world goes dark before he can truly appreciate it.

__________

The first thing to greet Eskel when he comes to is a chilled, wet feeling covering his eyes. He groans quietly, arm heavier than lead as he brings his hand to his face. He touches where the sensation is coming from, feeling something a bit rough as he pulls it away from himself. He cracks open his eyes, blinking through hazy vision. It takes him far too long to gather his wits about him and realize that he’s holding a damp washcloth. Confusion sets in, head dropping to the side as he takes in his surroundings.

He rests on the couch, smack in the middle of the library. It must have been moved; it is farther from the fireplace than he remembers it being. There’s a mug of water sitting on the low table in front of him, right beside a plate holding meat and vegetables. Eskel’s stomach growls loudly at the sight and smell, pain twisting his abdomen again. Eskel puts a hand to his stomach and grits his teeth. He hates the noises he makes nowadays.

A quiet sigh escapes him. He moves to sit up, but a sharp stab of pain from the left side of his head sends him falling back onto the cushions. Eskel hisses, raising a tentative hand to the aching spot. His fingers brush up against the coarse material of bandages. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, ready to remove the bandage, but a gruff voice stops him.

“Don’t touch that.”

Eskel looks over at the entryway of the library, heart sinking when he sees Geralt. His brother’s arms are crossed, face masked by a stoic facade. Eskel winces. He doesn’t suppose he can get Geralt to back off, can he?

“You hit your head in the stables,” Geralt continues in a low voice, dropping his arms as he stalks forward, “when you fainted.”

“Doesn’t sound very graceful,” Eskel grunts, mustering up the will to attempt sitting up again.

Geralt huffs, narrowing his eyes. He sits on the edge of the low table and glares at Eskel. “No. It wasn’t.”

Eskel sighs heavily. There’s a twinge in his chest, a sharp pain that he tries to rub away with the heel of his palm. It doesn’t escape Geralt’s notice.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt leans forward a bit as if he’s preparing to get up and search for anything Eskel asked for. That thought makes Eskel more uncomfortable than he’s willing to admit. Geralt shouldn’t be grabbing anything for him. It’s Eskel’s responsibility to pull his own weight.

“Uh, nothing,” he stammers out, dropping his hand away from his chest.

At that, a scowl contorts Geralt’s mouth, face suddenly so much angrier than before. “Nothing. Just like how you said nothing was wrong earlier, that you weren’t hungry. ”

Eskel swallows thickly. “I wasn’t.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Geralt growls, fists clenching in his lap. “Your stomach growled like a godsdamn werewolf in heat.”

“Maybe it wanted to have a conversation with you.”

Geralt goes from angry to completely blank-faced right before Eskel’s eyes. A spike of fear runs through him. That...might have been the wrong thing to say, but Eskel can’t bring himself to care. He’s far too tired and hungry. His stomach continues to twist and churn to the point of nausea. There’s a simmering annoyance that seems almost perpetual in his chest, right next to this odd ache he can’t rub away. The last thing he’s worried about is offending Geralt and his sensitive tendencies. Yennefer really changed him.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. His knuckles turn white from where his nails dig into his skin as he curls them into his palm. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Eskel. You fainted.”

“Did you catch me like I’m a damsel in distress and you’re my knight?”

Eskel knows he’s gone too far when Geralt’s eye starts to twitch. He can hear the deep breaths Geralt takes, the way his jaw shifts as he bites hard on his tongue. Eskel still doesn’t care. If Geralt leaves, it’ll be easier to dump the food and escape to his room. Besides, if Geralt can’t take a fucking joke anymore, then he’s not the man Eskel once knew. He doesn’t have time to parse through Geralt’s delicate nature.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long. Geralt shoots up from the low table, body rigid with coiled muscles as he undoubtedly fights against the urge to slug Eskel across the jaw. He glares down at Eskel, teeth gritted to the point where Eskel’s a little concerned he might break them. For a moment, Geralt looks like he’s going to say something, but, in the end, he simply scoffs and storms out of the library. The room reeks of untapped rage and a hint of something else that Eskel really does not feel like searching through.

Eskel sighs, sitting up slowly and wincing at the ache in his head. He looks at the untouched plate on the table. Guilt chokes him. He hates wasting food, hates wasting the time it must’ve taken whoever made him dinner. The guilt isn’t enough to convince him, not when he remembers why he’s doing this to begin with.

His stomach jiggles as he climbs to his feet. Bile creeps up his throat, pushed upward by the rising disgust. He can’t eat. He has more weight to lose, more fat to burn off. Eskel feels tears prick at his eyes as he runs through the events of the day. He woke up late, fainted in the stables, and that’s it. He hasn’t done any work, hasn’t done any of the heavy workload he normally does. He’s useless, lazy, and pitiful. He needs to do something with himself.

The walk to the armory is slow. His vision tilts and spins, forcing him to keep a hand on the wall to steady himself. He grabs a training sword. The dummies should already be outside for training tomorrow. That’s good. It saves him the effort of preparing and gives him a longer time to do what he needs to. 

Night has fallen by the time he makes it outside. How long had he been unconscious? Eskel shakes his head, pushing back those thoughts as he braves the bone-chilling wind whipping around him. He shivers, teeth chattering and fingers already numb by the time he makes it to the training dummies. No one is around, likely retired to their rooms for the night. Eskel’s eyes threaten to shut, too, despite his hours-long nap. 

Eskel faces the training dummies, the training sword heavy in his hands. He can barely find the strength to lift it. He’s always weak now, always struggling to do something, always struggling to be better than what he truly is. He hates everything about himself. He hates what he was, and he hates what he is now. He’s not satisfied, not yet. He raises his sword, hands trembling, and prepares himself for a restless night of training.

He will do whatever it takes until he’s finally perfect.

Chapter Text

Three weeks after his arrival, Eskel is starting to wish that he had never returned to Kaer Morhen at all this winter.  

Kaer Morhen used to be the only place where Eskel didn’t feel like an outcast, the only place where people didn’t look at him with disdain written plainly all over their faces. The keep used to be Eskel’s very own slice of heaven, in the shape of an old ramshackle castle, leaking walls and freezing rooms no matter how long they kept the fires in the hearths going. At one point, during Kaer Morhen’s glory days, the sound of young witcher apprentices going about their training, chores, and studies was the first thing that greeted any witcher who returned from the Path after a long and exhausting year. It was the sound of home , appeasing in its very own way, washing over the returning witchers like a soothing wave. Then, after the pogrom, things were different, but still strangely familiar. Very few witchers were left and all the younger apprentices died at the hands of fanatics. It was different, but Kaer Morhen was all they had left, so all the surviving witchers tried their damned best to make the place a safe haven. Having a place to call home, a roof over one’s head in the winter and a family to come back to, however mismatched and broken they all were, was considered their greatest luxury. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough .

Things are different this time round. Eskel doesn’t feel safe within the keep’s walls anymore. His brothers and Vesemir treat him differently, though Eskel can’t quite explain this sudden and unexpected change in behaviour. He remembers a time where he smiled with them, laughed over stupid jokes, and got drunk late into the night until they passed out in the dining hall. He distinctly remembers enjoying himself and experiencing a unique kind of joy whenever his brothers were nearby. He remembers the comfort of Vesemir, being able to confide in him whenever his shoulders sagged under the weight of responsibility. He never went to the old wolf often enough, but he got through it, and the times he did were the most relieving of all. He remembers these things, and maybe that's what hurts the most.

He doesn't have any of that now. Now his brothers and Vesemir barely even spare him a glance, or when they do there is that look in their eyes, a look Eskel can’t quite place. Pity, disdain, disappointment, all of the above? The easy banter, the nights spent drinking together, the teasing jokes, Vesemir’s fond shaking of the head at his pups’ antics, all of it gone . Eskel doesn’t understand why. Well, maybe deep down he does. He has changed over the years. It appears they have, too. Life goes on, he supposes, but it never quite clicked that he wouldn't be the only one moving on. Where he progresses towards a better version of himself, his family progresses toward their own better future. It doesn't seem like that future holds a spot for him. Maybe, at one point, there used to be, but there isn't space for him anymore.

As he looks at himself in the mirror, he thinks he agrees.

He realizes a lot of things now. Despite how his vision blurs every time he stands, his world has never been so clear. His family can't stand him, and how can he argue that when he has a hard time standing on his own? Geralt won't even make eye contact with him anymore, always sending glances his way and looking down immediately after. It's like Geralt instinctively seeks eye contact with the person he's talking to, only to see the fucking repulsive sight Eskel has become. Eskel wonders if Geralt feels nauseous looking at him the same way Eskel does when he sheds his clothing to change or bathe. 

And Lambert...Lambert won't even give him the time of day now. He thinks his little brother goes out his way to avoid him. Eskel's seen him once, maybe twice in the past three days. Not that those moments went well, either. He always caught a sharp glare coming from Lambert, mouth dropped into a hostile scowl. To this day, Eskel still remembers the words Lambert snarled at him while they were lifting the kegs. "Lifting" being a generous term, since Eskel didn't do shit. Eskel wonders if Lambert hates him now, if he sees how much of a burden Eskel brings.

It's not the hardest thing he's ever been faced with, but Vesemir's disappointment still cuts deep. All his life, Eskel has done nothing but sought after praise. He thirsts for it the same way he thirsts for water that will actually stay in his stomach these days. He catches the side-eye looks Vesemir will toss his way. Eskel's used to people glaring at him from the corner of their eyes, whether it's on the Path or, lately, in the keep. What hurts the most is the way Vesemir will sigh quietly, shaking his head like Eskel has done the wrong thing. And he probably has. Eskel wonders when Vesemir will finally put his foot down and toss him into the cold.

Eskel heaves a deep sigh as he finishes getting dressed. He’s pleased to find that he has to tighten his belt around his waist to keep his britches from falling down. He should really consider taking them in to fit his slimming hips. His shirt is hanging loosely around his arms, chest and waist, so Eskel tucks it into his cotton britches and rolls up to sleeves to his elbows. He has stopped wearing his favourite red gambeson with the spiked pauldrons in favour of a simpler, but sturdy padded jack made from brown leather. Thinking about it, the heavy armour probably only served to slow Eskel down even more on the Path, but Eskel couldn’t keep favouring aesthetics over practicality. His favourite gambeson now rested on the back of the rickety chair in his bedroom, a relic of the old him, and a reminder that Eskel is in much better shape now. He doesn’t need the heavy armour now that he’s gained in speed and agility.

Eskel takes one last look in the mirror, his fingers ghosting over the protruding collarbone that the shirt and armour aren’t quite able to hide. If only he could lose that stubborn blubber around his midriff.

__________

Eskel steps into the kitchen for the first time in… four, five days? He can't remember when he last came hunting for food - recently, he’s sneaked in at night, when everyone was asleep, if only to get some water and hardtack to still his roaring stomach. Eskel feels bad for skipping every meal, not because he's not eating, but because mealtimes are the only times when all the witchers sit down at one table and just take the time to be together. Eskel hasn't shared a meal with his brothers and Vesemir since the first night he arrived at the keep some three weeks ago. In hindsight, Geralt's refusal to acknowledge him, Lambert's snarling, Vesemir's disappointed shaking of the head, all of it makes sense now. Maybe Eskel should try harder to sit with his family at one table, at least once a day. 

Eskel heaves a loud sigh as he opens the chest sitting by the hearth and containing a small stock of dry foods. Eskel instantly spies the box of hardtack and reluctantly pulls it out of the chest. He doesn't feel hungry, but he knows that he can't keep living solely off water much longer. A single piece of hardtack should keep him going at least long enough to get through training. Eskel retrieves a single biscuit from the box and drops the rest back into the chest. Eskel has learned that quick movements don't agree with him first thing in the morning, so he slowly rises to his feet and keeps his eyes focused on the hardtack in his hand. He considers it a small victory that his head isn't spinning at all this time round. 

The biscuit tastes bland, but Eskel doesn't really care. He doesn't eat for the pleasure of it anymore - that was old Eskel's way, and the new him doesn't want to revert back to that disgusting fat fuck he used to be. Now, he eats to keep his body going, like he's supposed to. He's a witcher. He needs to be fast, and strong, agile of mind and of body. There's no room in his life for small pleasures. He has one job, and his job is to rid the Continent of pests. Eskel takes the smallest bite from the hardtack and spends a long time chewing on it, until the biscuit is nothing more than a shapeless, tasteless paste in his mouth. He swallows with some difficulty, grimacing as he feels the morsel travel down to his stomach. The loud gurgling Eskel has come to expect still takes him by surprise, and reflexively, Eskel covers his stomach with one hand to muffle the noise. 

"Well, look who we have here," a familiar nagging voice reaches his ears. The sound of it grates on Eskel's every nerve, for seemingly no reason at all, but he pushes these feelings away as he forces himself to meet Lambert's amber gaze. 

"Morning, Lambert," Eskel greets him before taking another small bite of the hardtack. Lambert stands in the doorway for a while, leaning with one shoulder pressed against the doorway and arms crossed over his chest, almost as if he wants to bar Eskel's only way of escaping. Eskel doesn't understand why that thought has him feeling so uneasy in Lambert's presence. Lambert, whom he could beat with a hand tied behind his back. 

At least, that’s how it used to be. 

"So, uh… That's all you're having for breakfast?" he asks, jerking his head at the hardtack in Eskel's hand. Eskel suddenly feels very self-conscious. What's it to Lambert what Eskel eats for breakfast? It's never been an issue before. He feels scrutinised, watched , and the little appetite he managed to work up to suddenly disappears. 

"I had some oatmeal before you came down," Eskel lies, and judging by the scowl on Lambert's face, his brother knows it too. 

"Right." Lambert pushes himself off the doorframe and struts into the kitchen, grabbing an apple on his way in. The crunching is almost as obnoxious as Lambert's loud chewing noises. "So, what's on your to-do list today?" 

"Hmm. Think I need to muck out the stables and repair the goat enclosure." Eskel slips the hardtack in his pocket. Scorpion will enjoy the treat more than Eskel will. "You?" 

"Think the old man wants me to tidy up the armoury," Lambert manages around a mouthful of apple. By the gods , has he always been in the habit of talking with his mouth full? Eskel grits his teeth at the frankly obscene smacking sounds coming from his younger brother. Eskel thinks now is the right time to leave before he snaps at his brother that he will later regret. To Eskel's relief, Lambert doesn't try to stop him, though Eskel can feel the weight of his gaze on him. 

"Hey, Eskel?" Lambert calls out just as Eskel was about to step through the doorway. "Just so you know, Geralt had the last of the oatmeal this morning." 

Eskel freezes at Lambert's words. He feels heat rise in his cheeks at being caught out in a lie. He can almost hear Lambert's satisfied smirk, like he’s taking pleasure in seeing Eskel squirm. Eskel takes a while to recover from the shock and momentary panic that seized him, but when he finally convinces his muscles to move again he feels Lambert's fingers wrap around his wrist and pull him back. 

"Eskel, don't run away! We need to talk about this."

Eskel turns around to face Lambert and levels him with a tired glare. 

"Let go of me. There's nothing to talk about."

"Like fuck there isn't. Eskel, have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently?" 

Yes, he has. Far too many times, and nine out of ten times, Eskel hates what he sees there. He’s trying to better himself and Eskel doesn’t see anything wrong with that. Lambert, on the other hand, is scowling again, like Eskel has done something to personally offend him. His Chaos stirs dangerously when Lambert crowds his space even more, making Eskel feel trapped again with no means of escaping, but he forces himself to calm down. 

“Eskel, you haven’t been eating properly. You’ve hardly shared a meal with us since you arrived. You’re isolating yourself from us and we don’t understand why.” Lambert sounds genuinely concerned, which confuses Eskel even more. The last time he and Lambert spoke, the youngest wolf had acted like Eskel was the very bane of his entire existence. 

“I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I’m avoiding you,” Eskel tells him, his voice soft and composed despite the emotional whirlwind raging inside him, “it’s never been my intention.”

“Bullshit!” Lambert’s grip tightens painfully around Eskel’s wrist. “Eskel, whatever you’re doing, it needs to stop. You need to eat! Proper food, not just hardtack.” 

“Lambert, let go of me,” Eskel warns once, wincing when the younger witcher tugs sharply at his arm. 

“All I need to do is twist my arm just so to snap the bones in your wrist. I tackled you that first night, and you couldn't even move me. I put it down to exhaustion, but the more I see you starving yourself and the more I realise that there’s more to it than that. Eskel, I can grab your wrist now, and you couldn't shake my grip if you tried. You would break your wrist before you could slip free. Where does that seem healthy to you?"

“Lambert, fucking let go of me,” Eskel asks a second time, sounding a lot less collected than he did before. As much as Eskel wants to deny it, Lambert is right . He can’t shake him, he can’t escape his younger brother’s grip, and the thought nearly triggers a panic attack right there and then. In a rare moment of lucidity, Eskel realises that if Lambert is able to restrain him without breaking a sweat, then Eskel has no hope against a monster twice or three times his size. His breathing comes out in short pants as Eskel tries to contain his panic, but Lambert simply won’t let go .

“And your clothes? They don’t even fit you! Look,” Lambert tugs at Eskel’s shirt, which he had so carefully tucked into his trousers earlier that morning, “your shirt is drowning you! It’s far too large, yet last winter it fit you perfectly. You’re literally half the witcher you used to be. Literally! Eskel, why are you doing this to yourself?”

Eskel can feel his magic course hotly through his veins, causing the fine hair on his arms and the back of his neck to stand up. He can sense his Chaos consume him and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for him to keep his own magic under control. Especially when Lambert simply won’t fucking move away from him . 

“Lambert-” Eskel tries to warn his brother one last time, but the words fail him and Lambert looks too far gone to be stopped anyway. 

“If something happened on the Path, you come and fucking talk to us instead of starving yourself! We’re your brothers, that’s what we’re fucking here for. I’m done waiting around for something to change, and I don’t care if Geralt and Vesemir think that we need to give you space, because I will not watch you starve yourself and do nothing while-”

Eskel is not too sure what happens, or why Lambert suddenly stops talking, or why he can hear the sound of something solid snapping in half and pots and pans crashing as they collide with the solid ground. All he knows is that Lambert has finally let go of his wrist and is not yelling at him anymore. Eskel lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His knees start shaking and when they give out, they hit the floor with a loud thud, and Eskel thinks he hears something crack. His vision blacks out for several short seconds that feel like long hours, but his pupils adjust to the light again, Eskel is able to take in the scene before him. Lambert is nowhere near him. In fact, the youngest witcher is sprawled on the floor, surrounded by wood debris from what once was their kitchen table. There are pots and pans scattered everywhere on the floor, and upon closer inspection, Eskel notices a single line of blood beginning at Lambert’s receding hairline and trickling down his face along the length of his scar.

“Lambert?”

“What the fuck, Kel?” come the short reply, followed by a pained groan as Lambert tries to sit up. “Shit, I think I broke a couple of ribs.”

“What… what did I-”

“What the fuck is going on down here?” a deep baritone voice - Geralt, Eskel’s mind supplies helpfully - suddenly bellows. Eskel shakily pulls himself up by holding onto the door frame for support. 

“Geralt… fuck ,” Lambert curses when his sudden movements send a shooting pain through his entire body. Eskel, now slightly more steady on his feet, goes to help Lambert up, only to find his younger brother flinching away from Eskel’s extended hand. That reaction has no business hurting Eskel as much as it is. 

“What happened here? Why are you two fighting again?” Geralt demands to know as he shoves Eskel out of the way and hoists Lambert onto his own feet, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. Lambert snarls at him and manages to wiggle out of Geralt’s grip. “Lambert?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Lambert cries out, his eyes meeting Eskel’s briefly. “He did it. He fucking aarded me across the room. Sent me crashing into the fucking table. I think I broke a rib.”

There’s anger, and hurt, and fear reflected in the amber orbs that Eskel has come to know so well. Eskel’s stomach twists at the sight. Lambert has never been scared of him. Eskel never gave him a reason to fear him. Until now. Geralt’s eyes seek Eskel’s, an uncomprehending frown plastered on the white wolf’s face. Eskel swallows thickly and wills his hands to stop shaking.

“Eskel, why would you do that?” Geralt asks, and though Eskel can’t discern any anger in his brother’s voice, he can feel the weight of Geralt’s disappointment come crashing down on him. Eskel wants to answer, he wants to explain what happened, but he can’t find the words, and more importantly, he doesn’t seem to be able to get enough air in his lungs. His hands won’t stop shaking - why won’t they fucking stop shaking - and there’s tears blurring his vision.

“Eskel, woah, slow down,” Geralt tells him, one hand coming to rest on Eskel’s wrist, the same wrist where Lambert had gripped him - too tight, too fucking tight, no way out . Eskel snatches his wrist away from Geralt and keeps it close to his chest as he lets his body glide along the wall until his ass hits the cold floor, and Eskel is able to pull his knees up to his chest to bury his face in. He’s shaking, he can feel himself shaking. Geralt is there, in his space, like Lambert had been a few short minutes ago. Too close, too close, too close . But this is Geralt, Eskel reminds himself, and Geralt would never hurt him. 

Right? 

“ Axii. Eskel, brother, calm down.”

A warm feeling washes over Eskel’s mind and Geralt’s voice resonates in his head, not loudly or unpleasantly though, but calming and soothing. Eskel feels his muscles go slack when the next request is uttered - look at me, brother . He’s compelled to look up into Geralt’s and gaze into Geralt’s eyes. Eskel can see Geralt’s lips move and a slightly delayed you’re safe, brother, you’re safe echoes in his mind. When Geralt breaks the spell, Eskel blinks dumbly for several seconds as he tries to gather his wits. 

“What happened?”

“I was hoping you could enlighten me,” Geralt speaks in a coldly unemotional tone that sends a shiver running down the length of Eskel’s spine, “Lambert says you used Aard on him.”

“I… I wouldn’t….,” Eskel’s eyes meet Lambert’s briefly, and the way the youngest actively averts his gaze tugs at his heartstrings, “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“What were you arguing about?”

“I was telling our dear brother Eskel that he’s too fucking skinny,” Lambert suddenly speaks up, directing all his vitriol at Geralt since it seems that even the sight of Eskel is too much for Lambert to bear right now. Geralt grimaces at his younger brother’s words. “Look at him, Geralt! By doing nothing, we’re killing him!”

“Not now, Lambert,” Geralt grates between clenched teeth. 

“When if not now? Geralt, why do you insist on turning a blind eye? We need to talk about the fucking massive elephant in the room!” Lambert shouts angrily, his voice reverberating against the walls of the kitchen. 

“You talked to him, and look where it got you.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Fuck, Lambert, this is why we didn’t want you to talk to him alone!” 

Eskel didn’t think it was possible to feel worse about the situation, but hearing his brothers talk about him like Eskel isn’t even there? Why it hurts so much, Eskel can’t quite explain. He feels like his entire existence is being dismissed in that moment, like his brothers are discussing a broken toy and deciding whether they want to have it mended or just get rid of it. 

Like Eskel is broken, maybe even beyond repair at this point. 

In that moment, Eskel truly wishes he had never returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

Chapter Text

“Fuck, that burns,” Lambert hisses when Vesemir cleans the gash in his head with alcohol, “ shit , be careful old wolf. I’m precious cargo.”

Vesemir bites back the comment sitting at the tip of his tongue, something about Lambert not only being dramatic but also thinking very highly of himself, but he decides against it. Lambert is shaken enough as it is after being aarded into the solid wooden kitchen table, Vesemir doesn’t need to add to his pain and embarrassment. Lambert barely tolerates Vesemir tending to his wounds. He’s huffing, snarling and generally acting like a brat, but it’s not like Vesemir isn’t used to it from his youngest pup. 

“Your ribs will be good as new in a couple of days. The Swallow should help with the bruising.”

“I know how my own potion works, old man.”

Vesemir heaves a sigh. He knows that what happened with Eskel upset Lambert more than he cares to show. Eskel has always been the quiet, level-headed one. It takes a lot to get a rise out of Eskel. Even as a child, no taunt or slander could get him to lose his temper. Vesemir lost count of how many times Eskel took a beating without making a single sound, even that time Vesemir took a belt to him and Geralt. Eskel would never resort to violence unless someone upset the people he cared about - a list which was limited to Geralt when the two were growing up, but soon came to include others. Aubry, Frank, Gweld, Gardis and, more surprisingly, the runt Lambert. 

In fact, even though there are slightly more than three decades between him and Lambert, Eskel has always been protective of the pup. From the minute Vesemir dragged the dirty, battered boy into the keep for the first time, Eskel had treated Lambert with nothing but kindness. He received his fair share of bite marks, scratches and bruises from Lambert, and yet Eskel always treated the pup with respect. Sure, there had been times where even Eskel would resort to disciplining Lambert, but while his hand was always firm it was never cruel, never unkind. And most importantly, Eskel rarely raised his voice at anyone. Vesemir knows that Eskel will rather cut off his own hand than hurt Lambert in any way. That much hasn’t changed in six decades of knowing each other. 

So what happened earlier in that kitchen to get Eskel to react the way he did? Vesemir is determined to find out. 

“Run it by me again, pup. What were you and Eskel arguing about?”

Lambert goes quiet, which is saying something. No biting retort, no witty remark, just contemplative silence. Vesemir doesn’t push Lambert, however… he knows better. If there’s one sure way to get the pup to clamp up, it’s by forcing him to do something before he’s ready to take the leap. Vesemir gives Lambert as much time as he needs to answer. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how fucking skinny he’s got. I haven’t seen him eat since that first night, and even then, he only managed what… a bite? Two, maybe? I just… I’m worried. I just wanted him to eat something, and… I don’t know what happened.” 

Lambert’s voice is thick with emotion, not that the pup will ever admit to that. Vesemir remains silent, resisting the urge to comfort before he’s got to the root of the problem. He stares blankly at the flames dancing in the hearth to distract himself, focusing on the steady rhythm of Lambert’s heartbeat. Talking has never been easy for Lambert, unless he wishes to brag about one of his feats, or to spit vitriol at Vesemir himself or one of the others. Lambert’s default emotion is anger… any other feeling needs to be coaxed out of him. It takes patience, a lot of it, but thankfully Vesemir has centuries of experience dealing with brats like Lambert.

When Lambert doesn’t speak for a while, Vesemir decides to break the silence and meet the pup halfway. 

“Did he mean to aard you?” Vesemir asks. Lambert scoffs in response, the air around them souring with the smell of his anger, his fear , and his hurt. 

“Of course. When has Eskel ever not been in control of his signs?”

Vesemir has a few stories he could tell Lambert, like the time Eskel nearly destroyed the whole west wing when they thought Geralt hadn't survived the second round of Trials, but he figures that now is not the best time to bring that up. It wouldn't appease Lambert, not when he's still highly strung after Eskel's outburst. Vesemir hums pensively, his eyes still staring blankly at the fire. He hears Geralt’s footsteps as his other son heads their way, and seconds later, the door to his study clicks open, allowing Geralt to step in. Vesemir's eyes briefly dart over to where Geralt is standing in the doorway, looking drained and, frankly, just plain exhausted. His shoulders are tense from stress, the frown lines between his eyebrows deep as Geralt gently shuts the door behind him. Vesemir only now notices the dark circles under his pup's eyes. Geralt, always the worrier, but even more so where Eskel is concerned. 

This time, Geralt has every reason to be worried. 

It’s unsurprising, really. Geralt and Eskel have always been as close as brothers, two drops of water. They take turns fussing over and worrying about each other. It’s the way it’s always been, even though the instructors tried to dissuade their friendship at first. It’s too risky , Rennes used to tell Vesemir when the latter would take the pups' defence, they’re here to train, not to make friends. Last thing we need is depressed pups who can’t lift a sword because their friend died on the table. 

Vesemir doesn’t think either Geralt or Eskel could live without each other at this point.

"Where's Eskel?" Vesemir enquires as a way to ease Geralt into the conversation. 

"Bed. Used Somne on him so his Chaos got a chance to settle down."

Vesemir doesn't love the idea of his pups using their signs on each other, especially not the more powerful mind-controlling ones like Somne and Axii, but considering the circumstances… Vesemir supposes desperate times call for desperate measures. 

"He'll be out for a while," Vesemir guesses, finally taking his eyes off the fire and rising to his feet. Geralt refuses to sit down, far too agitated to settle down. Vesemir steps over to his pup and places his hands on Geralt's shoulders, before gently pulling Geralt closer to him and resting their foreheads together. Geralt melts against Vesemir, his eyes fluttering shut as he allows the older wolf to ground him. Oldest trick in the book where Geralt is concerned, but if it ain’t broke… Geralt’s breathing slows down until it matches Vesemir's exaggerated and controlled inhales and exhales. Only once Vesemir has made sure that Geralt's panic has subsided does he pull away. 

"Are you alright, pup?" 

"Hmm." Geralt glances over to where Lambert is slumped in the chair, eyes staring blankly in the distance. Geralt gently nudges Lambert's foot with his own, waiting until the younger wolf's eyes come to rest on him to ask, "How's your head, brother?"

"Fucking peachy," Lambert drawls, but Vesemir recognises the hurt undertone. He knows his youngest too well, knows Lambert's quirks and ticks far too intimately after six decades. There's something in the sound of his voice, the way he purposefully keeps it low and contained, that tells Vesemir his pup is trying to process many conflicting feelings at once. Lambert's smell spikes - the spicy scent of his anger is overwhelming in the way it permeates the air, but Vesemir picks up the more subtle smell of fear . 

Eskel's outburst scared Lambert. Vesemir doesn’t know what to do with that information.

"Vesemir, we need to talk."

Geralt's voice is more composed, but laced with an unmistakable urgency that doesn't go unnoticed by Vesemir. Geralt is worried, that much is clear, even though he hasn’t verbalised his concerns yet. He doesn’t have to - Vesemir is well-versed in Geralt. The old wolf nods solemnly in response. 

"Yes, it certainly seems that we do."

Geralt purses his lips into a tight grimace. His eyes dart to Lambert one more time, almost as if he expects his younger brother to speak his mind first, but Lambert is no help whatsoever in his current state, too caught up in his own anger to engage in rational conversation. Geralt heaves a sigh from deep within himself, his shoulders slumping like he’s carrying the weight of the entire world and a little extra on top of that. His amber eyes meet Vesemir’s patient gaze, seeking reassurance from his mentor. 

“Have you noticed anything different about Eskel?” 

“I have.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. He clearly expected Vesemir to fill in the blanks for him, so Geralt won’t have to personally engage with the situation, nor address the conflicting emotions that arise from Eskel’s current predicament. Vesemir knows what Geralt is referring to. It’s hard not to notice that Eskel has lost more weight than is healthy for a witcher of his size and build, and that in spite of that, he refuses to eat anything at all. When Vesemir doesn’t elaborate, Geralt takes a composing breath.

“He’s stopped eating,” Geralt finally says, his voice betraying his growing agitation, “he won’t join us for meals. He’s… he’s fainted on me a couple of weeks back, when we were doing chores. I tried to get him to eat breakfast that morning, but he insisted that he wasn’t hungry. But he clearly was. His stomach was growling. It was so loud, I never heard anything like it before.”

“He fainted in the hot springs too,” Lambert buts in, having suddenly found his voice again, “the day after he got here. He was late getting up, which just… isn’t like Eskel. I was banging on his door for ten minutes before he even answered me. Eskel’s… always been a light sleeper.”

Geralt hums at that, his sharp canines worrying his bottom lip as he processes Lambert’s words. 

“He was late getting up the day he fainted on me, too. And he’d locked his door.”

“He never used to lock his door,” Lambert agrees, his voice barely above a whisper, like the thought of his older brother trying to keep them out cuts deeper than he cares to let on, “You know when I asked you to help me with the kegs, Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Eskel couldn’t lift them. He couldn’t… Eskel’s strong. He’s probably the strongest of us, barring your extra mutagens, pretty boy. He couldn’t lift a damn keg .” Lambert tries to push himself out of the seat, only to hiss and yowl in pain when the action tugs at his broken ribs. “Son of a bitch, that hurts!”

Geralt clicks his tongue disapprovingly, then he goes to help Lambert get comfortable in the seat. His movements are gentle and meticulous as he supports most of Lambert’s weight and helps him wiggle into place. Lambert curses in four different languages, waiting for the sharp pain to subside. 

“We tried talking to him,” says Geralt once Lambert’s done cursing, “we tried telling him that we’re worried, we tried to get him to eat, but he won’t listen to us. You need to fix this, Vesemir.”

“And what makes you think that I’ll get through to him? Have either of you ever met Eskel?” 

“He respects you. He listens to you!” The look in Geralt’s is desperate, almost frantic, as he meets Vesemir’s gaze once again. “I thought if you knew, you’d done something about it. You always get through to him when no one else does.” 

Geralt sounds so convinced that Vesemir is almost inclined to believe in the veracity of his statement. The truth is that Eskel, for all his patience and good manners, has a skull thicker than a royal wyvern’s skin. Vesemir has dealt with dwarves less stubborn than Eskel, and that’s saying something considering how notoriously pig-headed dwarves can be. 

“C’mon, old wolf,” Lambert pipes up, one hand holding his injured side, “if someone can out-stubborn Eskel, it’s you.”

Well… Vesemir supposes the pup has a point there. 

“I won’t make any promises,” Vesemir relents, and the way Geralt’s expression changes from concerned to hopeful in the blink of an eye is enough to convince Vesemir that the very least he can do is try to talk Eskel out of this harmful behaviour, “but I’ll talk to him. We need to find out what happened on the Path to make him think that starving himself is acceptable.” 

Geralt’s relieved sigh tugs at Vesemir’s heartstrings. He remembers seeing that same concern in Geralt’s eyes when Eskel was going through the trials. Hell, Geralt panicked that one year Eskel spent two weeks in bed with pneumonia. Nothing could pry little Geralt from his best friend’s side; neither the threat of a beating, nor the promise of a treat in exchange for his cooperation convinced Geralt to leave Eskel. Vesemir remembers Barmin all but dragging the poor kid out of the infirmary by the scruff of his neck, ignoring the flailing arms and the panic in Geralt’s voice as he screamed Eskel’s name. Geralt did end up getting a beating that day, but that didn’t stop him from sneaking back into the infirmary at night. 

Geralt and Eskel, two drops of water… Vesemir knows that if anything were to happen to Eskel, Geralt wouldn’t cope. None of them would. 

“Thank you, Vesemir.” 

That’s the last words Vesemir hears as he heads out of his study on his way to Eskel’s bedroom. 

__________

It’s worse than Vesemir thought. 

Eskel is still fast asleep. Vesemir can't help but take comfort in the slow rise and fall of Eskel's chest, and the steady beating of his heart - although it's slow, even for a witcher. Vesemir puts it down to Geralt's Somne. Vesemir takes comfort in these small signs of life, because Eskel looks and feels like a corpse under the old wolf's probing fingers. He's unusually pale, his natural golden tan characteristic of hill folk now completely gone. Eskel's cheeks are sunken, rendering the outline of his skull clearly visible to Vesemir. Skulls shouldn't be visible, damnit. 

"Oh pup," Vesemir mutters under his breath as he gently moves the covers away to reveal Eskel's jutting collarbones, "why are you doing this to yourself?" 

Vesemir pulls out a dagger he keeps hidden in his boot and cuts through Eskel's far too large shirt. It won't be missed, Vesemir tells himself. It looks old and worn, and far too large for Eskel's now skinny body. Well, skinny doesn't quite cover it. His eldest pup is skeletal. Vesemir's breath catches in his throat when Eskel's upper body is revealed to him. The protruding ribs are the most shocking - or is it perhaps the sunken stomach? Or is it perhaps the jutting hip bones? Vesemir doesn't even want to look under Eskel's breeches, doesn't even want to see just how skinny his thighs have become. Vesemir swallows past the lump in his throat as his eyes fall on Eskel's wrists… dear gods above, Vesemir could wrap his entire hand around them and break them with a well-placed twist. 

Fuck it. Vesemir is doing a full body check. 

As Vesemir pulls down Eskel's breeches and braies, he's unable to bite back the sigh that tumbles past his lips. When was the last time he had to conduct a full physical on Eskel? Far too long ago, Vesemir doesn't wish to reminisce. The fact that he goes to such lengths, resorting to undressing his pup down to his small clothes to assess the damage that Eskel's aversion to food has done to his body… it shows how worried Vesemir truly is now that he's seeing Eskel properly. Until now, the baggy clothes hid just how much weight Eskel truly lost. Vesemir isn't in the least surprised that Eskel was unable to lift the kegs - he's all skin and bones, with a hint of muscle. Without proper nutrition, however, even muscle is useless.

Vesemir's eyes prickle at the sight of his pup, lying on the bed in nothing but his undergarments, looking so… so skinny, too skinny. It brings back memories Vesemir would rather forget. Vesemir is sad, and angry, and disappointed. Not disappointed in Eskel - but rather in himself, for not noticing, for not acting sooner, for not recognising the signs. He's seen this kind of behaviour twice before in his life. Once with Varin, the sword instructor, Vesemir's friend . And a second time with someone else, Mignole, the only woman who was ever dear to him. 

Varin.

Mignole.

Eskel .

Seeing Eskel suffering from this affliction has to hurt the most. Vesemir remembers the spritely young pup he brought back from the Toussaint region. Eskel, a pup full of colour, and life, and love. A pup who smiled all the time, who was excited to go with Vesemir, and who couldn't wait to become a hero, a witcher who saves people from monsters. Vesemir just wishes he had done a better job at raising Eskel. If only he had taught Eskel to love himself as much as Eskel loved life back then, maybe they could have avoided this mess altogether.

The truth is that the harsh training and the harsh hands that raised Eskel in Kaer Morhen killed the joyful, life-loving child Vesemir knew, and turned him into this docile, obedient soldier. Sure, that’s what the mages and witchers wanted to achieve, but at what price? Vesemir feels responsible for letting Eskel spiral that far into his own mind. As Vesemir covers Eskel’s body with a white sheet, an action he’s far too familiar with after years of burying young boys sent to an early death, it feels like it’s too late for even Vesemir to pull Eskel back to shore. He tucks the corners of the sheets under Eskel’s far too cold body - gods, he even feels like a corpse. 

“Mmh. Ves?”

The raps of Eskel’s voice startles Vesemir out of his daydreaming. 

“Welcome back, pup. How are you feeling?”

“S’re head,” Eskel mumbles, his eyes fluttering open to stare at Vesemir. The old wolf recognises this Eskel at least, the Eskel with the kind and expressive eyes. Though admittedly, Vesemir misses the way they used to sparkle. Last year Eskel seemed fine… how could he not have picked up on the signs before it was too late? 

“That tends to happen with people who starve themselves.”

Straight to the point. That’s what works best when Eskel is being stubborn. Eskel flinches at those words, turning his head so he’s facing away from Vesemir. Avoiding his gaze, avoiding the awkward confrontation. The key to understanding Eskel lies in his body language. His oldest pup will never outright say that a conversation makes him uncomfortable - unlike Lambert, who will have no shame telling you to fuck off right to your face. Eskel’s cues are more subtle; he’ll avoid eye contact, keep his voice even and his tone artificially polite, he’ll worry his lower lip and sometimes paw at his scarred cheek. Vesemir isn’t sure if his pup has the strength or energy to do any of that.

“How’s Lambert?” These are the first words that come out of Eskel’s mouth after a prolonged silence. Figures. “Is he okay?”

“He will be. A surface wound on his head, it’ll heal over pretty quick. His ribs will set in a couple of days.”

“His…,” Eskel swallows thickly past the lump in his throat, not wanting to believe just how much damage he caused, “I never meant to hurt him.”

“I believe that, pup.” Vesemir conveniently leaves out the part where he says that Lambert doesn’t, though, not yet. Eskel hears the unspoken thought all the same, if the way he pinches his eyes shut and exhales a shaky breath is anything to go by. “I’d very much like to hear what happened down there.”

“We were arguing,” Eskel provides, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “I lost control. This hasn’t happened in years. I couldn’t… I tried .”

“Channelling your Chaos and controlling it has always been an issue for you,” Vesemir gently reminds him, remembering a time when Rennes would keep Eskel up after hours to teach him advanced meditation techniques, “even before the Trials, we could sense magic in you, boy. If we didn’t find you when we did, you would’ve probably ended up in Ban Ard. My point is that controlling your magic is hard . It takes a lot of energy… energy which you’ve been lacking recently. Because you’ve not been eating.”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Eskel argues, and the fire in his eyes returns for the briefest of moments, “I eat enough to keep me going. I don’t stuff myself. There’s a difference.” It breaks Vesemir’s heart to hear these words spoken so convincingly, because Eskel wholeheartedly believes that what he’s doing - starving himself, over-exercising - is healthy . 

“Yes, there is a difference. But what you’re doing is neither of those. You don’t eat enough, Eskel. Don’t lie to me. You’re nothing but skin and bones. You’re not nearly as bulky as you should be for a witcher of your size and-”

“I don’t want to be bulky. It weighs me down. It slows me down, and-”

“Enough,” Vesemir interrupts Eskel in a calm, matter-of-factly tone, “the only thing it’s doing is slowly killing you. If you don’t starve here, you’ll die on the Path because you won’t have enough energy to stand on your own two feet, never mind fight monsters or use your signs. And don’t argue with me on this,” Vesemir adds, his tone growing sterner when Eskel opens his mouth to dispute these words, “I’ve seen this before. And I’ll be damned if I let you go down the same path as Varin and Mignole.”

Vesemir knows he’s said too much the minute these words push past his lips and Eskel’s eyes widen at the mention of his former sword instructor. Vesemir sighs. If Varin were still alive, he’d probably have Vesemir hanged from the tower by his feet. But in hindsight, hiding Varin’s… condition, he supposes, has done more harm than good. Maybe if they’d been more open about this, Eskel might not have tried to hide from his family as long as he had. 

“Master Varin?” 

Maybe it’s not too late yet. Maybe Vesemir can still pull his pup back to shore. 

“Yes, Varin went through something really similar, pup.”

Vesemir remembers the year Varin returned from the Path, limping and hissing in pain, holding a hand to his lower back. The wound he sustained fighting an archgriffin would have been deadly to any human, but in Varin’s case, it had merely crippled him. If you asked him, that made it worse. Vesemir never did get the full story of what exactly happened out of Varin. All he knew is that his friend was suffering from the injury months after it had been inflicted, which meant that the damage dealt by the archgriffin was, in all likelihood, permanent. Varin did not take the news very well. 

“Something similar?” Eskel questions, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused frown, “what do you mean? Master Varin was fine.”

Vesemir shakes his head, lips pursed in a tight grimace. 

“He was less fine than he liked to let on.” Vesemir heaves a long-suffering sigh, ignoring the way his heart clenches in his chest at the memory of his fallen brother. “You probably didn’t notice as much because you were older then, and Varin mostly trained the younger boys who hadn’t gone through the Trial of Grasses yet. When you and Geralt just left for the Path, Varin got severely injured.”

It turned out that the archgriffin had broken Varin’s spine, and were it not for the Swallow he ingested minutes after sustaining the injury, Varin would’ve probably been paralysed from the waist down and died, either from blood loss or because he had become easy prey for any nearby scavengers. The Swallow successfully repaired the fracture by fusing the vertebrae together and reversing some of the damage done to the nerves, but Swallow wasn’t a miracle potion by any stretch of the imagination. Varin’s motion range was greatly limited, the injury having impacted on his flexibility. The nerves had healed, to an extent, but Varin would still get the shooting pains in his back. He was unable to stand for prolonged periods of time any more, not without feeling some pain and discomfort. The Path was out of the question - Varin knew that the minute he stepped up against a monster, he would have died. 

“I never knew,” Eskel admits, “is that why he was so tough on the recruits later in his life?”

“Not exactly, although it didn’t help. Varin was always stricter than most instructors, but the injury made it worse. He was in constant pain, which he took out on the boys in the keep. And on us too, though admittedly the older witchers had developed a thicker skin over the years.” 

“Why are you telling me all this?” Eskel asks, his tone just this side of irritated, “what has any of this got to do with me?”

Vesemir levels his pup with a stern glare. Eskel isn’t stupid, far from it, and Vesemir is convinced that a part of Eskel’s pig-headed mind knows that what he’s doing is unhealthy. All Vesemir has to do is appeal to the rational side of Eskel’s mind, and yes that is definitely easier said than done, but heavens above and hells below, Vesemir hasn’t lived for near three centuries to be out-stubborned by Eskel. 

"Varin hated what he ended up as, hated that he'd made a 'rookie mistake,' as he put it. So he punished himself. He stopped eating, and I got to watch him waste away in more ways than one." Vesemir remembers it far too clearly - Varin was always more on the lanky side, but when he stopped eating, he became near skeletal. Eskel is probably not far off the size of Varin at his very worst point, which is saying something, considering that a healthy Eskel is probably a good head taller and twice as large as Varin. "Some days, between lacking energy from starving himself and the pain in his back, he couldn't even get out of bed. If the sacking hadn't killed him, he certainly would have killed himself."

And although Vesemir doesn't tell Eskel this, the last thing he wants is to find his pup so desperate that he'll consider taking a blade to his own neck, or hanging himself from the ceiling by a noose. Because those thoughts had crossed Varin's mind, too. Vesemir has lost too much, too many. He's always been ‘soft,’ always been too kind on the pups. The sacking never changed things. It only made Ves dote on the remaining three even more. He loves Eskel to the moon and back. He can't lose Eskel, and if that makes him selfish, then Vesemir will happily raise his hands and call himself a sinner, or whatever. Vesemir didn't let his brother kill himself, and he sure as hell won't let his pup, his son , spiral that far down the dark abysses of his own mind. 

Not on his watch.

“Do you understand now, pup, how this has everything to do with you?” 

Vesemir sees it in Eskel’s eyes, the spark of challenge , of denial and of defiance, but Eskel’s a smart boy. He’s always been switched on, since he was a pup. Eskel understands alright, but he’s a lot more reluctant to accept that Vesemir has called him out and striked a sensitive chord. 

“Who’s Mignole?” Eskel inquires, voice laced with curiosity. Vesemir decides to indulge Eskel’s attempt to deflect attention from himself. 

“Doesn’t matter who she is,” Vesemir would rather not linger on these bittersweet memories, nor on the feelings that Mignole triggers in him, “what matters here, for the purposes of our conversation, is that she also developed an aversion to food. Not to punish herself, though. She thought that’s what society wanted her to look like, so she starved herself to conform to these made-up ideals of noble society.”

Eskel snorts at these words. 

“They’re not made-up ideals,” he tells Vesemir, and the old wolf detects the bitter edge in Eskel’s tone, “they’re very much real. Society expects you to look a certain way. They expect you to conform, to be like them . Anything else is monstrous to them.” 

Vesemir raises an eyebrow, scrutinizing the witcher before him. It appears that Eskel’s reasoning behind this sudden need to starve himself goes deeper, much deeper, than a fear of not being good enough and being a bad witcher. Vesemir’s heart tightens at the revelation. 

"You sound like you experienced that first-hand."

"I don't just stay in the forests while I'm on the Path, Vesemir. I'm not blind." Eskel swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. “I’m not deaf, either. I hear them whispering behind my back.”

"And yet you are blind to what you have done to yourself, and you are blind to what actually matters."

Eskel huffs out a humourless chuckle. "And what actually matters?" Eskel’s eyes are devoid of any kind of emotion. Well no, that’s not entirely true. They’re devoid of those emotions that Vesemir usually associates with Eskel - kindness, understanding, compassion. Now, all the old wolf sees reflected in those amber orbs is bitterness, and anger, and self-loathing. Vesemir misses the old Eskel, but he will fight to get him back. 

"I'll tell you what doesn't. Other people's opinions of you. And I firmly believe,” Vesemir presses, not giving Eskel a chance to escape the conversation, “that part of you is doing this as a way to punish yourself, even though I’m not sure what you’d want to punish yourself for. But if you think that you need to stop eating to please other people? You’re wrong. I just want you to get it in your thick head that I won’t tolerate it. Do you understand? I won’t let you destroy yourself.” 

Eskel looks away, still refusing to meet Vesemir’s gaze, but that’s alright. Vesemir can deal with that. It’s a lot to drop on his pup at once, he knows. The next couple of weeks will be tough, but Eskel’s strong. He will get through this, and he won’t have to go through this alone either. Vesemir will help. Geralt and Lambert will help, too. They’re a pack, the four of them, and they will make sure Eskel gets better if it’s the last thing Vesemir ever does. 

Vesemir has outlived so many pups. Too many, in fact. He refuses to outlive another.

Chapter Text

Eskel barely gets a moment to himself anymore. Between Geralt and Vesemir, he always finds himself in someone else’s company. They keep an eye on him, watching him like hawks and making sure he doesn’t collapse in front of them again. Geralt hasn’t brought up his fainting spell since Eskel woke up in the library that same day. He can sense Geralt’s simmering anger, likely still lingering over the jokes Eskel had made. Granted, the jokes had probably been in poor taste, but Eskel can’t bring himself to regret them.

If there is one thing he does regret, it’s lashing out at Lambert.

He didn’t mean to. Casting Aard had been a complete accident, and if he could take it back, he would. Eskel hasn’t lost control over his Chaos in years. The last time he did, he nearly burned half of Kaer Morhen down with him, and since then, the instructors had made sure he understood that he is not allowed to lose control of his Chaos again. Now, decades later, he’s made the same mistake, and the consequence came in the form of losing his brother.

Lambert won’t even look at him, holding his aching ribs and turning away every time Eskel draws near. The stench of fear follows Lambert like a dark cloud whenever Eskel approaches him, strong enough to get Eskel to back away instantly. Lambert can never leave a room fast enough. Eskel wonders if he has damaged their relationship irreparably. He hopes that he hasn’t. If he could apologize, he would take that chance in a heartbeat.

Speaking of heartbeats, Eskel’s has been giving him some trouble lately. It started with a few aches and pains, but they’ve been growing in frequency as of late. He massages his chest without thinking, hoping to alleviate that burning or sharp pain beneath his skin. If he’s not massaging his chest, then he’s leaning against a wall, seeking to catch his breath and blinking away dark spots in his vision. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand why his body insists on acting this way. All he’s trying to do is be better. Everyone seems to be fighting against him, though.

Vesemir fights him the most. Eskel can barely breathe around him. Vesemir’s words from a few days ago linger in his mind. Eskel never knew Varin felt that way, never knew how close he came to losing one of his instructors. He feels for Varin - truly, he does - but Eskel is different. Varin made a mistake. Anyone can, and Eskel knows he could, too. How could Varin possibly be blamed for getting injured? If the archgriffin could hurt Varin, then it definitely would have killed Eskel. Eskel, who’s bulky and heavy and slow. Vesemir tried his hardest to get Eskel to see that he and Varin were the same, but Vesemir is wrong. Eskel is so much weaker than Varin ever was.

In a way, deep down, Vesemir must know that, too, because he simply won’t leave Eskel alone. Even now, when Eskel is doing something as simple as sweeping the dining hall, Vesemir is sitting at the table, reading a book and pretending like he doesn’t raise his eyes every thirty seconds or so to make sure Eskel’s still standing. It grates on Eskel’s nerves, but he pushes it aside. It wouldn’t do him any good to snap at his mentor.

“You alright, pup?” Vesemir asks, breaking the tentative silence between them.

Eskel hums, not looking up from the dirt pile he compiled. He continues sweeping, intent on avoiding Vesemir’s gaze. “Fine.”

“Do you need a break?”

“No.” 

Eskel keeps his eyes down and his answers short. If he lets himself do any more, he knows he will crack, and that just won’t do. He can’t spill out to Vesemir what he’s feeling. He already said enough before. If he says anything else, Vesemir will put a halt to everything Eskel has worked for, and Eskel is already in too deep. He’s invested too much into this. He’s so close to being perfect. He won’t let Vesemir take this away.

“If you do, let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vesemir sighs heavily, sounding a bit too exasperated for Eskel’s liking. “You don’t have to call me sir.”

“I know.” 

Eskel doesn’t, but that isn’t something he wants to go over with Vesemir right now. Since arriving at the keep, he feels so distanced from his family, but that’s mostly his fault anyway. He’s the one who avoids meals with them because he fears the gurgling noises his stomach will make. He fears the lack of restraint he’ll have when faced with a table lined with food. He fears their mocking looks as they eat with careless abandon while he sits there and pretends like he doesn’t crave eating, too. He fears them smelling his fear and laughing at his cowardice. He fears a lot of things, and it makes his confidence as a witcher dwindle, as if it can dwindle any further.

Vesemir hums quietly, not quite believing Eskel’s words but not pushing either. He turns back to his book, eyes flickering up once more ten seconds later to cast a full-body check over Eskel. Eskel grits his teeth and fights back the urge to snap that he won’t be any skinnier in ten seconds, no matter how much he wishes he would. 

Sorry to disappoint, Eskel thinks. He wishes he could slim down that quickly, too. 

Eskel sighs, trying not to let all his loathing and negativity seep into his tone. Exhaustion wears at him, and he starts to wonder if this is what Vesemir meant by him needing a break. Eskel refuses to let himself settle down, though. He used to be the strongest witcher in this keep. Now, he can barely lift a keg, can hardly stand for the fifteen minutes it takes to sweep the dining hall. Geralt and Lambert have his usual chores now, patching up holes in the walls and chopping all the wood waiting outside. In trying to make himself better, he has only made himself more of a burden. Soon, though...soon, his body will adjust and grow accustomed to this new normal. After that, he’ll be golden. The golden boy of Kaer Morhen, just like what Lambert calls him.

Used to call him, anyway. Lambert doesn’t even look at him anymore. 

Eskel starts to leave the dining hall, broom in hand to put in the closet. He still has to sort out the armory. He decides not to think about how that’s usually Lambert’s job, that Eskel is now saddled with one of the easier tasks in the keep. He’ll get better. This will all be better soon. It’s just temporary.

Soft footfalls trail after him, and Eskel’s eyes actually twitch. He can hear Vesemir following after him, not even bothering to disguise his footsteps. Eskel sends a glance behind him, only to meet Vesemir’s raised eyebrow. Taking a steadying breath, Eskel calmly asks,

“Do you...need something else from me?”

Vesemir stares directly back. “No.”

“May I ask why you’re following me then?”

“You could.”

Eskel pauses, waiting for Vesemir to finish his response. Instead, he gets a blank stare from his mentor in return. Annoyance bubbles up in his chest, right alongside the godsforsaken ache that chooses now of all times to start up again. When Vesemir continues to not answer, Eskel finally caves.

“Why are you following me?”

“I can’t walk freely in my own keep?”

It’s so typical of Vesemir to respond to a question with his own question, but Eskel is not in the mood to deal with these backward responses. The scowl crosses his face before he can stop it. His nerves are already frayed from the past few weeks since arriving at the keep. The aching in his chest makes him irritable and frustrated. He doesn’t understand why his family won’t leave him alone, why they insist on bothering him every five seconds. Lambert seems to have the right idea. He finally noticed how little Eskel is worth his time and effort. It hurts, but Eskel will earn Lambert’s trust back. Soon. He just needs a little longer.

“You’ve been following me everywhere,” Eskel huffs, glaring at Vesemir. 

Vesemir tilts his head slightly, trying to paint himself as innocent. Eskel’s eyebrow twitches this time. “Have I? Hm. I didn’t notice. Odd.”

Eskel runs a hand over his face. “Really? Is this your way of keeping an eye on me now?”

“I just so happen to be in the same room as you once, and suddenly, I’m accused of tailing you.” Vesemir shakes his head in disbelief. “What a jump in conclusions.”

“Right, well, it’s a very convenient coincidence, don’t you think?” Eskel asks sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Vesemir levels his son with a deadpan look. “I don’t believe in coincidences, pup. Everything happens for a reason, just as the goddesses have designed.”

“Uh-huh. Right…Figures you’d say that.”

“What can I say?” Vesemir shrugs, waving his hand in a vague, flippant gesture. “People linked by destiny and all that.”

Eskel draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he tries to gain control of his patience. He’s known for being kind and understanding. He will continue to do just that, even if Vesemir is really pressing on his last nerve right now. Breathing out slowly, Eskel mutters, 

“Fine. You can follow me.”

Vesemir snorts, walking past Eskel without a second glance. “I wasn’t asking.”

Eskel lets him go, taking another deep breath. He raises his eyes to the ceiling and sends a quick prayer to Melitele before following his mentor to the armory. Vesemir doesn’t turn around to look at Eskel as they walk, but Eskel sees the way his head is slightly tilted, keeping one ear open just in case. A quiet, disgruntled hum comes from the older man. Eskel raises an eyebrow that he knows Vesemir can’t see.

“Problem?”

Vesemir doesn’t answer, continuing forward but looking no less perturbed. Eskel shrugs it off, letting the old man stew in his thoughts. Eskel has half a mind to start a conversation and clear the air of any tension, but they reach the armory, and Vesemir simply sits in the spare chair by the workbench. He reclines back and watches Eskel idly, hands pillowed on his stomach. 

Eskel clicks his tongue impatiently. “You’re just gonna sit there?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Pursing his lips to withhold an irritated sigh, Eskel turns to the sword rack to fix the broken wooden stand. He has no idea how the hell one of his brothers managed to break the sword rack, but they did, but now Eskel is tasked with fixing it. Eskel huffs quietly and starts to move each sword from its place. 

His hands tremble as he picks them up, the weight of the wooden swords heavier than he remembers them being. The steel and silver swords are even worse. He does his best to keep his grunts and struggles to a minimum, cognizant of Vesemir sitting right behind him. He doesn’t understand why Vesemir insists on staying with him, but he can feel his mentor’s eyes following his every movement. Eskel has never felt more pressure in his life.

Eskel does his best to ignore him, trying not to pay attention to the distracting feeling of eyes burning into his back. He blinks away dark spots clouding his vision and searches for the break in the wood. He honestly has no clue how his brothers managed this, and he can’t imagine where this stand could have broken in the first place.

“It’s the left side,” Vesemir calls behind him. 

Eskel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, moving from his spot on the right side of the rack to the left. Sure enough, the wood splits down the middle, cracked enough that the wood completely separates from each other. Eskel sighs quietly. He could provide a temporary fix for it and simply rebuild a new sword stand. In Eskel’s experience, once something breaks, it will continue to break. Sometimes, it’s better to throw out the old model and replace it with something new, something better.

Pushing back those thoughts, Eskel stands from his crouched position, heading to grab the toolkit from the workbench. Before he can make his way over, Vesemir is leaning forward in his chair, handing over the tin of adhesive. Eskel bites his cheek and stares at Vesemir’s raised eyebrow.

“Are you going to take it?” Vesemir asks, wiggling the tin in Eskel’s face. 

Eskel huffs, taking the tin from Vesemir. He rubs idly at his aching chest, crouching by the split in the wood. The adhesive will keep it fixed for the time being until Eskel can make another one. As he works, he glances to the side and watches as Vesemir gradually leans to the side, propping his elbow on the bench and resting his chin in his hand. Vesemir’s eyes drift closed, only to snap open again.

“You can fall asleep, you know,” Eskel muses, keeping his eyes focused on the break in the wood as he carefully applies the adhesive between the split pieces. He holds the two pieces together, neither of his hands free to massage away the pain growing near his heart. This isn’t emotional pain. No, this is something much more physical and he can’t figure out why.

A tired hum echoes from beside him. “No. I may be getting on in my years, but I can still last far into the night.”

Eskel doesn’t dare mention that it is only midday.

Instead, he keeps his attention focused on holding the cracked pieces of wood together. He stays silent, offering no conversation or stimulation to keep Vesemir awake. His stomach grumbles quietly, and he hopes it stays that way. A loud growl will startle Vesemir from the light doze he’s put himself in. If Eskel can stay silent long enough, Vesemir will fall asleep, and Eskel can creep out of the room, leaving his mentor behind. After that, Eskel could probably fucking breathe without feeling someone staring at him every second of the day.

Several minutes pass as Eskel holds the wood together, waiting for the adhesive to dry. He keeps one ear on Vesemir’s breathing, listening to it slowly even out. As time goes on, Eskel finds himself blinking away more spots in vision. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, hoping to get rid of this fuzzy feeling clouding his mind. Huffing softly in frustration, Eskel slowly releases his hands from the pieces of wood. The two broken ends stay glued together, and Eskel considers it a job well done. It will last until he can build the new one.

Just as he’s about to stand, a loud snore comes from the workbench. Eskel looks over and snorts at the sight of Vesemir knocked out, head pillowed on his arms. Returning the adhesive to the toolkit will probably wake up the oldest witcher, and Eskel would greatly prefer it if that did not happen. He leaves the adhesive and training swords on the floor by the sword rack and slowly creeps out of the armory, careful not to make a sound and blinking away dark spots as he does so.

Eskel makes his way into the kitchen, shaking away the dizzy feeling. He looks around the kitchen, blanking on the reason why he entered. Surely, he didn’t come here for food. He ate a few pieces of hardtack yesterday; he can go a few more days without eating something else. Eskel blinks, looking around slowly. He came here for a reason, didn’t he? 

His eyes drift over the washbasin, but no dishes need cleaning. Lunchtime had been only an hour ago; he had a long time until supper. Geralt swept and mopped the floors earlier, so Eskel doesn’t have to do that either. What did he come here for? Why couldn’t he remember?

Eskel raises a hand to his chest, massaging away the ache around his heart. He grunts in discomfort, wincing as the pain spikes at the movement of his arm. Every slight action pulls at his chest awkwardly, and he forces himself to stay completely still until the pain dissipates. He takes in shallow breaths, not letting his lungs expand enough to push up against that sharp agony plaguing his heart. He has half a mind to go back and tell Vesemir, to ask him why his heart insists on hurting this way, but that would only prove to Vesemir that he was incapable of yet another thing, incapable of doing something as simple as taking care of himself.

He says nothing, letting the pain subside on its own. Once he feels like he can breathe again, Eskel takes in an experimental deep breath. He lets his lungs fill, holding more air than his stomach has food, and waits to see if his chest will send another sharp pain. Nothing comes, and Eskel lets out a long sigh of relief. He casts one last glance around the kitchen, still unsure of why he arrived, before shaking his head. His eyes snag on the food storage chest in the corner, but he forces his gaze away. No, not now. Maybe another time. He turns to leave the kitchen, only to face a very unamused Geralt.

“Were you looking for something?” Geralt asks lowly, arms crossed over his chest and scowl on his face.

Eskel furrows his eyebrows, staring at Geralt in confusion. “No?”

“Are you sure? Because you haven’t eaten a meal with us since you got here and I haven’t seen you eat anything otherwise.”

Eskel almost tells Geralt about the hardtack he ate, only to realize that might not help his case at all. “I’ve eaten,” he replies instead, stubbornly keeping his ground, “and I’m not that hungry.”

Geralt’s scowl deepens. “Not that hungry?” he repeats incredulously. “Like how you weren’t that hungry when you fucking fainted on me in the stables?”

“No one asked you to save me like my knight in shining armor, Geralt,” Eskel growls, a well of anger filling the emptiness in his stomach. “That was one time. Get over it.”

“Get over it? Lambert said you fainted in the fucking hot springs, too!”

Eskel rolls his eyes, pretending like that action alone didn’t make him dizzy. “Lambert didn’t come into the hot springs. I had to open the door for him. What would he know?”

Geralt scoffs, uncrossing his arms and shaking his head. “And that’s another thing! Since when do you lock your door?”

“Am I not allowed privacy anymore? You and Vesemir watch me everywhere I go!”

“This isn’t about privacy,” Geralt snaps. “You’re trying to keep us out!”

Eskel pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “You’re reading way too much into this.”

“You never used to lock your doors,” Geralt continues, voice steadily growing louder until he’s almost yelling. “Never. Not even before the pogrom when this place was crawling with hormonal teenagers. Hell, your door was always open to them if they needed anything.”

Eskel spreads his arms out to the side, gesturing to the empty room around them and ignoring the spike of sharp pain in his chest. “Look around, Geralt! I don’t know if it’s clicked in your mind yet, but we’re the only ones left!”

Geralt narrows his eyes, jabbing his finger into his own chest as he shouts, “Maybe we still need you! Did you ever stop and think about that?”

“What about what I want?!” Eskel snarls. His chest aches and burns, but he resists the urge to clutch at his skin and rub the pain away. Geralt’s eyes widen a bit in surprise, but his brother doesn’t back down. So much for Geralt yelling at Lambert for being too pushy. Apparently, Geralt doesn’t know how to mind his own fucking business either.

Their argument attracts the other residents in the keep. Eskel can hear their footsteps racing towards the kitchen. His own Chaos tries to spark at the new threat in front of him, but he doesn’t have enough energy to summon it. A good thing, too, because despite how angry he is, the last thing Eskel wants is to aard Geralt as he did with Lambert, or worse, igni him. 

“I can’t believe you!” Geralt hisses, eyes flashing. Vesemir and Lambert appear in the kitchen entryway, but neither Geralt nor Eskel pays them any mind. “We have begged you to get better, to take care of yourself, and you have done nothing to fix it!”

Eskel scoffs. “I don’t exactly see you on your knees begging me to do anything, Geralt! You’ve been avoiding me!”

“Boys, that’s enough,” Vesemir orders, stepping closer to them.

Geralt continues as if he never heard Vesemir speak. “Well, excuse me if I’ve been a bit busy picking up all of your slack! All of your chores, all the pressure...who do you think it falls on, Eskel?”

The pain in Eskel’s chest grows ever more prominent, to the point where Eskel struggles to keep himself from wincing. He can practically feel his heart thudding against his chest, an unusual and unsteady rhythm. It beats slowly, slower than even a witcher’s should. He raises a hand to his chest to hold himself together, but he doesn’t back away from Geralt.

“How does it feel, Geralt, to finally have to take responsibility for once?!”

His breaths come short and fast, but he chalks it up to exertion. The world around him fades in and out of focus, clear one moment then blurry the next. His limbs tremble, but he refuses to give in. It doesn’t help that the sour stench of fear wraps around him. One quick glance follows the scent to Lambert, who’s staring at them with wide, frightened eyes. Again. Eskel is scaring him again.

A low growl comes from Geralt, drawing Eskel’s attention once more. Eskel huffs, but not out of frustration or annoyance. No. It’s getting hard to breathe, and judging by the look on Vesemir’s face, the old man knows it, too.

“Eskel,” Vesemir starts carefully, “take a moment-”

“Oh, fuck you,” Geralt retorts. “I can’t- gods, I can’t fucking stand you like this!”

Vesemir glares at him, placing a hand on Geralt’s chest. Geralt doesn’t budge. “Geralt, enough!”

“Esk,” Lambert says quietly, “maybe you should sit down…”

Eskel ignores him, choosing to look at Geralt, at the anger staring back at him. “I’m sorry if I don’t meet your fucking standards, White Wolf. Not all of us can be so godsdamn perfect!”

Geralt lets out a hysterical laugh. It almost sends a shiver down Eskel’s spine. It probably would have if his chest didn’t get to him first, an unbearably sharp pain wrapping around his heart in a vice-like grip. Eskel chokes on his breath, vision going dark for a second too long. When his sight returns, he’s met with Geralt’s vitriol as his brother yells,

“I can’t do this with you anymore! Gods, I fucking hate you!”

If the words didn’t break Eskel, then the pain finally did. Eskel honestly doesn’t know what the breaking point was, but all he can feel is the sheer agony in his chest as Geralt’s hate-filled screams echo in his head. Eskel clutches his chest, fingers digging in and all the air in his lungs leaving him. Pain ricochets up his legs as his knees collide with the stone floor. His vision blurs then goes completely dark. This time, it doesn’t return. His hearing goes, too, his surroundings fading into nothing. All of his senses go one by one.

None of them return, leaving with naught but the agony in his chest. With nothing tethering him to the world around him, Eskel sinks into unconsciousness.

__________

Lambert thinks the world stops. No, he knows it stops. The minute Eskel drops to the floor unresponsive is the minute Lambert’s world crumbles down around him. He can’t figure out for the life of him what caused Eskel to drop like that. All he can recall is Eskel clutching at his chest, breaths shallow and ragged. Then, he dropped like a bag of rocks to the ground, and that’s when Lambert heard it. 

His heart. It’s barely beating. He hears it beat once, then one second passes. Two seconds, three, four, five, six. Lambert feels his own heart leap to his throat. Why isn’t Eskel’s heart beating? 

“Eskel?” Geralt whispers, voice breaking on that one word. A total of eight seconds pass, and when the witchers realize that Eskel’s heart isn’t going to beat, Geralt leaps forward, throwing himself on his knees next to Eskel’s motionless body. He places two fingers to the space below Eskel’s jaw, right on his neck. Geralt’s breath hitches.

“His heart’s barely beating.”

Lambert’s eyes chest tightens, and his eyes flicker to Vesemir. The old wolf has not moved an inch. Wide eyes stare at Eskel, breaths stuttering and a new, heightened scent radiating from Vesemir. Lambert reaches out a hand, hearing the elevated heartbeat coming from Vesemir, a sharp contrast to Eskel’s almost nonexistent one. Right now, Vesemir shares too many qualities with Lambert. It all starts to click in Lambert’s mind.

Vesemir is afraid.

Lambert feels his hands start to tremble. Vesemir is never afraid. The last time he had seen the old wolf feel fear was...Lambert doesn’t even want to think about that time. It’s a day Lambert would rather leave buried in the past. The sacking, the deaths, the screams, the smell of blood...Vesemir’s fear as he herded every boy he hoped he could save out of the castle, only to watch them be slaughtered by the fanatics. Lambert barely escaped with his life that day, and all he could smell for weeks after was Vesemir’s fear at random loud noises or anything that seemed slightly out of place. Vesemir is not easily frightened, which makes this whole scene that much more daunting. Lambert feels tears well up in his eyes. 

What if the last thing he did before his brother died was ignore him and let him feel the weight of his anger?

Vesemir doesn’t scare easily, but he is terrified now. He’s scared for Eskel, of Eskel...Lambert doesn’t know. All he’s fully conscious of is that Eskel is on the floor, heartbeat barely there, and Vesemir is terrified. Because of this, Lambert realizes that he should be a thousand times more afraid than he is now. This isn’t a nightmare, this isn’t a what-if scenario. Eskel really is lying on the floor, dying, maybe even dead already, and Lambert has no idea what to do.

“Shit. What the fuck?” Geralt’s hands over Eskel, turning the catatonic witcher onto his back. “Oh, gods, fuck, it stopped. Vesemir!”

Lambert’s eyes don’t leave their mentor, even as his heart seizes at Geralt’s words. Vesemir stares down at Eskel - his eldest pup - sprawled out on the floor. Eskel looks pale, even paler than usual, his heart stalled to a complete halt. Lambert takes note of the shaking hands, the trembling breaths, the sweat beading at Vesemir’s forehead. Lambert knows what this is, all too familiar with the signs in himself.

“Vesemir!” Geralt begs, eyes wide and pleading. “Vesemir! Help me, please!”

The only movement Vesemir makes is when his knees buckle underneath him. Lambert lurches forward, hands grabbing at his mentor before the old wolf could hit the stone like Eskel did. He sets Vesemir on the ground gently, kneeling in front of him and blocking Vesemir’s view of Eskel.

“Fuck, okay,” Lambert murmurs, voice wavering. “Shit, c’mon, old man. Not now.”

“Lambert, what the fuck-?”

“Not now, Geralt! Figure Eskel out yourself!” Lambert hardly feels any remorse for snapping at his older brother right now. Geralt had been yelling at Eskel, hadn’t noticed Eskel suffering right in front of him. Lambert remembers the words Geralt said. He heard Geralt say he hated Eskel. Lambert may have directed his anger at Eskel, but never had he said that he hated his brother.

Instead, Lambert focuses on Vesemir, placing his hands on either side of the old wolf’s face. He forces Vesemir to look at him, trying to redirect his focus on anything but the thought of Eskel’s still form.

“Hey, stay with me, old man,” Lambert urges. “You can’t go blanking out on me now. We need you. I need you. Fuck, Eskel needs you. Come back to us.”

Behind him, Lambert hears Geralt swear violently. Thumping sounds greet his ears, and Lambert tries his hardest not to flinch at the realization of Geralt doing compressions to resuscitate their brother. It really isn’t just Eskel’s body laying behind him but his corpse. Lambert shakes that thought away, aiming his attention at Vesemir’s glassed-over eyes.

Vesemir draws in an unsteady breath. “L-Lambert...I...I…”

“It’s me, old wolf,” Lambert soothes, keeping his voice low and soft, “it’s me. Hey, no. Don’t close your eyes!” Lambert gently taps Vesemir’s cheeks, snapping the eldest witcher awake from where he nearly drifted off into his own state of unconsciousness. “Please, don’t close your eyes. I’m here, alright? Focus on me. Focus on the sound of my voice.”

Lambert, for all his bravado, isn’t calm. His hands tremble, and he knows Vesemir can smell his fear, sense his anxiety. He knows he isn’t helping Vesemir in the slightest like this, but what else can he do? He can hear Geralt doing compressions on Eskel’s unresponsive body, and he can’t be faulted for cracking under that kind of stress. 

He wracks his brain, thinking back on his own panic attacks. Vesemir used to help him through them. It’s been a while, but Lambert remembers the techniques his mentor used. Hopefully, they’ll be equally as effective in return.

“Vesemir, listen to me. Listen. You’re safe. You’re in Kaer Morhen, with me, with Geralt, with…” Lambert trails off. He doesn’t dare mention Eskel’s name, lest that makes things even worse. 

“I’m here,” he finishes instead. “Focus on me. Remember what you used to do when I panicked? You’d recite passages out of Brother Adalbert’s bestiary. That’s how well you know them. You know them like the back of your hand, just like we know them by heart now, too. Tell me what you do when you hunt a forktail, old man.”

Vesemir quivers beneath Lambert’s grasp. “A-As for f-f-forktails, bait them thusly…”

Lambert nods encouragingly. “Keep going.”

“...p-pound a stake in the soil, bind a g-goat to it…”

“You’re doing well, old man,” Lambert coaches, rubbing a hand up and down Vesemir’s bicep. “I’m still here. What’s next?”

“Then hide ye in nearto shrubbery posthaste.” Vesemir’s voice gradually grows stronger, breathing evening out as he starts to focus on something familiar. 

Lambert murmurs, starting to tune out of Vesemir’s memorized ramblings, and focuses on Geralt behind him. Geralt is talking, saying something, but it doesn’t take long for Lambert to realize that Geralt isn’t talking to him.

“No, no, no. Come on, brother. Come back to me. You don’t get to fucking die on me. Don’t you dare.”

No response comes, and Lambert hears Geralt draw in a shuddering breath. Geralt is panicking. They’re all fucking panicking. Eskel doesn’t ignore them when they’re stressed or hurt or worried or afraid. Eskel is always there in an instant, gathering them into a soft, warm embrace. There’s always an easy smile, gently whispered words as he shushes them. Sometimes, he’ll even crack stupid jokes to get them to laugh, and they do, though it’s more out of how ridiculous the joke is than it being humorous. 

Now, Eskel says nothing. He doesn’t twitch, doesn’t move at all to hold Geralt and tell him it’s alright. It feels like a sick prank, but Lambert knows it isn’t. Eskel isn’t cruel. He wouldn’t prank them like this. Even if he was, the heartbeat, the breathing...it’s damn near impossible to fake. This is real, and that makes it so much more terrifying.

Lambert breaks out of his musings at the sound of a loud crack. A choked gasp comes from Geralt, and Lambert thinks he stops breathing, too. Lambert whirls around to see Geralt lifting his hands away from Eskel like he’d been burned, eyes wide and horrified as he stares at Eskel’s chest. Lambert swallows thickly. 

Eskel’s ribs broke under the pressure.

The sound launches Vesemir into action. Before Lambert can blink, the old wolf is past him and continuing compressions on Eskel. Lambert loses track of how many times he presses down on Eskel’s chest, but then Vesemir is dipping his head down, tilting Eskel’s chin up and breathing into Eskel’s mouth. It’s only then that the reality of the situation crashes down on Lambert, and he falls from his crouch to flat on his ass. 

Lambert stares at Vesemir, distantly taking stock of the scene in front of him. Geralt trembles, watching with an expression that likely mirrors Lambert’s. Vesemir pushes down on Eskel’s chest in a certain rhythm, administering two breaths after every set. It feels like hours, but really, it’s only been two or three minutes since Eskel collapsed. 

A low thump echoes in the room. Vesemir freezes. They all stare at Eskel’s body, impatiently waiting. After five seconds, another thump sounds.

Thump-thump...thump-thump...thump-thump.

Lambert lets out a low, shaky breath, burying his head into his knees and lacing his hands behind his neck. Eskel’s heartbeat fills their ears. Lambert suddenly doesn’t know what to do anymore. So he doesn’t do much of anything at all.

He sits and he cries.

Chapter Text

The world outside the keep is quiet. Almost peaceful. The leaves remain perfectly still in the frosty morning air, the birds twitter happily in the distance as the sun filters through the blanket of grey clouds, bathing the keep in a brief spell of warmth and light. It’s almost like the events of the previous evening, which had rattled Geralt’s very existence and had thrown the universe off its axis, have left the outside world completely unchanged. Like Eskel’s near-death experience doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Even though he’s lying in his bed - unconscious, his heart barely up to a witcher’s standard, and his breathing shallow - life outside the keep goes on . Geralt can’t wrap his head around that fact, not when for a moment it felt like his entire world collapsed around him.

Eskel almost died yesterday. 

The thought sends a shiver coursing through Geralt’s body. He’s not left his brother’s bedside since they carried Eskel up here after Geralt managed to kickstart his heart again. Eskel was dead for a whole minute, maybe more. Geralt didn’t have a clue how to react, and when Vesemir collapsed on them, he had to improvise. The minute Eskel’s heart stopped, Geralt’s adrenaline-fuelled instincts took over. He vividly remembers the sound of Eskel’s ribs snapping as Geralt used his whole body weight to press down on his brother’s chest. Geralt flinches at the memory. Witchers aren’t known for their gentleness, but Geralt should’ve known that Eskel couldn’t handle that kind of pressure with how much weight he lost. 

Thankfully, Vesemir took over at that point. It makes sense - the old wolf has experience reviving young boys whose hearts would give out during the Trials. Vesemir knew not to apply too much pressure, Vesemir knew what pace to adopt, knew to administer the rescue breath after exactly thirty compressions. Geralt could only stare and watch as Vesemir did a much better job at saving Eskel’s life than Geralt did. He couldn’t even save his best friend, his brother . Eskel almost died and all Geralt was able to do was make matters even worse for him by breaking his ribs. They decided not to feed Eskel any Swallow. Vesemir said that his heart might not cope with the potion. So Geralt felt that the least he could do was to watch over Eskel while he slept, waiting for his bones to set naturally. Vesemir told him that the mutations would still do their job, but less efficiently. 

And now, all they can do is wait for Eskel to recover naturally from… whatever this is. And until he wakes, Geralt will dutifully sit at his brother’s bedside, because it’s the least he can fucking do for him. 

Especially after the horrible things Geralt said to him just before Eskel collapsed… 

Eskel doesn’t move much, which only serves to remind Geralt that this is no ordinary sleep. This isn’t Eskel recuperating physically, this isn’t him peacefully enjoying a lie in, even though the sun has long since reached its zenith. No, this isn’t an ordinary sleep. This is closer to a coma, even though Geralt tries not to linger on that thought. He can’t tear his eyes off Eskel’s body. He looks so… small . In all the years Geralt and Eskel have known each other, Eskel has always been bigger than Geralt. The trials and the mutations made it so that Geralt and Eskel are now of a height, but Geralt was never able to match Eskel’s bulk. Now? Geralt would have no problem snapping Eskel in half. It’s an unsettling realisation, to match the even more unsettling sight of protruding bones, unnatural paleness and dark rings around sunken eyes. 

Eskel may be breathing, but he looks like a corpse. 

Geralt refuses to leave Eskel’s room to join Vesemir and Lambert for either breakfast, lunch, or dinner. The irony of the situation is not lost on him, but he doesn’t think he can keep any food down with how knotted his stomach is. Seeing Eskel like this - like he’s got one foot in the grave already - is more upsetting to Geralt than he cares to admit. This is too close to the memory of Eskel post-trial, a memory which Geralt has been trying to forget for the best part of a century now. Even back then, he refused to leave his friend’s side. Geralt remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers the older witchers allowing him to stay at Eskel’s side, if only because they knew from experience that there was no point in dragging Geralt out of the room kicking and screaming. No amount of punishment - physical and otherwise - could keep him away for too long. They would have had to beat Geralt to a pulp, and break his legs and his arms to stop him from crawling back. 

Eskel looked like a corpse back then, too. 

Geralt not showing up for his meals doesn’t mean Lambert and Vesemir aren’t on his case. Geralt would not have bothered with food if Lambert didn’t snap, telling Geralt that the last thing they need is another underfed and comatose witcher. So Geralt diligently picks at his breakfast when Lambert brings it to him in the morning, and he half-heartedly shoves a half-cooked potato in his mouth for lunch, chewing on it long enough to give himself the illusion of having had a full meal. Time is meaningless, the hours flitting by too quickly for Geralt to keep up. Soon the sun is setting behind the mountains and the door to Eskel’s bedroom opens. Vesemir steps in, holding a tray in his hands. 

“How is he?” comes the question without any sort of preamble, but Geralt appreciates the old wolf’s decision to forgo idle prattle. 

“Stable.”

“And how are you?” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He doesn’t react when Vesemir places the tray on Eskel’s desk and presses a bowl of watery stew into Geralt’s unresponsive hands. A sternly quipped eat resonates in the air between them, an order Geralt doesn’t have the strength to fight. He idly brings a spoonful to his mouth and hears his stomach growl loudly in appreciation. Fuck, how could Eskel let that happen to himself? How could his brother have ignored the most basic of human needs and refused to satisfy his hunger? Fuck, Geralt felt hungry just after one day of not eating his fill. 

“How’s Lambert?”

“Hard to say. I haven’t seen him since he left this morning.” Vesemir shuffles over to Eskel’s other side and brings a waterskin to his mouth. Geralt watches as the old wolf cups the back of Eskel’s head and gently tilts it forward before pouring a little water between his parted lips. Vesemir encourages Eskel to swallow, despite his unconscious state, by massaging his throat with three fingers. “Though my guess is he’s taking out his frustration on the warg packs in the valley.”

“It’s freezing out,” Geralt remarks, almost conversationally, like that changes anything, “shouldn’t we go looking for him?”

“Lambert can be reckless, but he’s not stupid. He’ll come back. He just needs… time.”

Don’t they all? Geralt can’t explain the sudden anger rising in him and aimed at the younger wolf. Geralt silently watches Vesemir feed Eskel more water. Some of it spills out of Eskel’s mouth and dribbles down his chin. Vesemir seems so calm and composed as he tends to Eskel, as if  he didn’t lose all control over his own emotions last night when faced with the prospect of Eskel never waking up again. Geralt isn’t judging - hell, he came really close to a panic attack himself - he’s just… concerned. 

“How are you , Ves?” Geralt finds himself asking, his eyes leaving Eskel’s body for the first time in hours. Vesemir doesn’t meet his gaze, though. 

“I’m not the one you need to worry about right now, Geralt.”

Geralt wants to fight Vesemir on this. The old man doesn’t have to be strong for them all the time, no matter how much he keeps telling himself that. Geralt wishes he was better at expressing himself, because then he might tell Vesemir all the things he never got to say over the many years they’ve known each other. Like how grateful Geralt is for everything Vesemir does for them, and how he appreciates that Vesemir is looking after Eskel when Geralt is clearly at a loss for what to do. Geralt might even open up to Vesemir about his own worry that Eskel will never wake up again, or if he does, that he’ll never be the same Eskel Geralt used to know. 

Jaskier always says that a problem shared is a problem halved, but Jaskier jabbers incessantly over some problem or other all day, every day. He’s a lot more practiced in the art of oversharing than Geralt could ever hope to be.

Geralt isn’t good with words, so he leaves it be. No point in making matters worse for Vesemir and himself. A tense silence stretches between them as Vesemir works around Eskel - readjusting his head comfortably on the pillows, tucking the blankets snugly around Eskel’s far too thin body, brushing a rebel strand of hair that fell into Eskel’s eyes as he was jostled about, wiping the water that trickled out of his mouth from Eskel’s chin. Geralt doesn’t even have the strength to hold Eskel’s hand, but Vesemir fusses and worries like any of this matters. If anything, he’s making Eskel look more and more like a body being prepped for the funeral pyre. 

Geralt looks away then, blinking back the tears. He won’t cry. He refuses to cry. 

“I hope you get back on your feet soon, my boy,” Vesemir whispers, and Geralt knows these words aren’t meant for him. Fuck, Vesemir might have completely forgotten that Geralt is here. Out of the corner of his eyes, the latter notices that the old wolf has lowered himself into a chair and is now holding Eskel’s hand tightly. Geralt worries that Vesemir might snap bones if he keeps squeezing. 

“You gave us such a fright,” Vesemir carries on, his voice uncharacteristically soft like it hasn’t been in years, “you gave me the fright of my life. I can’t remember the last time I spiralled out of control like that. Trust you to be the reason for that, boy.”

Geralt wonders if he should leave the room, but the more he thinks about it, the more he refuses to entertain that idea. He doesn’t want to leave. As morbid as it may sound, he wants to be there both if Eskel wakes or if he draws his last breath, because Geralt made his brother a promise a long time ago. He promised Eskel to stand by him until the end. If Eskel died on the Path before Geralt did, Geralt vowed to go find Eskel’s medallion and offer him a proper burial. Eskel promised Geralt the same thing. They were so damn convinced that dying on the Path was their destiny that neither of them ever considered they might meet their end any other way. 

Geralt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now other than watch the slow rise and fall of Eskel’s chest, but he’s nothing if not a man of his word. 

“Eskel, please, pup. You can’t leave now, you can’t.” There’s an unfamiliar edge to Vesemir’s tone, one that Geralt finds truly disconcerting coming from his mentor and father figure. “I won’t allow it, do you hear me? This isn’t the way of things. I have lost too many, I won’t lose anymore. If anyone is to leave this world next, it’s me . I’ve lived a long and full life. I have buried friends, lovers, enemies and children… too many children. I won’t bury any of my sons, so get that idea out of your head. Right now, you stubborn pup…”

Geralt keeps his eyes off the scene, but he smells the saltiness in the air. He doesn’t mention it, because what exactly was he supposed to say? What could he possibly say that would make this entire situation better? Even if Geralt was suddenly gifted with Jaskier’s proclivity for the spoken word, Geralt knows that nothing could console Vesemir in this very moment. The man has lost too much already. 

“Let me know the second anything changes,” Vesemir suddenly tells Geralt as he discreetly wipes his suspiciously wet cheeks with the back of his sleeve, “the second, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word, Vesemir leaves the room. Geralt thinks he should say something, but before he can think of the words, Vesemir is gone. 

__________

Geralt must have fallen asleep in his chair at some point during the evening, slumped awkwardly in his seat and body twisted in an impossible position. Geralt notices that someone has taken the time to throw a blanket over him to keep him warm. He also hears a third heartbeat in the room which wasn’t there when he fell asleep. Geralt keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even so as to not startle Lambert into leaving. Geralt knows just how convoluted Lambert’s feelings for Eskel have been in the past couple of days. The youngest wolf probably needs this time to reflect, to gaze upon his brother’s unresponsive body and decide for himself whether his hostility towards Eskel was justified. 

“You stupid son of a bitch,” Lambert finally breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. Any lesser man would’ve missed it over the spitting and crackling of the fire. “You dense, dull-witted, brainless half-wit, thick as two short planks, you hare-brained troll…”

Geralt has two minds to tell Lambert to get to the point already, but insults have always come easier to the youngest wolf than compliments. It’s Lambert’s own quirky way of channeling all the anger in him, anger at the world and at the shitty hand Destiny dealt him. Lambert needs to have this conversation, the conversation he was too proud to have in person when Eskel was still conscious. Geralt doesn’t need to add to the guilt that he’s sure Lambert is already feeling. The guilt that they collectively share at this point. 

“Why would you do this to yourself, you moron? Why…” Lambert trails off and heaves a long-suffering sigh. Geralt doesn’t need to look at him to know that Lambert’s hands are shaking with the effort of keeping it together. “Vesemir… he thinks that you’re punishing yourself. That you think it’ll make you a better witcher. I don’t fucking get it, Esk. You’re already a good witcher. You’re the best fucking witcher I’ve ever known.” 

Another deep-rooted sigh. Another choked, shaky inhale as Lambert tries to bite back the flow of emotions threatening to spill past his lips. Geralt hears the younger wolf swallow thickly past all the pain, anger, and confusion coating the inside of his throat in a thick, cloggy layer. 

“You know, when I first got here… I was so fucking impressed by your skill. I saw you use your signs and I thought to myself, that’s the kind of witcher I want to be. Powerful, ruthless, strong. And then I got to know you, and I realised that there’s more to you than just raw power and impeccable fighting skills. When you came back from the Path, you always brought back treats for the recruits. You thought nothing of it, did you? To you, it was just a couple of crowns spent on boxes of cut-price honeycomb, but to us? It meant the fucking world, because… because it was the only kindness we were ever shown.” 

Geralt remembers those times vividly. He also remembers Eskel being told off by approximately everyone for spoiling the recruits and wasting his coin on them. It was not like Eskel didn’t bring back his fair share of rations to last the winter - every last crown he owned went towards supplies for the keep’s pantry at the end of the season. Eskel was many things, but stingy was never one of them. Eskel didn’t give a shit when Barmin threatened to make him run the Killer every day for the rest of winter, or when Vesemir threatened to take away Eskel’s hot spring privileges. Hell, Eskel didn’t even listen to Geralt when his best friend told him not to get attached to these boys, because most of them wouldn’t live to see another Yule. Every year, without fail, Eskel brought back boxes of honeycomb to distribute among the recruits, and he softened the blow among the older witchers by offering them bottles of strong spirits in compensation. 

“Eskel, you were always a damn good witcher. And an even better man for it. What the fuck do you need to punish yourself for? It doesn’t make sense to me, it just doesn’t-” 

Lambert pauses long enough to steady his racing heart. Geralt decides that he’s done pretending, so he opens his eyes and takes in the scene before him. Lambert, sitting at the edge of his seat, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling between parted legs. His eyes are uncharacteristically red-rimmed, his cheeks suspiciously wet… If Lambert notices Geralt being awake and staring, he doesn’t mention it. 

“When you lost control that day, I… I was so mad. I really was. Because all I was trying to do was help you. I needed you to see that what you’re doing to yourself is wrong. I wanted you to snap out of it. And when you… after you aarded me across the room, I… fuck, Eskel, I didn’t mean to avoid you, alright? I just couldn’t be near you without thinking that you might lose control again, and I…”

Was scared . 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way I handled things, for not being… nicer about it, I guess. You know I don’t do nice , fuck! You can’t die on me now, you prick, not before I can apologise to you in person. Not before I know for sure that you’ve forgiven me for being the world’s shittiest brother. Not that I deserve your forgiveness, but… shit . You were the first person in this ramshackle keep who gave me the fucking time of day, who cared about me like a brother, even though you didn’t have to. And you’re the only one who puts up with my bullshit every winter with the patience of a fucking saint. You can’t die brother, because… I…”

I love you . 

Geralt wonders when he ever got this good at reading Lambert. At the end of his tirade, the younger wolf looks up and calmly meets Geralt’s gaze. There’s no surprise, no shame, no defiance in the gaze, just silent acceptance. In that moment, Geralt realises that Lambert knew he was awake all along. 

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Geralt offers as a simple explanation, expecting Lambert to lash out at any given moment now, “I’m sorry.”

“I wanted you to hear it.” 

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at those words. He straightens himself in his seat, grimacing when the action pulls at his tense muscles and creaking bones. 

“Why?” 

“In case he doesn’t wake up.” Lambert’s tone is artificially apathetic, like he’s trying to hide the whirlwind of emotion raging in his mind as he speaks. “So someone else knows that I’m not a heartless dick.” 

Geralt thinks he needs to offer words of comfort, words of reassurance, and he curses his inability to verbally express what he feels when he hears Lambert speak those words. In case he doesn’t wake up . There’s that rage again, that inexplicable rage Geralt couldn’t quite place earlier. He realises that his rage is not directed at Lambert. 

“I know you’re softer than you let on, little wolf.”

“Kiss my ass,” Lambert snipes back, but without the familiar heat he usually musters. Lambert looks so defeated, so vulnerable, so small . Geralt hates it. He hates seeing his usually fiery brother so helplessly miserable. When Lambert speaks up again, it’s in a teary voice. “You think he’ll be alright?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt refuses to make empty promises. He refuses to wrap Lambert up in cotton wool. It will only make it worse on Lambert if it turns out that Eskel won’t… 

“I need you to be alright, Esk. We need you to be alright. You know I had to coach the old wolf through a panic attack? The things you make me do, brother.”

Geralt ponders on these few words. We need you to be alright . He wonders, albeit briefly, if he will be able to move on from Eskel’s death. Losing Eskel would feel like losing a limb, but Geralt’s seen his fair share of war and conflict, and he’s seen the destruction they leave behind. Geralt’s met people with only one leg, and people who had lost an eye, or two arms, or a spouse, or a child… and they lived on tenaciously, because that’s what humans do. They survive, they adapt, they persevere. Yet Geralt doesn’t think he can muster that strength himself. He needs Eskel. Losing him might just break Geralt. Losing Eskel will leave Geralt feeling like he’s lost a leg, or a lung, or his very own heart. 

That’s when the realisation hits him like a brick wall. The simmering rage he’s been keeping at bay this whole time is aimed at Eskel , of all people. 

Geralt needs Eskel. Sometimes he wishes that he didn't need Eskel so much, but he does. Eskel knows just how much Geralt needs him. How can he not? Eskel is the first person Geralt goes to when anything goes wrong in his life. Always has been. Eskel was the first boy who spoke to Geralt when he first arrived at Kaer Morhen, showing him around the castle, telling him all the dos and don'ts, sharing a cot with him the first few weeks until Geralt got used to this strange, new environment. Eskel was there after Geralt’s first Trials, waiting for him to wake up, reading to him while Geralt was recovering, wiping away the tears and holding his newly white hair back when Geralt was throwing up. Eskel was also there during Geralt’s second Trials, because Geralt stipulated that if he was to go through additional mutations, then he wanted his best friend by his side. Eskel was there after Blaviken, keeping Geralt company after a vivid nightmare, asking questions about Renfri and telling Geralt that sometimes there is no greater or lesser evil, but just plain evil . 

Eskel was always there when it mattered the most, and now Geralt is terrified, because he never had to think about Eskel not being there. This is the first time Geralt came close to actually losing Eskel. He would be lost without him, to the point where he would rather die before his best friend. Eskel has always been Geralt's solid foundation. He's been there for every bad moment, every good one. They are two drops of water. They are each other's black and white, each other's half. Without Eskel, there's something missing, and Geralt can't handle losing a part of himself, not after Blaviken, not after everything they've been through. Geralt knows Eskel will die one day, but he won’t stand by and watch Eskel kill himself.

It makes him mad that Eskel doesn’t see how important he is to everyone around him, the thick-skulled bastard , but maybe it isn’t entirely Eskel’s fault. Maybe some of Geralt’s anger is also directed at himself for never being able to find the words to express just how much he values Eskel’s very existence. Geralt blinks back the tears threatening to well up in his eyes when a cruel, nagging voice in his head reminds him that if Eskel dies tonight, the last thing he’ll remember is Geralt professing his hatred for him. 

Geralt doesn’t sleep a wink that night. 

__________

“I wish you were awake to see this, Esk,” Geralt whispers, his voice raspy from disuse, “Lambert and Vesemir coming in here, telling you how much they love you.”

The moon, occasionally obscured by clouds heavy with the promise of fresh snow, hung high in the inky sky. In the distance, Geralt can hear the howling of wolves roaming Morhen Valley. If he strains his ears, he can hear Vesemir and Lambert bickering over a game of Gwent in the dining hall. Like Eskel isn’t lying in this room, fighting for his life. Geralt has two minds to go downstairs and tell his mentor and younger brother to get their heads out of their asses. 

That, of course, would mean leaving Eskel’s side. Geralt isn’t willing to do that. He’ll stay by Eskel until the end. 

“We never got to hear that enough, did we? We’re witchers, after all. We don’t get to feel things, we shouldn’t even be able to feel things. Fucking mages promised to strip us of our emotions, and yet… Vesemir cried at your bedside. Cried , Eskel. Lambert apologised . I don’t know which is more eye-boggling, to be honest. You mean so much to them. But let me tell you, brother, I am not part of this. You're not getting a tearful bedside speech from me, because I'm mad at you.”

Geralt lets said anger consume, feels it course hotly through his veins. Geralt feels like punching something. He wants to scream. Strangely, he also feels this undeniable urge to burst into tears, though he refrains from doing so, because he’s a man of his word. Eskel won’t get a teary bedside speech from Geralt, not until Geralt has spoken his mind. 

“You almost died , Eskel. You can't just die on me because you refuse to let us help you. And you can’t just collapse on me in the middle of an argument, alright? That’s not how it fucking works! I know you like to have the last word, but this is dramatic, even for you. It's not fair!”

Eskel doesn’t move. He doesn’t even twitch. Geralt exhales a tired sigh at the sight of his brother, sleeping like he’s just resting and not recovering from heart failure. Geralt’s eyes flutter shut once again, and he lets his senses hone in on Eskel’s beating heart. Thump, thump… thump, thump… thump, thump… Geralt can hear the steady beating of Eskel’s heart, loud and clear. Memories of last night’s fight return with a force, knocking the air out of Geralt’s lungs.

We have begged you to get better…

You’ve done nothing to fix it…

I fucking can’t stand you like this…

I hate you…

“I know I said some pretty unfair things to you.” Geralt pauses, and roughly wipes the tears trailing down his cheeks. Despite his promise that Eskel isn't getting a tearful bedside speech from him, Geralt can’t bite back the tears any longer. He doesn’t want last night’s conversation to be the last thing Eskel remembers. “For some reason, when you lost consciousness, I remembered the first year you and I set out on the Path. Do you remember?”

Geralt remembers it like it was yesterday. He remembers feeling scared, wondering if he would ever come back to Kaer Morhen the following winter, or if he would be just another statistic, just another disappointment. The mages and instructors had high hopes that Geralt, with his additional mutations, would make it back safe and sound. That didn’t lessen his fear of dying, though, nor his fear of his friends not coming back. 

More precisely, his fear of Eskel not coming back.

“You didn't even say goodbye to me. I woke up, went to find you, and Vesemir told me that you left early in the morning before anyone was awake. I was so fucking hurt. I thought you were a coward and a fucking prick for just up and leaving. Not even a goodbye. Not even a note. I never brought it up because life goes on. I thought I didn’t need your support. But I was leaving for the Path, I was eighteen and scared, and you weren't there for me.”

Even after a century, the memory of not being able to hug Eskel goodbye that year still stung. Geralt bites his lip to stem the flow of fresh tears threatening to spill from his eyes, the pain a momentary distraction from the emotional turmoil in his mind. 

“Thank Melitele Vesemir was there, because you weren't. But guess what, I made it without your support. I came back the next winter, and so did you. And we fell in each other’s arms and didn’t mention it. I sucked it up, because that’s what was expected of us. And every single year after that, you left without a goodbye. Well Eskel, rest assured, because I didn't need your support then, and I probably don't need it now either.”

Even as Geralt speaks those words, he knows it’s a lie. He needs Eskel. Fuck, Geralt forgave his brother a long time ago. How could he not, when Eskel is the single most important person in his life? Geralt cries harder, a strangled sob pushing past his lips.

“Eskel, please, wake up and argue with me!” Geralt swallows past the lump in his throat and wills his hands to stop shaking. His vision is mostly blurred now from all the tears that Geralt is unable to blink back. His anger slowly makes room for his overwhelming sadness. This isn’t a teary bedside speech; this is the desperate plea of a drowning man holding onto his last lifeline. “Please, Eskel. I’m not ready yet. Not yet. I finally understand why you never said goodbye to me that first year we set out on the Path. You were scared I wasn’t coming back, weren’t you? You were scared that this would be our last goodbye, but you were also too damn proud to say anything. Guess what, dumbass, I was fucking terrified too.”

Geralt slides off his seat until he’s kneeling on the floor by Eskel’s bed. His trembling hands gently cradle Eskel’s unnaturally cold ones, like any kind of pressure will be what breaks Eskel for good. In a rare moment of affection, Geralt brings Eskel’s hand to his face and presses his lips to Eskel’s knuckles. 

“I forgive you, Eskel. I forgive you, brother. The tables have turned, because now I’m the one who’s scared shitless. I won’t say goodbye, not a chance, but I’ll say this. You did a great job at being my older brother for so long. And because of that we’re gonna be okay. I love you, brother. But if you need to go, I’ll forgive you for that too.”

The sound of his wretched sobs fills Eskel’s room again, and Geralt fails to notice Lambert sneaking into the room and kneeling beside Geralt until he feels a warm hand rest on his back and rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Geralt slumps against Lambert, but he doesn’t let go of Eskel’s hand, now wet with Geralt’s tears. 

“I gotcha, wolf. He’s strong. He’ll pull through.” 

“We don’t know that,” Geralt rasps, his voice too close to a wail for comfort. Lambert doesn’t mock him, though. There’s no biting remark, no sarcastic comment. Geralt thinks he feels something hot and wet hit the crown of his head, but he doesn’t mention that either. 

“He’ll pull through,” Lambert reiterates more firmly this time, “that’s what I choose to believe.” 

When Geralt has calmed down, Lambert helps him onto his feet, but rather than follow his younger brother out of the room, Geralt decides to slip under the covers with Eskel. Lambert opens his mouth to protest, but Geralt is quick to silence him with a raised hand and a pleading look. 

“Please. I… I need this. Join us? He’s freezing. It’ll keep him warm.” 

It doesn’t take much to convince Lambert. When Vesemir checks on them several hours later, he finds his three sons cuddled in bed together, Geralt and Lambert flanking Eskel protectively. They look so peaceful like this, without a care in the world… and as Vesemir goes to stoke the fire in the hearth, he almost convinces himself that everything is fine. Even as he throws another blanket over the three slumbering pups, Vesemir beholds the sight of his sons one last time, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Eskel will live. His oldest surviving pup has always been too headstrong for his own good. Death will just have to wait.   

Chapter Text

Eskel barely feels his limbs. He floats in a space between consciousness and oblivion, never quite falling into the embrace of slumber. He knows this area too well, cognizant of his surroundings and unable to interact. He senses the presence of people around him, and he wants to reach out to tell them that he can hear them, but his mouth refuses to open, and his limbs feel heavier than the steel sword he carries.

Sitting in this space terrifies him. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t eat or drink by himself. He feels Vesemir coax water down his throat - sometimes broth - and he wants to rebel against the intrusion. His stomach weighs down at the offer of food, and Eskel hates the sensation. The worst part, though, isn’t the food. Surprisingly, Eskel fears that less than he fears the words echoing in his head.

Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt.

He hears them all. Every spoken word, every heart-wrenching sob, every whispered plea...they settle deep in his core. Eskel has never heard Vesemir beg, has never heard Lambert admit to his admiration. Vesemir always keeps strong. He remains sturdy for his pups, a constant, unmovable rock in their tumultuous lives. But this time, because of Eskel, Vesemir cried. Eskel managed to frighten the oldest witcher alive, the one who has seen and been through more than any of them could ever imagine. It’s not an achievement Eskel is proud of. Even still…

“I won’t bury any of my sons, so get that idea out of your head.”

Lambert, too. His brother hates him, so why does he insist on thanking him and complimenting him? Sure, Eskel can agree with the insults Lambert launched at him in the beginning, but the rest of it? How could Eskel possibly be the best witcher Lambert has ever known when Lambert knows better ones like Geralt and Aiden? To hear Lambert apologize, to hear him beg for forgiveness on something Eskel never blamed him for? 

“Not before I know for sure that you’ve forgiven me for being the world’s shittiest brother.”

It’s incomprehensible. Eskel never thought that. Not once has he ever believed Lambert to be the worst brother in the world. No, Eskel himself holds that spot, and Geralt made sure he knew it. Geralt hates him. Geralt knows Eskel for what he truly is, and, really, after so long, how could Eskel have possibly hoped for anything different?

“I wish you were awake to see this, Esk.”

Geralt speaks softly to him, and Eskel knows his brother hasn’t left his bedside unless the others forced him to. It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t add up, but here they are, just as they’ve always been.

Eskel lets every angry word sink in. He hears Geralt rage at him, and even if he could fight back, he wouldn’t. He’s so tired, and in a way, he understands why Geralt yelled. Geralt knows how far Eskel has fallen, but at the same time, he doesn’t because he swears he’s not going to cry over Eskel, and to be fair, he doesn’t. No, he breaks down at Eskel’s side, something so much worse than simple tears. He hears Geralt’s knees hit the floor. Every instinct in Eskel screams at him to pick Geralt up, to hold him close, to whisper, “It’s alright, brother. I’m here. You’re forgiven. You always have been. There’s nothing to forgive.”

If anyone ever bothered to ask, Eskel wouldn’t be able to pick out a part of Geralt’s speech that got him the most. There were too many things that Eskel wishes he could have responded to like how Geralt even deigned to speak that much in spite of his preference for hums and grunts. To hear Geralt say that Eskel was forgiven, that it was okay to let go, that Eskel has done his part, that Geralt loves him…

He needs to wake up. He’s not done here. Not yet. 

I’m coming back to you, brother. I’m not leaving without saying goodbye, not this time.

__________

For as heightened as his senses are, there is only so much Eskel can see without opening his eyes. The air around him envelops him in a warmth his body can no longer maintain on its own. His ears pick up the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, and Eskel lets out a soft sigh. It’s a gentle thing, a soft exhale almost drowned out by the wind howling at the keep. He can smell the scent of salt in the air. Tears.

Eskel cracks open his eyes, groaning quietly. His ribs ache to the high heavens, but he pushes that aside. The room isn’t as bright as he expected, all the candles doused except for the fire raging to the right of him. On his left, he feels a long line of warmth against his side. Someone has their arm thrown around his waist, holding him close. Eskel turns his head to the side lazily, eyes focusing on the person currently sobbing into his shoulder.

He’s greeted with the sight of white hair. White, not grey like Vesemir’s. Eskel’s heart clenches at the sound of Geralt’s broken cries, soft whimpers as he clearly tries to keep quiet. Eskel raises the hand that Geralt doesn’t have pinned against Eskel’s side and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Geralt freezes immediately, sobs stopping as he holds his breath.

“‘s…’s ‘kay,” Eskel murmurs, dragging his fingers through the white strands. He knows his hand is heavy, but he doesn’t have the strength to keep his weight off. “‘m here. ‘m ‘kay.”

Geralt picks his head up, eyes wide and watery. He stares at Eskel like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. Eskel offers a small smile, but judging by the way Geralt’s face falls, Eskel imagines it wasn’t as comforting as he’d hoped.

“Eskel…” Geralt whispers, hand coming up slowly to cup Eskel’s jaw.

“‘s a’right, Ger,” Eskel soothes, words slurring as he attempts to combat his exhaustion. “Y’re okay.”

At that, Geralt’s face goes from disbelieving to livid. His eyebrows draw in, meeting in the middle, while his mouth contorts into a scowl. The hand resting on Eskel’s hip tightens, but it’s clear Geralt is minding his strength since the grip is just this side of painful.

“I’m... I’m okay?!” Geralt snaps, voice tinged with a growl. “Are you kidding me? You nearly died, Eskel! Nothing about that is okay!”

Eskel raises his hand again, gently patting Geralt’s head. His brother looks ready to claw him to pieces. “‘m alive. ‘s okay.”

“You’re alive? That’s such a low fucking bar, Eskel!” Geralt snarls, cracking on his words midway through. He turns away, scoffing quietly before turning back to Eskel. The tears are close to falling now, simmering at the edges and just waiting for the right blink to push them out. “I almost lost you. I could’ve...the last thing I would’ve said to you…”

Geralt falters. Eskel swallows thickly, more because of his parched throat than nervousness. He drops his hand to the back of Geralt’s neck and squeezes lightly. “You...you said sorry…”

For a moment, Geralt doesn’t say anything, simply staring at Eskel like he couldn’t quite comprehend what his brother said. Eventually, he bites the inside of his cheek, eyes widening as the realization dawns on him.

“You heard us?”

Eskel nods, wincing when he shifts on the bed. His ribs protest at the movement, and Geralt immediately reaches out a hand to stop him. Eskel bats away the hand weakly. His brother scowls, clearly upset, but he stays quiet and lets Eskel move into a more comfortable position. Eskel pushes himself up slowly, propping up against the pillows. His ribs twinge, and he pants from the exertion, but he’s keen on seeing this conversation through. He meets Geralt’s eyes, noting the barely disguised worry.

“I heard everything,” Eskel groans, voice raspy from dehydration. Geralt leans towards the nightstand, grabbing the mug of water that sat just out of Eskel’s reach. He hands it over, making sure Eskel’s hands are steady enough to hold it before letting go.

Eskel takes a tentative sip of the water, as if tasting the contents of the mug in case one of his brothers swapped his water for vodka. Or goat piss. Both had been popular pranks back in the day, when Kaer Morhen was the home of bored teenagers ready to try anything that might break the boredom and monotony of winter. Eskel doesn’t think Geralt would do that, would prank him at a time like this, but old habits die hard. Once Eskel swallows the first sip, he empties his mug in record time.

“Hey, slow down,” Geralt warns him. “Slow down, Kel. You’ve been out for over a day.”

The water sloshes uncomfortably in Eskel’s stomach, making him feel bloated and heavy. Vesemir had done well to keep him hydrated and had fed him some light broths, but none of it feels right. He still gets that heavy sensation in his gut, the one where it feels like the water weighs him down and pushes his fat over the waistband of his braies.

“I heard everything,” Eskel continues, ignoring Geralt’s statement and avoiding his own spiraling thoughts. He moves his hand to rest over his abdomen, sensing the light rumbling of the water in his stomach. “Ves, Lamb, you...I...I wanted to answer you, but...I couldn’t.”

Geralt reaches out a hand, resting it over the one on Eskel’s stomach and pulling it away. He squeezes slightly. “Hey,” he whispers, “you’re alright, Kel. You’re alright.”

Eskel almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation. Just minutes ago, Geralt had been yelling that everything isn’t alright, and now he’s saying that it is. It’s all so backwards and confusing. Eskel can’t keep up with it all, and his grip tightens on Geralt’s hand. His brother doesn’t even flinch, barely even registers that Eskel moved in the slightest.

“I just…” Eskel draws in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

His vision starts to blur a bit, and it takes a couple of seconds for him to realize it’s because of the tears cascading down his cheeks. He doesn’t know when they started to fall, especially since he barely recalls when they started to brim at the corner of his eyes. The fact of the matter is that he’s crying, and Geralt’s pushing closer to him, reeking of worry and a hint of fear.

“Eskel, brother,” he murmurs, nearly begging, “it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Eskel shakes his head, holding onto Geralt’s hand like he’s afraid his brother will let go. “I didn’t think it would get this far…”

The briefest flash of what seems like hope crosses over Geralt’s face. It disappears as soon as it comes, but Eskel catches it, even through the onslaught of tears. Geralt rubs his thumb over Eskel’s knuckles. “By ‘it,’ do you mean...losing weight?”

There’s an inflection in Geralt’s voice, a slightly higher pitched upturn to his tone that has Eskel’s heart clenching. Geralt sounds, for all intents and purposes, hopeful, and Eskel hates to be the one to diminish it. No, he always meant to lose weight. He meant to stop eating. He meant it all, and the fact that Geralt can’t see that Eskel did it for them…

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me.”

Geralt’s face crumbles, and Eskel has to turn away. He stares into the fire, unwilling to see how crushed Geralt looks and knowing he is the cause for it. It seems like he can’t do anything right nowadays. Every bad decision leads him to another mistake. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Eskel’s sure he’s not far from meeting Lilit in all Her wretched glory.

“If you heard what I said from before,” Geralt whispers after a moment of silence, “then you know I don’t hate you. I shouldn’t have...I never should have said that. I never should have lied to you like that.”

Eskel swallows thickly. His tears have slowed, and he doesn’t want them to flow again. “Was it a lie?” he asks, keeping his gaze averted. “Or did you mean it and just don’t want to come to terms with it?”

Calloused fingers press against the side of Eskel’s jaw, gently guiding him to look back at Geralt. Eskel’s breath stutters as he catches sight of the tears that have finally started to leak from Geralt’s eyes. Geralt smiles softly, but he looks so distraught that Eskel can’t gleam the slightest bit of comfort from it.

“I could never hate you.” Geralt licks his lips, gathering his thoughts before continuing, “I meant what I said. At least...I meant most of it. I...I said that I didn’t need you, Esk, and I was...I was so wrong. Gods, brother, I can’t...I can’t lose you. I’ll admit it now, and I’m so fucking sorry I waited so long to say it. I need you, and I’m terrified. I’m terrified you’re going to fall asleep and never wake up. I’m scared for you because I can’t even begin to fathom the idea of living a life without you by my side.”

Eskel huffs, a wry grin crossing over his face. “You know, you say that. You say that you’d be afraid to live without me, but you don’t really mean it, do you? You said it yourself, Geralt. You’re terrified of losing me, but you’ve gotten along just fine. Our first year on the Path, I left you behind, and you still made it back home. You got through it without me.”

Geralt closes his eyes, taking a moment to breathe before squeezing Eskel’s hand again. He swallows before saying, “Just because I got through it without you, it doesn’t mean I didn’t want you there, that I didn’t ache every time I thought about you.”

“Geralt-”

“No, Eskel,” he snaps, tone brooking no room for argument. Geralt opens his eyes again to glare fiercely at his older brother. “Back then, I didn’t know where you’d gone, if you were okay. I knew nothing, Eskel.”

Eskel purses his lips, feeling thoroughly ashamed. He averts his eyes again, and Geralt lets him. “I’m sorry. I should have done better.”

To his surprise, Geralt doesn’t refute it. Instead, he nods, mouth curling into a small scowl. “You’re right. You should have. It was a dick move to leave me behind like that, but that was over a century ago, and in that century, you have been there for me more times than I can count. You’re the best older brother I could ever ask for. No one can measure up to what you’ve done for me, for any of us.” 

“How could you say I’m the best brother you could ever have when you so clearly remember me abandoning you?” Eskel huffs. 

“Because you were young, too,” Geralt replies, softening his tone. “You were scared. I know that now. I get it. You were scared, and you didn’t want to frighten me, too, so you left before you could worry me. It’s admirable, really, how much you look out for us, but you don’t have to, Eskel. You’re just as human as the rest of us. It’s not your responsibility to hold the whole weight of the keep on your shoulders. We don’t hold you to that expectation, and you shouldn’t do it to yourself either.”

Eskel swallows thickly. “What do I offer if not a shoulder to cry on? Isn’t that what my role has been all these years?”

“No. Gods, no. Kel, you’re our brother. We want you beside us because we love you for you, not what you can offer.” Geralt takes a deep breath. “Look, you’ve been our rock for so long. I won’t deny that, but even the strongest rocks can crumble. Let us be the foundation you fall back on.”

“What kind of rock needs a foundation?” Eskel scoffs. “It is the foundation. Why would I ask for help when I’m the one who supports you all?”

“Because you don’t need to be the support all the time, Esk! You deserve the same comforts we do. When you’re afraid, you should feel like you’re able to approach us with that. If you’re hurting or in pain or doubting yourself, you should know that you have people to turn to!”

Geralt shakes his head, collecting himself lest he spiral into another breakdown. “If we’re gonna keep bringing things up I said before, then remember that I said I forgave you. Let’s remember how I forgave you for everything because I’m past that, Eskel. That was so long ago, and I’m just focused on now, and right now, I want nothing more than to help you the way you’ve helped me.”

“I don’t need help,” Eskel murmurs, wary gaze drifting over to meet Geralt’s from the corners of his eyes. He watches Geralt angrily swipe away the tears. Geralt chews on the inside of his cheek, looking Eskel up and down before saying,

“You might not think so, but you do, Kel. You’re not the same. You’re not the Eskel I knew. You’re not my Eskel.”

Eskel furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”

“But you’re not,” Geralt presses, sounding a little more desperate than Eskel liked. “You’re just barely existing now. You’re skin and bones, brother-”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Eskel cries, chest tightening as he bites back a new wave of anguish. “I’m doing this to be better!”

“What is better about this, Esk?!” Geralt removes his hand from Eskel’s, choosing to prod at Eskel’s abdomen through his shirt. A surge of fear wells up in the pit of Eskel’s stomach and he tries to bat away Geralt’s hand, but he isn’t strong enough. He doesn’t even come close. 

Geralt keeps pushing around, gentle when he reaches Eskel’s ribs, but he still winces when he comes into contact with the feeling of bone. “I can count your ribs, Eskel. Last winter, they didn’t even protrude. Now, I can list each one individually. I shouldn’t be able to do that. You yelled at me about that a few winters ago when I came back half-starved!”

“That’s different,” Eskel retorts. He reaches his hand out, still trying to shove Geralt away, but his brother doesn’t budge. Instead, Geralt levels him with a severe glare.

“It’s not different,” Geralt growls. “You told me that if you could see my ribs, I wasn’t healthy. Well, now I can see your ribs, and I even broke them trying to resuscitate you, so tell me, Eskel, what about this is fucking okay?”

Eskel doesn't answer right away. He remembers that winter well. He remembers Geralt coming to them, emaciated and mere seconds from keeling over. Eskel can't describe the fear he felt, but he made sure to scoop Geralt up, set him in the dining hall, and stuff him to the brim until Geralt had meat on his bones again. Being that thin isn't healthy, and Eskel had known that. 

But this is different. Eskel's circumstance isn't like Geralt's. Geralt had been starved because of humans on the Path. He’d always been the perfect size, the perfect weight. Geralt was the perfect witcher, double the mutations and better than Eskel in every way. Eskel can never compare, especially not when his body made him heavy, slow, and clumsy. Geralt may not understand now, but Eskel knows that he will one day.

“I need to do this,” Eskel insists, almost pleading with Geralt. “It’ll be worth it.”

“No, it won’t, Eskel,” Geralt scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re killing yourself. You can barely lift anything now. You’re on the verge of fainting, and your Chaos is out of control. You’re not any better like this. You’ll only get yourself killed on the Path.”

Desperation claws at Eskel’s chest. Geralt’s wrong. He has to be because if he isn’t, then Eskel did this for nothing. Geralt has to be blind, has to be naive. This will make Eskel a better witcher. He didn’t destroy his body to get nothing in return. The Lady at the masquerade, Ivan, Winnie...they all thought the same thing. He’s better like this. He’s better thinned out and starving. His appearance is a benefit, but fighting like his brothers is the main goal. He wants to be like Geralt and Lambert: graceful, fluid, light on their feet. Sometimes, Eskel thinks Lambert would have been a better Cat in the same way Eskel thinks he should have been a Bear with how massive he is. But he’s not a Bear. He’s a Wolf, and Wolves don’t look like Eskel. They look like Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir. Eskel is nothing but an oddity, and he’s so tired of being an outcast.

Geralt softens, moving his hand to rest on Eskel’s knee. He flinches a little at the lack of meat on Eskel’s leg, but he says nothing about that in particular. “Brother, we care too much about you to lose you to this. We face too many dangers on the Path, monsters and humans alike. The last thing we want is for you to become a danger to yourself. Please, Eskel.” Geralt swallows thickly, biting his lip before quietly saying, “When we argued, you said I haven’t been on my knees begging you to get better. Well, this is it, Kel. I’m fucking begging you. Come back to us.”

“I’m here,” Eskel whispers. “I swear that I’m here.”

“Not yet,” Geralt retorts with a sigh, “but you will. I want to help you, Kelly.”

Eskel looks down, taking in a shuddering breath. His stomach barely rises with each breath he takes. For once, he can’t feel the fat seeping over the waistband of his pants. He’s so close, almost perfect. He has almost reached the finish line. Why now? Why did they have to start caring now? He’s almost there. Don’t take this away from him.

“What if I don’t want help?” Eskel murmurs, not making eye contact.

“You’re gonna get it anyway,” Geralt replies simply. He places his hand under Eskel’s chin, lifting until he can bump his forehead against Eskel’s. “You don’t see it yet, but you will, Eskel. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t see what? What could I possibly be missing?”

“How much we love you.”

__________

Eskel leans against the headboard, the small thunk of his head against the wood filling the silence. “Nope.”

“Eskel,” Geralt sighs, sounding utterly frustrated, “you can’t say no to everything.”

“I’m not saying no to everything, just...most of it.”

Geralt turns to face Eskel, expression deadpan as he sets down the quill in his hand. They’re both on the bed, side by side as Eskel seeks out Geralt’s body warmth. His body can barely sustain him now, and as much as he hates to admit it, he needs Geralt’s help to warm him alongside the burning fireplace. 

Huffing, Geralt rolls his eyes and says, “You haven’t said yes to a single thing I said.”

“Well, maybe you aren’t listing good food,” Eskel grumbles, resisting the urge to cross his arms like a petulant child. He hears Geralt snort beside him and figures that he didn’t suppress his distaste as well as he would have liked.

“What are you talking about? You love roast venison!”

Eskel wrinkles his nose. “Only sometimes.”

“Eskel.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “You eat that any chance you get.”

“Not when it’s too heavily salted.”

“Then I won’t heavily salt it,” Geralt retorts, tone only slightly mocking as he reiterates Eskel’s words. “What about lamb stew?”

Eskel raises a hand to his mouth, faking a gag at the suggestion. “Absolutely not.”

“Esk, you have to say yes to something.”

Sighing, Eskel looks up at the ceiling and thinks for a moment. Or at least, he pretends to. He stays quiet for a few seconds before lighting up in faux excitement. “Ooh! What about hardtack? That’s always good.”

A growl comes from beside him, and he figures that probably wasn’t the best answer to give. “You’re not eating just fucking hardtack. Try again.”

“...ice?”

Eskel watches as Geralt puts his hands over his face, audibly taking a couple of deep breaths before pulling his hands down. He takes another steadying breath and declares, “You’re not allowed to make your own decisions anymore.” He turns to the notebook in his lap and picks up the quill, ignoring Eskel’s protests.

“That’s what I’ve been eating this whole time!”

Geralt takes a moment to glare at him. “Ice and hardtack, Eskel? That’s what you’ve been eating? That’s not food. It’s not even a snack.”

Shrugging, Eskel replies, “It’s gotten me along just fine.”

“You and I have very different definitions of ‘fine,’ brother,” Geralt mutters to himself. He exhales deeply through his nose. “Alright, what about soup?”

Eskel’s stomach immediately churns, nausea welling up as he recalls the first night at the keep. Soup is the last thing Eskel wants to eat, especially after all the noises his stomach had made back then. The cramps that night had been awful, too, and he’s not keen on repeating it. Absolutely not. He would prefer anything but that.

“I’d rather eat the roast venison than soup,” Eskel answers, voice barely above a whisper. He keeps his gaze down, hand absentmindedly coming to settle on his abdomen. He can’t feel the blubber underneath anymore, and a sense of pride simmers in his chest for a moment. He has come so far and to think Geralt wants to throw that all away…

Geralt seems to pick up on the hesitancy, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with soup?”

“Maybe I don’t like the consistency.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Geralt snaps, pointing the quill in Eskel’s direction. “You either take the roast venison or it’s lamb stew.”

Lamb stew really isn’t the preferable option. Eskel remembers a time from when he had been a child, before Kaer Morhen. His memory of back then is shoddy at best, but he recalls all too well when his mother slaughtered a lamb in front of him, only to have it end up on his plate that day as dinner. A shame, too, since Eskel really liked that lamb in particular. Besides, Eskel has come to associate the word “lamb” with his prickly younger brother, whom he loves very much against his better judgment, which only adds to his aversion.

“I dunno. Feels weird eating lamb next to Lamb…” Eskel muses, distantly imagining an odd scene of Lambert as a lamb.

Geralt groans, almost sounding disappointed. “You care that much about him? You soft bastard.”

“Eh, you know what they say. A mother’s love is blind. Maybe I turned into Lambert’s mother over the years.”

“You want to be Lambert’s mother?”

Eskel pauses. “As a matter of fact, no. I remember when my mother killed a lamb in front of me. I’m not too keen on killing Lambert.”

Geralt stares at him, pursing his lips. “I have half a mind to put this meal plan on pause and unpack what you just said.”

“I’d rather eat soup than do that.”

“Huh. Well, speaking of soup, how about putting parsnips in there?”

“Ew,” Eskel complains, just to be difficult.

Geralt narrows his eyes. “It’s either that or cabbage. And no, there’s no third option.”

Well, that’s just unfair. Geralt knows for a fact that Eskel hates cabbage. Eskel doesn’t like this choice.

“I guess parsnips are better than cabbage,” Eskel grumbles.

Humming, Geralt writes down parsnips and roast venison into the notebook. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Eskel rolls his eyes, watching over Geralt’s shoulder as his brother continues to list a few more items without Eskel’s permission. He doesn’t bother putting up a fight, but he opens his mouth to point out the obvious.

“Brother, I know you want me to eat these things to gain weight” - those words alone make Eskel sick to his stomach - “but there’s no way I’ll be able to get all of this on the Path. I could never afford it.”

At that, Geralt sighs, straightening up and staring blankly at the notebook. His shoulders sag forward, and Geralt almost looks defeated. It makes Eskel’s chest clench, a hint of sympathy creeping in as he notes the familiar look of desperation. Geralt toys idly with the quill in his hands. Eskel gives him time to gather his thoughts. After a minute or so, Geralt finally speaks.

“What are you planning after winter ends this year?” he asks quietly.

Eskel furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “What we always do. Go back out onto the Path.”

Geralt winces, and Eskel starts to wonder what he said wrong. “I want you to travel with me this year.”

Even if Eskel wasn’t...unwell, he would like to do that, too, but there’s a reason the Wolves don’t hunt together. There are far too few witchers nowadays to allow for group hunting. Eskel knows Lambert travels with Aiden, but even that’s barely acceptable. If Geralt and Eskel team up as well, that’s a whole portion of the Continent left undefended.

“Geralt, you know I can’t do that,” Eskel answers softly. “There’s too few of us-”

“Just this year,” Geralt interrupts, speaking quickly like Eskel will put a stop to his ramblings. “We can stick together. It’d be a help to me, too. I’d...I’d really like to have you there.”

Eskel closes his eyes, shaking his head slowly. “Geralt…”

“Please,” Geralt whispers, placing his hand on Eskel’s thigh. Eskel opens his eyes and turns to see the hopeful look on Geralt’s face. “We can even ask Ves if he’ll allow it if that’s what you’re worried about. Just one year, Eskel.”

Eskel searches Geralt’s face, looking for any hint of sick amusement or ill intention. He finds nothing because of course he doesn’t. Geralt would never do that to him, would never harm him in that way. It doesn’t make sense to Eskel, but maybe one day…

“If he says yes,” Eskel replies gently, not saying a complete yes but not refusing either.

Geralt carefully squeezes his thigh, a small smile on his face. Eskel’s heart skips at the sight. He forgot when was the last time Geralt smiled at him. Eskel doesn’t realize he misses it until he sees it directed at him. He wants to see it more often. He wants to make Geralt proud of him again.

“That’s all I’m asking, brother,” Geralt says, a bit happier this time. Eskel doesn’t quirk his own grin, but his heart fills at the words. 

Eskel can’t guarantee he’ll change in the way Geralt would like him to, but he’ll give it his best shot.

Chapter Text

“You had one job, Geralt,” are the first words Lambert hears as he approaches the kitchen, the sound of Vesemir’s bellowing voice carrying beyond the heavy wooden door as he let out his frustration on Golden Boy Geralt, “and that was to come get me the second Eskel woke up!”

“Sorry, Ves,” Geralt manages, sounding genuinely apologetic, “I’m sorry. I needed to talk to him first. I didn’t want to overwhelm him.” 

Lambert bites back the snicker bubbling in his chest at his older brother’s predicament - he so rarely got to witness Vesemir giving Geralt into trouble, he might as well make the most of it - as he pushes the door to the kitchen open and steps inside. Geralt and Vesemir barely spare him a glance as they carry on with their argument. 

“I was worried sick down here, wondering if he was ever going to wake up!” Vesemir maintains, his tone growing more and more hysterical as the conversation progresses. Geralt has the decency to look bashful, but Lambert is convinced that part of Geralt wanted Eskel all to himself the second he woke up. Lambert doesn’t blame him, because had their roles been reversed, Lambert probably wouldn’t have told anyone either. 

“He was exhausted, Ves,” Geralt argues again, trying - and failing - to keep a calm tone, his own crankiness due to lack of sleep catching up with him, “how do you think he would’ve felt being crowded by all of us as soon as he woke up? I had a chat with him about what happened. That’s what I came here to talk about before you jumped down my throat!”

Lambert decides that the wisest thing to do is to let his older brother and Vesemir shout it out between them. Intervening would only make matters worse, while also attracting both older witchers’ ire to himself, something Lambert isn’t really keen on. He’s had his share of emotional turmoil over the past couple of days - weeks, in fact - thank you very much. Being yelled at will do precious little to improve his mood. 

“Fine,” Vesemir heaves a resigned sigh as he pulls a chair towards himself and seats himself at the kitchen table, motioning for Geralt and Lambert to follow his lead, “I didn’t mean to be so hostile, Geralt. I was just-”

“Worried?” Geralt deadpans, a knowing look plastered on his face, “all of us are, Ves.”

“What matters now is that he’s awake,” Lambert says in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. He takes a seat next to Vesemir at the table and watches Geralt do the same. “And we need to make sure it stays that way.” 

“Agreed,” Geralt responds tersely, “I had a chat with him about his… attitude. I tried to get through to him and make him see that what he’s doing is not healthy. You can imagine how that conversation went.” 

“About as smoothly as dragging a cart of wares up this fucking mountain, I wager,” Lambert jokes, hiding his growing agitation behind a wall of sarcasm and ill-timed humour. He ignores the glare Vesemir levels him with at the flippant remark. 

“I told him that we’re gonna help him get better and that he’s not getting a choice in the matter,” Geralt carries on as if Lambert never piped up, “I sat him down and we created a meal plan together. I’ve dealt with mules that were less stubborn than Eskel.” 

“How come I get the stink eye when I make a comment like that, but he gets away with it?” Lambert cries out when Vesemir fails to acknowledge Geralt’s comment. 

“Not now, Lambert,” Vesemir sighs, rubbing his temple like he so often does when dealing with him, “a meal plan, you say? And he agreed to that?” 

Geralt shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the question, his eyebrows knitted in a frown as he stares blankly at his folded hands resting on the table. Vesemir doesn’t press him for an answer, giving Geralt time to gather his wits. Lambert feels his stomach twist with anticipation as he eagerly expects Geralt’s answer. 

“Not exactly,” Geralt eventually admits, “he said no to about every food I suggested. He turned down roast venison at first, pretending he didn’t like the taste of it.” 

Lambert and Vesemir share a look at the revelation. Anyone who has met Eskel knows that roast venison is his absolute favourite dish of all times, and that he absolutely abhors cabbage in any shape or form. Even the smell of it makes him gag if it catches him unawares. To think that Eskel refused to add roast venison to his meal plan goes to show just how unwell Eskel really is.

“I had to improvise,” Geralt carries on, pulling Lambert out of his stupor, “had to force his hand. Gave him ultimatums. So I made him choose between roast venison and lamb stew, parsnips and cabbage… it took fucking forever, but we got there in the end.”

Geralt pulls a notebook from the inside of his doublet and slides it over to Vesemir, who instantly flicks through it and familiarises himself with Eskel’s new diet. Lambert leans into the old witcher’s space, curious as to what he might find written on the pages. Admittedly, Geralt did a good job designing this meal plan. The plan stretches over two pages and includes three meals for each day of the week. Some of the meals, Lambert notices, feature twice in one week, but that is to be expected. They have limited resources up this godsforsaken mountain and can’t afford the fancy shit rich people eat. 

“Not bad at all, pretty boy,” Lambert praises Geralt, “looks decent from what I can see. What do you think, old man?”

“Definitely feasible in terms of our stocks,” Vesemir comments, always focused on the pragmatic side of things, “the most challenging part of this meal plan will be to stick to the dedicated times. And, of course, convince Eskel to sit down at a table and actually eat.” 

“I thought about that, actually. We should all have meals together, like we used to. If we all follow the same routine, it might feel less daunting for him.” 

While Lambert thinks that Geralt’s idea sounds reasonable enough, Vesemir looks decidedly less enthusiastic at the suggestion that they all share a meal in the same room at the same time. Lambert frowns at the realisation, not in anger, but rather in confusion. Vesemir always insisted on shared meals, and all of sudden he’s against them? 

“I don’t think Eskel will be too thrilled about that arrangement,” Vesemir’s eyes meet Geralt’s, but before the latter can voice a complaint, the older witcher raises a placating hand and explains himself, “it’s just that having us all in the same room might make him feel conscious about the way he’s eating. Might do more harm than good.” 

Well, Lambert hates to admit it, but the old man’s words actually make sense. Judging by the pensive ‘hm’ that rumbles deep in Geralt’s chest, he’s reconsidering his idea altogether. Lambert glances at him, noticing the way Geralt is worrying his lower lip, sharp canines biting down hard enough to draw blood. Lambert’s frown intensifies as the metallic scent reaches his sensitive nose. He’s never witnessed stone-faced, collected Geralt so agitated in his entire life. To say the sight is disconcerting is an understatement bordering on a euphemism. 

“We’ll just have to take turns, then,” Geralt offers with an air of finality, his eyes darting between Vesemir and Lambert, as if daring them to disagree, “he needs to stick to this plan until he gets better. Which brings me to another point I’d like to discuss with you, Vesemir. I don’t think Eskel should be travelling alone in spring.” 

Lambert bristles at the thought, his first instinct urging him to snap at Geralt for acting like Eskel is a fucking child who can’t take care of himself. Lambert hates it, hates how Geralt and Vesemir both treat Eskel like he’s broken, walking on eggshells around him. This isn’t what Eskel needs. He doesn’t need to be gentled. Eskel needs someone to give him a kick in the backside and snap him out of this … whatever this is . Lambert loves his brother, he cares about him and wants him to get better. He refuses to pussyfoot around Eskel and treat him like a fragile and fretful animal. Eskel deserves better than that. 

“Something you need to say, Lambert?” Geralt asks, his tone just on that side of irritated. Lambert realises that his indignation is probably written clearly on his face. His poker face is pretty shit as it is, or so Aiden keeps telling him. 

“Yeah, actually. Stop treating Eskel like a fucking child. He’s a damn good witcher, he doesn’t need coddling. What he needs is someone to set him straight.” 

“He needs support,” Geralt snarls in return, “he needs his brothers’ help. He needs to know that we still love him, that we care, that we’re here for him.” 

Lambert rolls his eyes and snorts derisively. 

“Some love we show him, by enabling this attitude of his.” 

“We’re not enabling him, Lambert,” Vesemir intervenes before their conversation can devolve into a full-blown argument, “the fact is that Eskel’s mind is playing tricks on him, telling him that he shouldn’t be eating, that he has to lose weight to be a better witcher. This isn’t about us treating him like a child. Our job is to help Eskel change his thought process. It isn’t an easy task, far from it.”

Vesemir speaks these words almost conversationally , like he’s discussing the weather rather than the sensitive matter of Eskel almost starving himself to death and dying of a heart episode. Fine, let them do their own thing. They have their ways of handling Eskel; Lambert has his. And he’s convinced that his methods will be more efficient than Geralt and Vesemir beating around the fucking bush. Lambert broods in silence, only half-listening to Vesemir and Geralt’s conversation as they make plans for Geralt to travel with Eskel.

Not that his opinion matters, anyway. It’s not like Eskel will want to see him, not after the way Lambert’s treated him over the past couple of weeks. Lambert doesn’t blame him, and as far as he’s concerned, Eskel has every right to be upset. It won’t stop Lambert from trying to help his brother, though. Lambert will do everything in his power to help Eskel get better, even if it’s the last thing he ever does for him. 

It’s the fucking least Lambert can do for Eskel. 

__________

"Hey," Geralt bumps his shoulder against Lambert's as both step out of the kitchen, "I didn't mean to be an ass back there."

"My, my, do my ears betray me, or is the white wolf apologising to his stupid younger brother?" Lambert snides back, rolling his eyes for good measure. Geralt huffs in irritation and Lambert is too slow to escape Geralt's bruising grip on his shoulder. "Let go of me, Geralt. I'm in no mood for your apologies."

"No," Geralt uses his leverage to spin Lambert around and force the younger wolf to meet his unrelenting gaze, "Lambert, listen, please . I know you don't like any of this any more than I do, but-" 

"Don't worry," Lambert snarls before Geralt can finish, "I won't sabotage your plans, rest assured. Just cause I don't agree with your methods-" 

"Will you just listen, you stubborn bastard? I'm not trying to lecture you, Lamb. I…" Lambert bristles, but doesn't try to pull away this time. He's willing to listen to what Geralt has to tell him. Judging by the constipated expression on Geralt's face, he's really trying to have a serious and emotionally-laden conversation. Lambert is an ass, but he's not cruel. "Listen, Lambert. I know you feel bad for the way you and Eskel left things."

Lambert shrugs Geralt's hand off his shoulder roughly, and this time, Geralt willingly lets go. The glare Lambert levels his older brother with would have anyone with even a drop of common sense running for the hills. Geralt isn't an ordinary man, however, and so he easily holds Lambert's gaze and matches it in intensity. 

"You wanna talk about my feelings now?" Lambert taunts to deflect from the fact that the thought makes his own stomach churn uncomfortably. "I'll pass. Doesn't stop me from sleeping at night."

A blatant lie if Lambert's ever heard one, but he has a reputation to uphold, and he certainly won't be caught crying on Geralt's shoulder. 

"He heard everything," Geralt states matter-of-factly, the expression on his face just shy of smug when Lambert fails to hide his panic quickly enough. "He heard your apology, Lamb. I think you should go talk to him."

"What good would that do? Talking won't fix him."

There's a resignation in Lambert's tone that he resents to the high heavens, because it makes him sound like he's given up on his brother. He hasn't, not yet. Lambert is far too stubborn to just give up on Eskel. Still, he doesn't think he'll be much help. Lambert's not exactly winning trophies as a supportive and loving younger brother. The sad smile Geralt offers in return is infuriating and Lambert wants to wipe it off his stupid face with his fists. 

"You haven't been listening, have you? Eskel needs us . He needs his family. And he needs to know that we don't hate him. Please, Lambert. I'm not asking much. Just go talk to him?" 

Geralt makes it sound so fucking easy, which is ironic in itself because Geralt is the most emotionally stunted son of a bitch to have ever walked the surface of the Continent. And yet there he is, telling Lambert to go talk to Eskel and pretend like the thought of it doesn't send Lambert's heart reeling in his chest, because what if Eskel doesn't accept Lambert's apology? There is a chance that Eskel won't believe Lambert, won't deem his performance sincere enough. Eskel rejecting Lambert will hurt a damn lot more than breaking your ribs by flying into a massive oak table. 

Geralt makes it sound so damn easy. 

"What if he doesn't want to talk to me? Ever considered that option, wise-ass?" 

Geralt, for all his distinct lack of emotional skills, sees right through Lambert's pitiful attempt at concealing his worry. 

"He will. I've known Eskel all my life. The man has never held a grudge in a century of me knowing him. I don't think he's at all able to resent anyone for longer than a day."

"Oh yeah? What about Deidre?"

Geralt flinches at the mention of her, his expression hardening instantly. 

"Lambert, if you think for one second that you're on par with that bitch, then you're more stupid than I ever gave you credit for."

Geralt doesn’t give Lambert the chance to defend himself as he walks away from him, leaving Lambert seething and at loss for what to do. Fine. Let Geralt storm off in a huff and play a game of hide-and-go-fuck-yourself, see if Lambert cares. For the record, he doesn’t. He doesn’t give a flying fuck if Geralt is butthurt or if Lambert failed to meet his older brother’s expectations. 

Lambert kicks a passing rat out of his way as he makes his way up the winding set of steps leading to the sleeping quarters of the keep. Why does Geralt have to make a big scene out of everything, anyway? Isn’t it enough that he’s the white wolf, the perfect son with a stick so far up his ass you can see the tip of it when he yawns… no, he also has to play the part of the sanctimonious moraliser, too. Perfect Geralt, the perfect recruit, and the perfect son, and perfect brother. Urgh, Lambert can never catch a break from pretty boy. 

Lambert is so far gone in the depths of his own turmoiled mind that he almost misses the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh permeating the air around him. He stops in his tracks, his brows furrowing in confusion at the thought. Unless one of them spontaneously decided to revert to cannibalism overnight, Lambert doesn’t understand where the smell could possibly be coming from. You never forget that repugnant stench, the kind which invades your nostrils and refuses to leave for days on end. 

His heart drops in his chest when Lambert realises that the stench is coming from Eskel’s room. 

“Oh, what fresh fucking hell is this?” he mutters under his breath as he all but storms into Eskel’s room, where the overwhelming fetor of burning flesh makes Lambert feel nauseous. He ignores the bile rising in his throat in favour of scanning the room for any signs of Eskel. Lambert finds his brother kneeling by the fireplace, his hands shaking violently and sporting impressive blisters. “ Shit , Eskel, what happened?” 

The look of utter despair and frustration Eskel casts over his shoulder is enough to break Lambert’s heart. The angry rant the younger wolf felt bubbling in his chest dies on his tongue at the sight of Eskel’s tears - tears of pain, sure, but the acrid smell of misery is unmistakable despite the stench of burnt human skin. Lambert is at Eskel’s side in an instant, his eyes dropping to his brother’s ruined hands, unsure where to go from here. Swallow. They need Swallow. And bandages. 

“Do you have bandages in here? Potions?” Lambert asks, trying and failing to hide the panic in his tone. Eskel jerks his head at a large chest sitting at the foot of his bed, and Lambert wastes no time opening the lid and rummaging through the paraphernalia of items he finds in there - Eskel is a hoarder, he has to be, why else would he keep hold of an old and rusty horseshoe ? - before retrieving bandages and what looks to be Eskel’s potion back from the chest. 

“What happened, Kel?” Lambert finds himself asking as he pulls a vial of Swallow out of Eskel’s potion pack, and uncorks it with his teeth, “hold your hands out in front of you. It’s gonna sting,” Lambert warns before pouring the entire contents of the vial over Eskel’s hands. 

“ Fuck, ” Eskel hisses between clenched teeth, a guttural groan rumbling deep in his chest as he tries to keep still so Lambert can patch him up, “I… I was cold and thought I’d practice my signs. It… it didn’t work at first, only managed a few sparks, nothing more. So I focused harder and… shit … when I tried again, the sign burned my hands.” 

Lambert bites the inside of his cheeks, because now is not the time for a lecture on how starving himself probably contributed to Eskel’s magic going off the rails, and how Eskel is becoming a danger to others and to himself. There will be time for that conversation once Lambert has treated his brother’s hands. He pours a second dose of Swallow over the blisters, flinching in sympathy when he sees the potion take effect and the blisters pop open, releasing the fluids and pulling another sharp hiss from Eskel. 

“I’m sorry,” Lambert hears his brother apologise, “you… you don’t have to do this, Lamb. I can bandage them myself.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Lambert grouses in retaliation. He makes a show of picking up the clean bandages and unrolling them methodically to keep his hands busy and hide the way they’re shaking, “both your hands are in a state. You’d only hurt yourself more. I… I don’t mind doing this.” 

Eskel keeps quiet for a moment, jaw clenched as he stares at his hands. Lambert allows the silence to stretch, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say. Eskel tilts his head up slightly to look at Lambert, and the latter doesn’t have to look at his brother to know that Eskel’s eyes are swimming with uncertainty and concern. 

"I thought you...didn't want to be near me."

"Never said that," Lambert mumbles in response, keeping his attention on the bandages and steadfastly ignoring Eskel's gaze. He can't look at Eskel and talk at the same time. That's too much, too...open, too vulnerable. He doesn't want to expose himself like that. He can't, because if he does, Lambert won’t be able to bite back the tears from rolling down his cheeks. Tears of relief, mostly, at seeing his brother alive. And after the tears, Lambert just knows that he’ll end up yelling at Eskel for giving him the fright of his life. 

"You made it obvious these past few days," comes the softly-spoken, almost insecure retort. Eskel’s voice sounds so small, Lambert barely recognises it. He takes a deep breath and tries to collect his thoughts. He's not made for this ‘feelings’ bullshit. He wishes he didn't feel at all, except he does. Lambert, for all his prickliness and flares in temper, feels far too much for his own good. Lambert wants to feel things, he wants to understand what's going on, because maybe if he did, he'd be able to give Eskel what he needs to get better already.

Lambert’s never felt more helpless in his entire life, and he hates it. 

"Geralt said you heard what we told you when you were unconscious." Lambert licks his lips nervously and forces himself to meet Eskel’s gaze for the first time since he stepped into Eskel’s room. His statement is an assertion rather than a question, but even so, Eskel nods in response. "How can you still think that I don’t want to be near you after hearing what I said?"

Eskel is silent as he lets Lambert patch him up. The latter wraps the bandages tight around Eskel’s hand, then moves on to the other one and works just as swiftly. The Swallow did most of the job at healing the burns already. The bandages will merely ensure that the burns don’t get infected, because that would certainly put Eskel out of commission for even longer than necessary. A thought crosses Lambert’s mind, one he doesn’t want to entertain but which won’t leave him alone until he voices it out loud. 

“Brother,” Lambert swallows thickly and once again forces himself to look Eskel in the eye, “answer me honestly, please. Did you mean to hurt yourself this way?”

“No, Lamb. I promise.”

Lambert pauses, staring right into Eskel’s soul searching for any trace of a lie. He finds none. 

“Good.” Lambert clears his throat before gently lowering Eskel’s hands onto his brother’s lap. “Geralt’s already in a state, wouldn’t want him to be even pissier than he’s been all morning.” 

That, surprisingly, pulls an amused chortle from Eskel. “How so?”

“He’s so dramatic ,” Lambert whines, rolling his eyes so hard he can almost see his brain, “just Geralt being Geralt, I guess. And you agreed to travel with him all year come spring? Yikes, that in itself is a form of self-torture.”

“Geralt’s not so bad. He’s a worrier.”

“Tell me about it. But just so you know, if you ever get bored of him, uh…” Lambert rubs the back of his neck nervously, averting Eskel’s eyes once again as he speaks his next words, “... well, Aiden and I always arrange to meet in Novigrad around Midaëte every year. You and Geralt could join us? If you want, that is, uh… I don’t want to force you, or anything. Whatever.”

It’s not like Lambert wants to see Eskel through the year to check on him and make sure he’s not starving himself again, it’s just… fuck off. 

“I would love that,” Eskel agrees, his smile infectious in a way that Lambert always envied, “and for the record, Lamb, I’m sorry for everything that happened between us. I hope you can forgive me for losing control and aarding you into the kitchen table.” 

Lambert makes a vague, dismissive gesture with his hand. “Water under the bridge. I could’ve handled things better on my side, too. Truth is, sometimes you’re a real blowhard, but, damn, I’d go to hell and back for ya.” 

That is as close to an ‘I love you’ as Eskel will get out of Lambert at this point, but the beaming smile his words earn him is enough to convince Lambert that Eskel managed to read between the lines. 

“I love you, too, Lambert.” 

__________

“A diary?” Eskel asks, sounding rather unimpressed as he raises a dubious eyebrow at Lambert, “don’t know, Lamb. Ain’t exactly the type to keep a diary, am I?” 

“It’s not a diary, Eskel, it’s a food journal,” Lambert corrects him, because yes, there is a fucking difference, even if his oaf of a brother refuses to see it, “It’s not about writing down feelings and shit. Well, it is, but not like that!”

“You’re not selling this very well, are you?” Eskel teases - the fucking prick - a smirk curling his lips as he watches Lambert struggle with words. People who think Eskel is a good man are all wrong, because right now, he’s being a class A asshole. 

“Fuck off! Look, I know you’re not a prepubescent girl who wants to tell her diary about the cute squirrel she spotted in her parents’ ridiculously well-ornamented garden-”

“That’s an oddly specific comparison,” Eskel interrupts, earning himself a deadly glare from Lambert. 

“ ... hence why I’m not asking you to keep a diary, but to keep a journal!” 

Lambert throws the leatherbound notebook he intended to gift Eskel onto his bed. If his brother doesn’t appreciate his efforts, then Lambert refuses to be nice about it. Whatever, this isn’t the nicest notebook he owns. If Eskel asks, Lambert found this piece of crap in the bottom of his travel packs rather than on the counter of an extortionately-expensive merchant. What? So what if Lambert is obsessed with notebooks? 

“The difference is,” Lambert resumes his explanation, “that you’ll be writing down your progress in this journal. Geralt came up with a food plan, didn’t he?” 

Eskel’s cocksure attitude drops in an instant, his cheeks turning an interesting shade of pink as he averts Lambert’s gaze. 

“What about it?”

Lambert softens at the defensive tone, reaching out to clap Eskel’s shoulder and squeeze his bicep in a comforting gesture. “I want you to use the journal to write down your progress. It’s, uh… I started doing something similar on the Path. I keep a, uh… sketchbook.” 

“A sketchbook?” Lambert braces himself for Eskel to laugh or mock him, but instead his brother looks almost excited. “I didn’t know you could draw.” 

“Well, I dabbled. And c’mon, can you see me writing down feelings, and shit? Nah. When I’m feeling a bit… off, I guess, I grab my sketch book and I draw. Sometimes it’s landscapes, sometimes it’s people or animals, sometimes it’s sketches of me killing a stingy alderman who insists that we agreed on 200 crowns instead of the 350 I negotiated. You know,” Lambert shrugs nonchalantly, “boring stuff like that.”

Aiden always tells Lambert that he has a lot of talent. Lambert doesn’t see it, personally, but he’d rather downplay his so-called talent than have Eskel insist on seeing his sketches. They’re nothing special, a lot of them aren’t even coloured in because Lambert can’t afford coloured pencils on the Path, but they’re still a part of Lambert. They’re personal . Showing them to anyone, particularly his family, would feel awkward. 

“Alright, so… this food journal?” Eskel picks up the notebook in his bandaged hands, the movements stiff and clumsy. Even though he still looks hesitant, Lambert can tell that Eskel is at least considering the possibility of keeping a journal after finding out about Lambert’s sketchbook. If only to please Lambert, which is fine. Lambert just wants Eskel to give it a try before dismissing the idea entirely. “What does it entail?” 

“You’ll find out what works best for you eventually, but I suggest that you start by writing down the meals you manage to eat in one day. And you can add little bullet points next to them and note down how you felt before, during, and after?” Eskel flinches at the suggestion, his face contorting into a pained expression. “It’s just a suggestion, Kel. Don’t knock it ‘fore you try it, y’know? I… look, if it makes you feel that uncomfortable to write about these feelings, then maybe that’s a sign that they’re not healthy feelings to have?” 

These words give Eskel pause. Lambert watches, in silence, as his brother mulls over them. Lambert truly hopes that Eskel gives this journaling a shot. Eskel opens the notebook onto the first page and bites his lower lip until he draws blood. Lambert’s nose scrunches up at the sight, but he decides not to mention it. That’s probably where Geralt picked up the nasty habit from. 

“You really think this could help?” Eskel asks, his eyes meeting Lambert’s in an attempt to seek reassurance from his younger brother. Lambert offers what he hopes is a comforting smile. It feels surprisingly nice to be the one people look to for comfort, Lambert realises.

“Keeping a sketchbook helped me. I’m not saying it’s gonna solve all your problems, but… I think you should give it a try. That way you can look back on where you started and check your progress. And whenever you feel down, you can see how far you’ve come. Progress is progress, no matter how big or small.”

Eskel’s eyes fall to the notebook again, brows furrowing in concentration as he considers his options. Lambert doesn’t press him because, ultimately, this is Eskel’s decision. Forcing him to do anything won’t help. It has to come from Eskel for it to work. 

“I’ll try it,” Eskel declares, his voice barely above a whisper, “for you, brother.” 

That’s good enough for now, Lambert tells himself before pulling his brother in a tight hug, careful not to jostle the broken ribs or touch Eskel’s still healing hands. Neither of them know how long they stand there, in the middle of Eskel’s room, simply holding onto each other for dear life. 

Both are too lost in the affectionate moment to care, anyway.

Chapter Text

Lunch:

Rabbit stew (1 medium-sized bowl)
Stewed with vegetables (3 sliced carrots, 10 chopped mushrooms, 2 mashed potatoes)
2 canteens of water

Geralt made lunch for me. Tried to tell him I wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t listen. I wasn’t hungry, not really. My stomach only growled once. Think he heard it anyway. Felt dizzy earlier, a bit lightheaded. Got those weird black spots in my vision ag-

Eskel’s ears pick up on the distinct footfall he’s come to associate with Geralt over the years. He closes his notebook before Geralt has a chance to see what Eskel is doing. The last thing he needs right now is Geralt prying. Eskel stuffs his journal back into his pack, keeping his movements slow and controlled to not betray the panic flaring in him. He looks up, schooling his expression into something more neutral than how he truly feels. He hopes it’s passable enough.

Geralt steps into the campsite, rolling his shoulders as he eyes Eskel from his peripheral vision. Eskel tries not to feel too irritated. After all, it’s been two months since they left Kaer Morhen. Two months of Geralt doting on Eskel’s every movement. A man faints off of his horse one time…

“Doing alright?” Geralt asks, crouching by his pack as he sorts through his equipment.

“Fine,” Eskel replies shortly. He watches as Geralt pockets a few potions: Swallow, Cat, and Golden Oriole. Geralt also packs a couple of Dancing Stars. Eskel chews on the inside of his cheek. “You know, I could still-”

“No.” Geralt stands, potions packed away and swords strapped to his back. He levels Eskel with a stern glare. “You’re not going anywhere near this.”

Eskel narrows his eyes. He glares at Geralt, who holds fast in his decision. For a moment, neither of them say anything, both of them too stubborn to concede. A silent argument passes between them. It’s been two months since they left Kaer Morhen. In that time, Eskel has eaten almost every meal Geralt has given him. Granted, he doesn’t always eat the whole thing, and sometimes he puts up a fight, but Eskel has tried. Still, Geralt refuses to let Eskel get near any kind of hunt, even basic drowners.

“I can help you,” Eskel argues, finally breaking the silence.

Geralt shakes his head. “I’m not letting you come with.”

“Geralt-”

“They’re archespores, Eskel,” Geralt growls, crossing his arms. “You’re in no condition to be going up against them.”

Eskel huffs, rolling his eyes. “It wouldn’t be my first time.”

“And if you pass out during the fight?” Geralt stands firm. “You’re not coming with me.”

“That’s not fair,” Eskel snaps, all too aware of how childishly petulant he sounds. “My Igni is stronger than yours.”

At that, Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Eskel immediately knows what’s running through Geralt’s mind. Eskel sets his jaw, rolling his eyes and staring off to his side as Geralt opens his mouth. He hardly bothers to listen. It’s the same thing as always.

“Your Igni?” Geralt repeats, a hint of incredulity in his tone. “You mean the same Igni that burned both of your hands this winter because it backfired on you?” Geralt hums. “No pun intended,” he adds unnecessarily.

Eskel would strangle him if he could. “No need to keep bringing it up,” Eskel mutters, clenching one hand into a fist. 

He steadfastly avoids Geralt’s face, just as he ignores the feelings of helplessness. What good is a witcher if he can’t even go on hunts anymore? This is the exact thing Eskel had fought so hard to lose weight for. He did all this to become a better witcher. Then his family said he shouldn’t have. Now, he can’t go on a simple hunt.

Geralt takes a deep breath, looking in the direction he’s supposed to be headed before walking towards Eskel. He sits on the log beside his brother and says nothing for a moment. Eskel doesn’t help. He keeps his eyes turned away, not intent on making this easy for Geralt. Perhaps it’s a bit petty, but Eskel feels he has a right to be. He doesn’t like eating. That has nothing to do with hunting.

A long sigh breaks the silence. “Brother, I’m not trying to diminish your abilities as a witcher-”

“Certainly seems like it,” Eskel mumbles.

In the corner of his eyes, Eskel sees the stern glare Geralt sends him. He chooses to ignore it. Geralt visibly restrains the urge to roll his eyes and continues, “I’m just saying that maybe you’re not as ready as you think you are.”

Eskel scowls, fists clenching in his lap. He looks down, outlining the thin shape of his fingers and idly remembering how much thicker they used to be. “I have an issue with food, Geralt,” he starts, “not with witchering.”

“Don’t you think they go hand in hand?”

His first instinct is to say no. Any answer that contradicts Geralt’s beliefs seems like the right choice to him, but Eskel clamps his mouth shut and gives himself a moment to think his answer through. In a way, Eskel thinks they have nothing to do with each other, but then he remembers why he started all of this to begin with. It was an aesthetic thing, sure, but Eskel stopped eating because it made him gain weight that caused him to slow down on the Path. So, yes, food and hunting did go hand in hand, but he doesn’t think that’s the kind of connection Geralt has in mind.

Eskel decides to stay quiet. He doesn’t give an answer, letting Geralt wait for a response that doesn’t come. When he realizes Eskel won’t say anything, he hums. Eskel nearly cringes at how resigned Geralt sounds. Maybe his brother is growing tired of him. Maybe he’ll ship Eskel off to Lambert and Aiden when they all meet up for Midaëte in Novigrad. What if he tries to get rid of Eskel sooner?

A hand lands on Eskel’s shoulder, startling him out of his musings. He finally turns his head to look at Geralt, and the slight downward tick to Geralt’s lips speaks testaments of his worry. A second later, Eskel smells his own anxiety wafting in the air between them.

“Hunting while starving is only going to get you killed, Eskel,” Geralt points out, keeping his voice low and gentle. He sends Eskel a severe glare when the older witcher tries to interrupt. “You can tell me you’re not starving, but I know you’re not as full as you should be. Eating is what gives you energy, and you’re not doing a lot of eating.”

“I have more than enough energy,” Eskel argues, hating the insecurity in his tone.

Geralt raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “Eskel, you fainted off of Scorpion a couple of days ago. Yesterday, you slept fourteen hours straight. Every day, you take a nap a few hours after the sun reaches its highest point. Look me in the eye and tell me you truly believe you’re not tired.”

Eskel averts his eyes. He continues to say nothing. Not that matters when his silence says it all.

Giving a satisfied hum, Geralt pushes up from the log and gives his brother one last look. “Be safe, Esk. I’ll be back before sunrise.”

“Be careful,” Eskel replies, pushing past his embarrassment as he raises his eyes and bids his brother farewell. He may feel chastised, but it didn’t mean he loved Geralt any less.

Geralt nods, then leaves in the direction of his contracted hunt. Eskel craves to go with him - it's not often the wolves can hunt together - but he stays put. He knows better than to follow Geralt. After all, Eskel isn't anything like Jaskier.

Once Eskel is sure Geralt is gone, he takes out his gifted notebook again and resumes his latest entry. He lets out a long sigh, picking up his quill and dipping it in his inkpot.

-ain. Feel heavier than I did last month. Think I'm gaining weight. Should buy a scale, try weighing my food. It’ll be more accurate than listing quantities. Don't think Geralt would let me get away with that, though. Maybe Lamb will. 

A large ink splotch starts to form where Eskel holds his quill to the parchment pages, hesitating on his next sentence. Lambert had said this journal is for his private thoughts. No one will peek in unless he wants them to. Even so, the idea of being so openly vulnerable in an easy-to-access place makes Eskel’s skin crawl. He bites down on that fear. The point of the notebook is to ease his negative thoughts. He moves the quill.

I miss him.

Eskel blows out a soft breath through his nose. Right, that's enough emotional talk for today. Better than what he used to write when he first got the notebook. Eskel cringes at the memories of what he has written. A lot of quantities regarding food and a lot of cursing Geralt’s name.

He stays put on the log for a few more minutes, idly staring at the sky peeking through the canopy formed by the trees looming over him. The sun has long since set, meaning Geralt is fighting in the dark and getting paid shit for it. Eskel wouldn’t be as worried if he had gone with Geralt because at least then he would know and be able to help right away if Geralt gets injured, but instead…

Eskel isn’t strong enough.

Winter at Kaer Morhen nearly suffocated him. Between Vesemir, Geralt, and Lambert, Eskel never got a moment’s respite. They followed Geralt’s meal plan to the letter, forcing him down to eat meals at very specific times. Not once could Eskel find himself alone for five minutes, always having someone of his family nearby in case he got the silly idea of running off. Eskel can admit that, yes, he had thought about running off several times, but as the days went by, he simply grew tired. He had no will to fight anymore. 

His motivation to gain weight and satisfy his brothers and Vesemir wavered constantly. Once in a while, he’ll get this burst of energy that tells him to “get better, do better, eat for them,” and he will do so. Then, as the food settles in his stomach, gurgling and growling and incapacitating him with cramps, Eskel remembers why he hates eating in the first place. Geralt is…more lenient than Vesemir and Lambert had been. He doesn’t force Eskel to eat everything on his plate, and that makes things a little easier.

“I just need you to eat at least three spoonfuls of this. At least five bites from this. At least a third of your plate.”

Geralt likes to give Eskel ultimatums and minimums. He sets standards and goals for Eskel to reach. If Eskel can make them, then that’s great. Geralt will nod at him, a small quirk to his lips as he takes Eskel’s leftovers. If he surpasses them and eats more, that’s even better. Geralt will smile at him, maybe even whisper a “good job, brother,” if Eskel eats everything given to him. 

On the other hand, if Eskel can’t reach the minimum, Geralt looks at him with too much concern and maybe even the slightest hint of disappointment. Eskel tells himself that Geralt isn’t disappointed with him, rather just at the situation as a whole, but it’s hard to believe that when Geralt sighs and takes the leftovers away from him to pack away for later. It feels like Eskel did something wrong, like he failed. Geralt tells him all the time that he won’t get mad if Eskel can’t finish a meal, but what does that matter if Eskel gets mad at himself? 

Eskel climbs to his feet. The lightheadedness and fatigue plague him constantly at this point. He doesn’t flinch or linger on his perpetual resignation of this new reality. Instead, he focuses on laying down on his bedroll, ignoring how his legs shake from the strain of balancing his weight. His eyes burn, and he tells himself it’s not because of shame but because of exhaustion. A realistic enough assumption. He’s always tired.

He falls asleep to thoughts of archespores and the prayers that Geralt will return safely.

__________

The stew in front of him smells utterly disgusting.

Well, no, that’s wrong. It smells great. Geralt has a proficiency with cooking that not many have the pleasure of experiencing. Eskel is sure the rabbit stew he made for dinner tonight tastes amazing, but the mere scent of it makes Eskel’s stomach churn. He holds the bowl in his hands, warming his skin as he stares down at the steaming broth. In his peripheral vision, he can see Geralt staring at him. Eskel swallows thickly, feeling utterly useless as he refuses to lift the spoon and eat the dinner Geralt so graciously made for him.

“Eskel?” Geralt finally calls, voice low. Geralt already knows what’s going through Eskel’s head, but he still asks. It hurts when he does because Eskel knows he expects an answer for once, but Eskel can’t provide one. 

“I’m not hungry,” Eskel murmurs, and he’s telling the truth. His stomach hasn’t growled all day today, and he doesn’t feel the telltale pain of hunger. Still, he watches Geralt’s face contort into a concerned frown, and Eskel wants to curl into himself.

“Eskel…”

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt lets out a soft sigh, staying silent as he contemplates his next words. Eskels sits still, dreading the new minimum Geralt is going to give him. He doesn’t think he can meet this one and that stings more than he can ever explain. All he wants is for Geralt to be proud, but Eskel supposes he can’t be proud if Eskel doesn’t give him something to be proud of.

Eskel toys with the spoon resting against the edge of the bowl. He taps it lightly, hearing it clink against the wooden ridge. He wants to eat, yet he doesn’t at the same time. Eating means doing something right for once, but why does it feel so terribly wrong? Eskel purses his lips, feeling Geralt’s eyes on him as he picks up the spoon. He can almost smell Geralt’s anticipation, watching Eskel gather a small spoonful and place it into his mouth. 

The stew doesn’t burn Eskel’s mouth like he expects it to. Though it steams, Eskel has left the broth sitting long enough that it barely scalds him. Flavor floods his senses, and he almost recoils at the sensation. His stomach growls at the promise of food, prompting Eskel to draw his knees in closer. He swallows, nearly shivering as he feels the stew hit his stomach. It doesn’t take long for the familiar rolling of his stomach to start up, the overwhelming urge to vomit it all back up again making him dizzy.

A hand comes to rest on Eskel’s knee. Eskel dares to look at Geralt, only to regret it instantly. Geralt is smiling back at him, a small thing coupled with a soft look on his face. Tears burn at Eskel’s eyes, but he blinks them away. That...that’s the look Eskel wants to see, but the sacrifices he has to make to get it...is it worth the pain?

“You’re doing well, Eskel,” Geralt murmurs, squeezing gently. “Just a couple of spoonfuls and you’re done.”

A couple of spoonfuls…

Eskel holds his stomach as he curls up into fetal position on his bedroll. He ate more than a couple of spoonfuls, all to see that beaming smile on his brother’s face. Now, as his stomach gurgles and cramps painfully, he wishes he never felt this urge to please others. This all started because he was so desperate for approval, desperate to be seen as desirable to lovers or capable as a fighter. He did this all for fucking approval, and here he is, tears brewing in his eyes as he fights back a burp rising in his throat.

Geralt sleeps soundly behind him. Eskel keeps his back turned, steadfastly avoiding contact with his brother. He knows it’s irrational to be angry with Geralt for trying to help, but he can’t help feeling jealous that Geralt can sleep like a baby while Eskel lays here writhing in pain. He keeps himself from groaning, knowing deep down that he deserves this. His stupid decisions and mistakes led him here. These are the consequences. 

A small whine echoes in his ears as a contraction rolls through him, muscles seizing in pain. Tears drip from his cheeks, and Eskel wraps his arms tighter around his abdomen. Gas bubbles build in his stomach and against his will, a burp escapes him, barely hidden by closed lips. In this, though, the telltale burn of bile rising in his throat brings a spike of panic. Eskel scrambles to push himself up, one hand clenching at his belly as he all but crawls to the edge of the clearing.

The irresistible urge to cough forces him to make enough sound to have Geralt stirring behind him. Each cough spews out a small bit of bile, Eskel’s eyes watering further as the burn creeps up his esophagus. Eventually, his stomach contracts again, less a cramp and more a warning as vomit pushes past his lips and coats the ground in front of him. The acrid scent of sick floods his nostrils, and with each heave, more tears fall from Eskel’s eyes. He can’t stop crying, and that only makes the situation so much worse.

A hand rests on his back, gently rubbing up and down. Soft murmurs reach his ears, and Eskel wants to sob at the sound of Geralt’s voice. “It’s alright, brother. You’re okay. Let it out.”

Eskel continues to heave for less than a minute longer, but he nearly collapses in exhaustion by the end of it. He coughs a couple more times before finally regaining control of himself. Lightheaded and dizzy, Eskel leans back, gripping his stomach as he sags into Geralt’s chest. Geralt wraps his arms around him, carefully bringing him back towards the bedrolls. He sits Eskel down, grabbing a spare rag for Eskel to wipe himself with while he fetches a canteen for rinsing.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, handing over the water when Eskel drops the slightly soiled rag to the side.

Bringing his knees to his chest as another cramp seizes his abdomen, Eskel nods and takes the canteen. He uncaps it with shaky hands, trying to ignore the gurgling in his stomach that Geralt can likely hear now. 

“‘m fine,” Eskel answers, voice low and hoarse. He brings the canteen to his lips, swishing the water around in his mouth before spitting it out into the dirt.

Geralt hums, pushing the canteen back towards Eskel when he tries to hand it back. “Drink some. You’re dehydrated.”

“Don’t want it.”

“Eskel-”

“Geralt, please,” Eskel sighs tiredly, tightening his arm around his stomach. “I can’t handle anything else right now.”

Geralt frowns slightly, but he takes the canteen back. He sets it next to him and looks Eskel over. “What’s going on?”

“‘s nothing.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Geralt visibly takes a steadying breath before opening his eyes again and saying, “I can’t help you if you insist on lying to me.”

Eskel bites back the petty response that he wouldn’t feel this way if Geralt hadn’t pressured him to begin with. Thing is, Geralt didn’t pressure him. Eskel ate that whole bowl by himself. He regrets it. He remembers why he hates food, why he hates the idea of eating. It hurts. Everything hurts. His head, his throat, his chest, his stomach...it all hurts.

Eskel looks down, avoiding Geralt’s gaze as he answers, “Cramps. I get them sometimes...when I eat too much…”

Geralt’s quiet for a moment, almost long enough for Eskel to glance up. He doesn’t, though, pressing his forehead to his bent knees as he works through the twisting and churning plaguing him. His stomach gurgles loudly, and Eskel flinches at the sound. Geralt gently squeezes his knee.

“You ate the whole bowl earlier,” Geralt says, keeping his voice steady. “You can’t handle that.”

Eskel feels himself flinch again. “I tried-”

“I know you did,” Geralt interrupts, squeezing his knee again, “and I’m proud of you for that, but for as much I appreciate you trying, I don’t want you to hurt yourself, brother.”

Eskel shuts down after that. He knows it’s irrational, that he’s being childish and unfair, but there’s something about those words that anger him. He gives a noncommittal hum and lays down on his bedroll. Curling up tighter, Eskel ignores Geralt’s confused calls and closes his eyes. Eskel does his best to please his brother, and all he’s told is that he’s stupid for trying. He did it wrong. He wasn’t good enough.

Eventually, Geralt gives up, sighing and whispering, “Good night, Esk.” Eskel ignores him and falls asleep to the painful cramps in his stomach.

__________

The lies start up again. Eskel tells Geralt he has eaten, and Geralt doesn’t push. It’s been weeks since that night Eskel had cramps, and things have changed between him and Geralt. Eskel resists meals more often, not allowing Geralt to feed him. He ignores the minimums Geralt offers, and his brother gives up after a week of being rejected. Eskel says he’s eaten, often sticking to the excuse of quick snacks, and Geralt only nods. Perhaps there’s a part of Geralt that hopes Eskel isn’t lying, that’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

Or maybe Geralt’s given up entirely.

Eskel tries his hardest to keep from falling asleep. He avoids the naps he used to take. Geralt often stops while they’re traveling, asking Eskel if he needs to take a break. Eskel shakes his head, pretending like his blinks don’t last longer with each passing second. His grip on Scorpion’s reins slacken and he often finds himself leaning more in one direction than the other. Eskel shakes his head, trying to wake himself up. He already fainted off of Scorpion once. He doesn't need to do it again.

It all comes to a head when they’re a week away from Novigrad. Eskel walks beside Scorpion, choosing to be on foot in hopes that it will keep him awake. He barely catches the glances Geralt sends in his direction, too focused on placing one foot in front of the other. The world around him starts to blur, his mind going fuzzy, and it’s the kind of familiarity that has dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

For as annoyed and angry as he is with Geralt, he knows where to draw the line. Eskel isn’t light. It’s hard for Geralt to carry him. Just two years ago, Geralt struggled to drag Eskel to his room after they had drunk themselves stupid in Kaer Morhen. He knows he should tell his brother that something is very, very wrong.

Eskel stops, swaying in place and just barely getting out a panicked, “Geralt.”

A thump comes from in front of him as Geralt hops down from Roach. Geralt has just barely gotten his hands around him when Eskel slumps forward, his world going dark. When Eskel can see again, it feels like only a second has passed, but now he’s lying on the dirt trail, head in Geralt’s lap as his brother stares down at him in concern. Eskel’s head flops to the side, scarred cheek resting against Geralt’s thigh as he spots the horses by the trees. 

“Eskel?” Geralt places one hand on Eskel’s shoulder and shakes lightly. “Eskel, you with me?”

Eskel lets out a low breath through his mouth, eyes blearily searching out Geralt’s face as he turns his head back with great difficulty. He spots Geralt’s white hair and amber eyes through blurred vision. Geralt moves both of his hands to cup Eskel’s jaw. 

“G’r’lt…” Eskel mumbles. “Don’...don’ feel good.”

A strangled sound comes from above him. Before Eskel can figure out what’s happening, he’s being shifted around. One arm wraps around his shoulders while another slips beneath his knees. Then, Eskel feels himself lift from the ground, held close to Geralt’s chest. A slight spark of surprise buries in his chest, but instead of registering it, his eyes drift shut again, falling into darkness.

Opening his eyes again, Eskel finds himself on softer ground. It’s dark out, the moon shining down at him from between the trees. A fire crackles to his left, and to his right, Geralt meditates on his own bedroll. In front of Geralt is their food pack, and in the midst of his haze, Eskel knows what Geralt intends to do. Eskel closes his eyes. He can’t escape it this time.

Eskel shifts, letting out a soft groan when his sore muscles protest at the movement. Beside him, Geralt stirs, waking from his meditation and planting a hand on Eskel’s chest to still him. For the first time in weeks, Eskel listens. It’s less of him allowing himself to lay back and more of his body finally giving out. Geralt leans over him, assessing Eskel with a critical eye.

“Eskel?”

“G’ralt…” Eskel groans again, lifting one hand to his throbbing head. “Wha’ happ’ned?”

Geralt’s mouth drops into a scowl. “Scared the shit out of me is what happened.” He turns to their provisions, fishing through the pack until he pulls out a small parcel. He unwraps it, revealing a few pieces of hardtack. He hands it over to Eskel. “Eat it.”

“Geralt-”

“Not a fucking choice anymore, Eskel. Eat it.” 

A hint of something serious, something concerned and slightly hysterical, slips its way into Geralt’s tone. That alone prompts Eskel to take the parcel of hardtack. He uses his elbows to prop himself up on the bedroll, but his arms shake from the strain. Geralt sighs, a familiar sound at this rate, and helps Eskel sit up, letting his older brother rest against him for support. Eskel doesn’t comment, trying to quell the rising embarrassment at needing to be babied.

“You should’ve told me,” Geralt whispers as Eskel nibbles at the first piece of hardtack. “You should’ve told me you were hungry.”

Eskel chews the tiny piece of hardtack he’d bitten off until it turns to unrecognizable mush in his mouth. He swallows it down and waits for his stomach to rebel against it. Blessedly, the piece is small enough not to irritate his appetite, and no noises rumble from his abdomen. Once that ordeal is through, Eskel finally registers Geralt’s words.

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Geralt snarls, and Eskel nearly pulls away from him. He would have if he didn’t think he would fall over immediately.

Eskel bites his lip. “I wasn’t. ”

A huff of frustration comes from Geralt as he runs a hand through his hair. “You never are! You say you’re not hungry, but, Eskel, this is the fourth fucking time you’ve fainted in front of me because you haven’t eaten, and yes, I’m counting when you had a godsdamn heart attack. Don’t even get me started on how many times you’ve fainted when I wasn’t there, or when you were completely alone.”

While Eskel wishes he could say it wasn’t often, he knows he’d be lying. Eskel has fainted far more times in the past half of a year than he has in the last decade of living. Truthfully, Eskel hardly has the energy to fight anymore, and he’s starting to see why Geralt eyes him so carefully, why he won’t let Eskel get near any hunts. Eskel can’t be a witcher, not like this.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, clenching his fists in his lap. “Don’t apologize-”

“No, I need to,” Eskel cuts in, snapping off another corner of hardtack and placing it in his mouth. “I...I haven’t treated you fairly these past few weeks. You were just trying to help, and I...I was petty about it. I know what you mean now.”

Silence falls over them as Geralt mulls over Eskel’s words. After a moment, Geralt asks, “And what did I mean?”

“I can’t be a witcher,” Eskel murmurs. It hurts to admit out loud, to realize that he is useless at the one thing he’s excelled at for over a century, but he has to say it. “At least, not right now. I can’t fight like this. Maybe one day I can, but...not now.”

Geralt hums, one hand unclenching and coming to rest on Eskel’s thigh. He squeezes lightly. “You’re a damn good witcher, brother, but you’re not well. We’re just trying to do right by you.”

A shaky sigh falls from Eskel’s lips. “I know. I get that now. I wish I had realized that before I…”

Before I starved myself, before I fainted, before I relapsed.

Geralt hears all of this without Eskel saying it out loud. He turns his head, burying his face in Eskel’s hair while his brother slowly makes his way through the meager portion of food. It’s a small comfort, but one they both revel in. Even when they’re angry at each other, even when they’re exhausted and tired of fighting, Eskel needs Geralt just as much as Geralt needs him. For just a moment, the slightest increment of time, Eskel doesn’t worry about his weight or food. For a moment, he knows he’s wanted, knows that he’s needed, knows that he’s accepted just like this.

It’s a damn good feeling.

__________

Midaëte is just around the corner by the time Geralt and Eskel arrive in Novigrad. As the city gates appear in front of them, Eskel feels equal parts anxious and excited. According to Geralt, Jaskier has a cabaret they can stay at, free of charge. It isn’t often a witcher is granted this comfort, but Jaskier has been a friend of the Wolves for a long while, and Eskel knows they’ll be taken care of there.

And yet, Eskel dreads every step he takes towards the city. Jaskier can be...eccentric at best and downright overbearing at worst. Eskel hopes to avoid the bard’s constant fretting. He’s confident Geralt will curve most of Jaskier’s motherhenning, but it’s the thought of explaining what’s happened to Eskel at all that makes his skin itch.

Not only that, but they’ll meet up with Lambert soon. It doesn’t take a genius to know that wherever Lambert is, Aiden won’t be far behind. It already seems too overwhelming, too many people surrounding him and judging his every move. Getting a moment of peace will be nigh impossible, everyone keeping an eye on how much food he grabs and how much he doesn’t. 

Still, the thought of seeing Lambert again makes Eskel smile a bit to himself. He has missed his youngest brother more than he’ll admit. The journal Lambert gifted him sits in his pack. It’s almost completely filled, and some childish part of him can’t wait to show Lambert how much he’s written. Taking Lambert’s advice on writing out his feelings about eating has helped in ways Eskel could have never imagined. He even graduated to full sentences now, no longer writing stilted sentence fragments. Just this morning, he wrote about managing to eat a quarter of a hare Geralt caught for them. It wasn’t much, but it was still much more than Eskel can manage on a good day.

Today feels like it could be a great day. 

Geralt glances over at him. Scorpion comes to a halt when Eskel pulls gently on his reins, stopping next to Roach, who looks mildly irritated at being stopped just outside of town. Geralt ignores his mare’s attitude and eyes Eskel carefully.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks, keeping his tone level and absent of anything accusatory.

Eskel gives him a soft smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

“We won’t be long,” Geralt assures. “Likely a week for Midaëte, no more than two. Lambert and Aiden will meet up with us soon. We’ll spend some time with them, then we can head back onto the Path.”

Licking his lips nervously, Eskel asks, “Did you, uh, tell Jaskier about my...you know?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t need to know. He’ll worry, but he doesn’t need to know if you don’t want him to. It’s your business. No one else’s.”

“And Lambert…” Eskel takes a deep breath. “Are you gonna tell him about my...relapse?”

At that, Geralt absently stares at the gates, fidgeting with the reins in his hands. After a few seconds of silence, he answers, “If I have to.”

“What does that mean?”

“If it’s important to anything that’s happening, or if he asks explicitly, then I’ll tell him.” Geralt glances at Eskel from the corner of his eye. “Or you could tell him yourself.”

Eskel groans, running a hand over his face in annoyance. “Do we have to tell him at all?”

“He should know, Eskel. He’s just as involved in this as I am. He would be pissed if we didn’t tell him.”

“Right,” Eskel mutters. “He would be, huh?”

Geralt reaches over, patting Eskel’s back gently. “It’s gonna be okay, brother. Just for a little bit, then we’re gone.”

Eskel sighs heavily, but he nods in agreement. Just for a little while. He can manage that. The thought of meeting Aiden and Jaskier while he’s like this is daunting, but Eskel figures he can make it through. Between his family and all their words of encouragement, who does Eskel have left to impress anymore? A tiny voice in the back of his head tells him, Everyone. He follows Geralt to the gates, pushing that thought aside.

He doesn’t succeed as much as he would like to.

Chapter Text

In this ever-changing world in which they live, there is one constant. Novigrad will forever remain a shithole.

Cities, in general, are a witcher’s worst nightmare - too many sounds, too many scents, too many people sending hateful sneers and whispered insults their way. Sure, Eskel’s grown accustomed to it over the years. Stopping in cities is a necessity for witchers, no matter how hard they try to avoid them. For all of Eskel’s talents, he is no trained blacksmith. He can handle the small repairs on his armour and his weapons, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures. That, of course, doesn’t mean that Eskel has to enjoy the experience, and most times he doesn’t. 

This time is no exception. 

Eskel and Geralt weave through the throng of people, avoiding physical contact as much as they are able. Novigrad is busier than usual. The Midaëte festival is just around the corner, which explains the dense crowd gathering around the colourful market stalls. The mass of people is even more obnoxious considering how hot it is. If Eskel hates cities generally, he abhors them in the height of summer. The heat makes everything worse - people get louder, drunk on sunshine and honey mead, and every smell is more pronounced and laced with the acrid stench of human sweat. Even Scorpion and Roach seem agitated, judging by the frustrated huffing and anxious whinnying. Eskel clicks his tongue and tightens his hold on the bridle as he leads Scorpion through the masses. 

“Easy, boy. We’re almost there,” Eskel whispers softly to his stallion, earning himself an unimpressed snort. 

“I can see the Rosemary and Thyme,” Geralt informs Eskel without taking his eyes off the busy marketplace, eyes alert and scanning the area for potential dangers, “hopefully they don’t charge too high a price to stable the horses.” 

Geralt looks drained, the dark circles under his eyes attesting to weeks of uneasy rest and tedious travels. Part of Geralt’s exhaustion is Eskel’s fault, he knows. His brother wouldn’t let him join on hunts, not even on difficult ones. Eskel also knows that Geralt barely slept when they camped under the stars, always vigilant, always on the lookout for danger. No matter how much Eskel argued that he’s growing stronger by the day, Geralt had refused to take that chance. Eskel can’t remember a time when Geralt didn’t trust him to have his back. 

Eskel shakes the thought out of his head. He refuses to linger on them. He’s getting better, gods be damned, and he’ll be worthy of Geralt’s trust again. 

The Rosemary and Thyme is busy, as was to be expected, but the thought makes Eskel’s skin crawl with anticipation. He tends to keep his hood up in crowds, but Eskel is conscious about coming across as rude. He’s never met Aiden, and it has been far too long since he’s caught up with Jaskier. What kind of first impression would he make if he kept his hood up the whole time? But forfeiting that barrier also means that Eskel will have to endure people’s gazes, the fear in their eyes at the sight of his scars, and even though it shouldn’t affect him as much anymore, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes on him isn’t the best way to get him to relax. 

“Have you got space for two horses?” Geralt’s baritone grates moodily, making the poor stableboy shake in his boots, bless him. The scrawny kid doesn’t even reach Geralt’s shoulder in height and still smells of his mother’s milk. Unable to find his voice, the stableboy merely jerks a nod. “How much?”

“Sir?”

“How much to stable them!” Geralt snaps impatiently, his crankiness a direct result of his serious lack of sleep. The stableboy stammers out a price which sounds reasonable enough - though Eskel is convinced that if Geralt insisted a little bit, the kid would drop it by twenty crowns. Or let the mean witchers stable their horses for free. 

Geralt isn’t cruel, though. Just a little sleep-deprived. They wordlessly hand the reins to the boy and Eskel manages to slip him a few extra crowns for his trouble, when Geralt’s back is turned. A quick glance inside the stables tells Eskel that Lambert has arrived. His gelding neighs excitedly at the sight of Roach and Scorpion, who merely huff a tired greeting in response. Eskel ignores the anxious feeling knotting his stomach as he falls into step with Geralt and enters the Rosemary and Thyme. 

The general brouhaha inside the tavern is disorienting at first, but Eskel is quick to adjust to the noise levels. He and Geralt weave through the staggering patrons, trying to avoid physical contact as much as possible. Witcher reflexes aside, it is admittedly much easier to navigate through a drunken crowd. Geralt seems to have spotted their friends in a corner, because he suddenly grabs a hold of Eskel’s wrists and tugs him along, eager to finally be able to sit down and hide in the shadows. Eskel doesn’t blame him. He’s starting to feel far too warm under his hood. 

“Ah, Geralt, my dear friend!” Dandelion greets them loudly, his speech slightly slurred, as they reach the corner booth. "And Eskel, my oh my, it's been a while."

"Well met, Jaskier," Geralt greets him. Eskel can't help but notice the way his brother sags in relief as soon as Jaskier wraps his arms around him. "You've been at it for a while, I see… or rather smell ."

"Oh now, Geralt, don't be a wet blanket, you've only just arrived." Jaskier pulls away from Geralt and ushers him into the booth, which apart from Dandelion is blessedly empty. Before Eskel can look around for any signs of Lambert, Jaskier has him wrapped up in a bone-crushing hug that knocks the air out of Eskel's lungs. "Oh, Eskel, it's been so long. I did miss you, my friend. I love Geralt to bits, but he's such a grump when he wants to be."

"It's good to see you, too, Jask." 

Jaskier lingers in Eskel's space for a minute longer than is strictly necessary, hands resting on Eskel's sides, fingers splayed across his ribs. When Jaskier finally pulls away, there's a worried frown on his face that Eskel's become all too familiar with. 

"Dear gods, Eskel! The Path's been especially harsh on you, hasn't it?"

"Jaskier," Geralt growls in warning, "drop it."

"Excuse me? I'm concerned for my friend's health-" 

"Eskel!" A familiar voice, belonging to none other than Lambert, saves Eskel from further embarrassment. "And pretty boy! Fancy seeing you guys here. The washerwomen will have a right field day tomorrow. Four witchers in the same tavern? Not even from the same school, either."

"Knock it off, Lambert. You're attracting the wrong kind of attention." 

This voice is new, Eskel realises, and belongs to another witcher - Aiden, his brain supplies helpfully - who appears behind Lambert and slings one arm protectively around the younger wolf’s middle. Aiden is… not at all how Eskel imagined him. Well, apart from the height perhaps, since Cats are notoriously shorter than most witchers to allow for greater agility. Aiden may be shorter, but that doesn’t mean that he’s in any way small . 

Cats have impractical armour, to say the least. Eskel can't imagine wearing short sleeves on a hunt, not when they deal with sharp claws and fangs on a near-daily basis, but the lack of sleeves on Aiden's outfit reveals a lot more than what Eskel would have been able to see if the Cat had been fully covered. Eskel's eyes follow the muscles of Aiden's biceps, travelling to strong forearms that flex with the slightest movement. Distantly, Eskel remembers having muscles like those, but Aiden has an additional layer to them that makes the muscles much less noticeable than they had been on Eskel, especially in the few days after the masquerade when he'd been dehydrated. 

What shocks Eskel the most is that Aiden's middle isn't as firm as his arms are. Maybe it's because it's a larger area, but his shirt tucks tightly around Aiden's midsection, showing off the slight paunch of Aiden's stomach. There's a bit of give there, a layer of fat that shifts when Lambert nudges Aiden with his elbow in retaliation. It’s what Eskel would have once described on himself as a healthy layer of winter fat. Aiden rolls his eyes at Lambert’s antics, removing his arm from the younger wolf and turning away from Eskel to settle down on the bench of the booth table. When he does, Eskel's eyes can’t help but drop down, taking in the curve from the small of Aiden's back to the top of surprisingly thick thighs. Aiden isn't small, Eskel notes, not in the slightest.

Eskel realises that he is ogling his brother’s lover and instantly snaps his eyes away from Aiden, like the sight of him burnt Eskel’s retina. Now free from Aiden’s touch, Lambert turns to face Eskel and flashes him a knowing smirk. Shit, did he notice Eskel staring? Fuck, no that’s not good. The last thing Eskel wants is Lambert teasing him about it, and Aiden realising that Eskel was staring. It would all be much too embarrassing. Instead, Lambert leans in closer and pulls Eskel in a much gentler hug. Unlike Jaskier, Lambert knows that Eskel’s not as big as he used to be. 

“It’s good to see you, brother. You look well.” 

And if that doesn’t tug at Eskel’s heartstrings in all the wrong ways, because yes, Lambert certainly sounds pleased with what he sees, but the knowledge that Eskel relapsed taints the pride the older witcher detects in his brother’s tone. As if sensing Eskel’s uneasiness, Lambert’s smirk falters. Eskel almost doesn’t want to tell Lambert about the relapse, because he’s not sure if he can handle the deception he will see reflected in his brother’s eyes, but Geralt is right. Lambert has a right to know and Eskel would much rather have the youngest wolf find out about his relapse from Eskel than from anyone else. 

“Not here,” Eskel whispers, almost pleadingly, but Lambert gets the message. 

“Oh, what a dumbass. I think I forgot my Gwent deck in my saddlebags. Hey, Kel, wanna step outside for a minute? You can help me get some of my stuff upstairs since someone refused to help.” 

“That someone ,” Aiden pipes up, brushing one hand through strawberry blonde curls, “told you earlier that he’s not your valet!”

“I was asking for help! You’re just being petty because I spoke to the widow a few villages back.” Lambert meets Eskel’s eyes then and heaves a dramatic sigh. “He thinks I flirted with her, which is absolutely ludicrous. I don’t even like blondes.” 

Aiden scoffs at those words, visibly biting his tongue and glaring daggers at Lambert. Eskel has to work hard not to snort, though it appears that Geralt has lost all sense of self-restraint judging by the loud cackle Lambert’s predicament induced. 

“You’re a grown and capable man. You can carry your own luggage. And get your own room.” 

“Ah hell, kitten, don’t be like that,” Lambert croons, winking for good measure at his very pissed lover, “I know you don’t mean it.”

“See if I don’t,” Aiden threatens half-heartedly, hiding his smirk in his tankard of ale, “I’ll lock the door, so unless you climb in through the window, you’re not getting in.” 

“Sounds fair,” Lambert decides, already making plans in his head to climb the walls of the Rosemary and Thyme to join his lover’s bed later tonight, “before that, I need to swindle some people out of their coin. Geralt, up for a game?”

“Sure.” 

Eskel, at this point, is itching to leave the tavern. He’s too hot under his hood, but he’s grateful none of his friends asked him to remove it. They all know him well enough - well, Aiden doesn’t, but being a witcher, he understands the importance of anonymity. Lambert finally makes his way out, Eskel in tow. Outside is not much better in terms of the sheer amount of people who have gathered for the Midaëte celebrations, but at least Eskel feels like he can breathe again despite the hood. 

“Holy Melitele’s sweet-smelling thighs, never realised how damn hot it is in that shithole of a watering hole.” Lambert takes an exaggerated breath and stretches his arms far above his head. “Heat’s getting to Aiden. Explains why he’s so wound up.”

“I think you’ll find that it’s you getting on his nerves that’s winding him up,” Eskel remarks, barely dodging Lambert’s well-aimed punch to the shoulder, “hey! I says it how I sees it.” 

"I don't get on Aiden's nerves. I'm adorable."

"What's adorable is that you believe that," Eskel retorts, falling back into the familiarity of bickering with Lambert with ease. There's a smug smile tugging at the corner of his scarred lips, still concealed by his hood. Unable to stand the heat any longer, Eskel pulls it down and enjoys the lukewarm breeze on his sweaty neck and forehead. 

"What can I say, I'm a dreamer." Lambert finishes his stretches before pivoting on his heels and levelling Eskel with a trademark grin, though that one is softer around the edge, not as cut-throat as Eskel is used from the youngest wolf. "It's really good to see you, Kel. You're plumping out a little in the face."

"Geralt's been keeping me on my toes." Eskel wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, pointedly avoiding Lambert's gaze. "He's kept to the meal plan like a champ. Wouldn't lemme go on hunts with him."

"Hm. Probably for the best, too."

Eskel feels a surge of irritation well up in him when Lambert takes Geralt's side on this matter, but he doesn't want to start an argument. Not when he and Lambert just met again after months apart. 

"S'ppose so."

Lambert jerks his head towards the stable and Eskel diligently follows him. Turns out his brother did forget his Gwent deck in his saddlebags, and it wasn't just a half-baked excuse to leave the tavern. What do you know? Scorpion huffs indignantly when Eskel fails to acknowledge the stallion the second he steps into the stables. Eskel raises a sassy eyebrow in return, earning himself a pointed whinny. 

"Can I help you?" Eskel gently scratches Scorpion's nose, which seems to do the trick. The stallion nickers appreciatively as he leans into Eskel's touch. "You're just a big needy baby, aren't you?" 

"Who ya calling a needy baby?" Lambert calls from his gelding’s stall, pulling a surprised snort from Eskel. 

"That depends. Do you feel addressed?" 

"Pff, in your dreams, big guy."

There was a time when that nickname would've set Eskel off into a self-deprecating spiral. Not this time, however. Eskel is far too happy to see Lambert again, alive and well, and surprisingly happy . That Cat sure has a good influence on him. Seeing Lambert so carefree makes it hard for Eskel not to feel anything but content. 

That is, until Lambert asks the much-anticipated question. 

"There anything you wanna talk about, then? You looked ready to burst back in the tavern."

Eskel swallows thickly past the emotions coating his throat. 

"Yeah. Been meaning to tell you later but… now's as good a time as any."

"I'm all ears," Lambert assures him as he leans against his horse for support. "Shoot."

Eskel takes a composing inhale, his hand seeking Scorpion’s comforting presence. His stallion’s wet nose nudges the palm of his hand and Eskel focuses on that grounding sensation as he struggles to find the words to admit his failure to Lambert. He tells Lambert everything - the meal plans, the journal, Geralt refusing to let him go on hunts, Geralt forcing him to eat food even when Eskel didn’t feel hungry, the cramps because Eskel stuffed himself, the relapse, the fainting…. It’s like the floodgates have been opened and now there’s no way back from it. Eskel spills out every single detail while Lambert listens, a frown set between his eyebrows. He doesn’t interrupt or rush Eskel through his tale. He’s patient, more patient than Eskel’s ever witnessed him. 

The thought hurts and warms him, all at once. 

“That’s it?” 

“What do you mean?” Eskel feels a by now familiar uneasiness in his stomach. “I failed. I relapsed, I… Geralt was so mad. Disappointed.” 

“Okay, first of all, pretty boy needs to remove the stick that’s been up his ass for as long as I’ve known him,” Lambert half-jokes in a vain attempt to diffuse the tension, “second of all, so what? You relapsed. Big fucking deal, Kel. You’re human.”

“I’m a witcher-”

“ Human !” comes the firm interruption which has Eskel snapping his mouth shut instantly, “to err is human, or some shit. Don’t look at me like that, I read! In any case, what I’m trying to say is… I bet that Geralt wasn’t so much disappointed as worried about you. And frustrated with himself for not noticing the symptoms sooner. Or just generally grumpy, because we all know he’s a miserable old bastard when he wants to be.” 

Lambert taps his gelding’s flank twice in parting before stepping up to Eskel and resting his hands on his brother’s shoulders, squeezing them in reassurance. 

“Look, even if you had a setback, you know what I take from that rant? You used the journal I gave you. You ate everything Geralt gave you even if it made you sick. You’re trying, Eskel, and for that nobody can fault you. Changing bad habits isn’t easy… trust me, I know. So I’m proud of you, brother. I’m proud that you’re trying, at least.”

Eskel smiles a genuine smile, which is all teeth and maybe a little teary. He encases Lambert in his arms and finds that his brother can bury himself in Eskel’s hugs again. Not like he used to, not yet, but it’s a start. It’s progress. And Lambert is proud of him for trying, so Eskel will carry on trying. For Lambert, for Geralt, for Vesemir. 

And yes, for himself, too. 

__________

“You have got to be cheating,” Geralt cries out when Lambert puts down a Commander’s Horn on the board, effectively wiping out Geralt score-wise and winning the second round, “this is ridiculous, how can anyone be that good at cards?” 

“What can I say,” Lambert’s cocky smirk earns himself a playful growl from Geralt, “it’s called talent.”

“I refuse to believe that! You’re cheating. Cat, how is he cheating?”

Aiden takes a drag of his pipe, raising a brazen eyebrow at Geralt as he debates whether to help him out or not. He exhales smoke through his nostrils before sending a cheeky, conspiratorial wink Geralt’s way. Jaskier lets out a delighted laugh at the white wolf’s predicament, tapping Geralt on the back in a futile attempt at providing comfort. 

“There, there, my dear friend,” Jaskier pecks Geralt’s cheek affectionately, which pulls a noncommittal hum from Geralt, “you’ve been bested, it happens even to the most skilled of us. Your younger brother has, unfortunately, defeated you. Better make peace with it and move on.” 

“Listen to your parakeet, pretty boy-”

“ Hey !”

“Besides, your deck is shit. I can give you pointers, if you’re interested,” Lambert continues, ignoring Jaskier’s indignant squawk. 

“Hard pass,” Geralt grumbles as he gathers his cards and stuffs them in his pocket, “bad enough that you’ll never let me live it down that I lost against you, don’t need your patronising lectures either.” 

Eskel is only half-tuned into the conversation. The tavern is already packed with people, but even so, it seems like more and more patrons keep squeezing inside. Eskel can’t keep track of all the faces and the thought makes him feel jittery. He’s not drinking - Geralt won’t let him have a drink because “it’s bad for you, Eskel; it’ll go straight to your head, Eskel” - which makes it hard to ignore the crowd around him. His witcher senses are overwhelmed. There’s too much going on, too many noises, too many smells, too many things happening in his direct line of vision and…

Eskel needs some air. 

“Where are you going?” he vaguely hears Geralt ask him. 

“Out. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before sundown, mother.” 

“Wait, where are you going, what are you-”

“Melitele wept , Geralt,” Lambert intervenes, to Eskel’s great relief, “cut the man some slack. If I was travelling with you for months, I’d try to get away from that ugly mug too.” 

“You little shit -”

Eskel takes advantage of their bickering to make his way out of the tavern without being subjected to Geralt’s incessant motherhenning. Eskel is fine . He just needs some air, needs to stretch his legs, and even though he feels guilty for admitting it, he needs space from Geralt. Lambert is right, to a point… travelling with Geralt for that long, after spending years walking the Path blessedly alone , had been its own kind of headache. Eskel just needs a breather from everything and everyone. Outside is just as busy as inside, but at least there, Eskel can breathe and potentially find a dark, hidden back alley to hide in if it all gets too much. 

He heads to the port, his favourite place in Novigrad. He can’t quite explain it, but the sight of ships and the open sea has always soothed him. Ironic considering he’s hill-folk, and by nature built to live in the mountains , but there’s something about open waters that has always fascinated Eskel. Maybe it’s the fear of the unknown, a kind of restlessness within everyone to go to places they’ve never been before. Regardless, the port sounds like a good place to be right now. People aren’t likely to wander that far, anyway.

Eskel weaves through the alleys of Novigrad with ease. He knows them like the back of his hand, almost, so it doesn’t take him long to reach the fish market near the port. The smell of today’s fresh catch invades Eskel’s nostrils, and once he gets used to the overpowering smell, Eskel finds himself browsing the stands. He doesn’t want to buy anything, he just likes to see what kind of fish is on offer, for no other reason than to satisfy his natural curiosity. There are, indeed, fewer people this side of town, which makes the whole experience so much more enjoyable. 

And there’s no one breathing down his neck, either. How refreshing. 

Eskel immediately feels bad for that thought. Geralt is only trying to help, to be a good brother. Lambert is doing his best too, and the only reason Eskel thinks this way about Geralt is because they spent the last months stuck to the other’s hip constantly. Eskel loves his brother dearly, but there comes a point where Eskel wants some alone time without feeling the weight of Geralt’s concern on him. It’s not that Eskel isn’t grateful, he’s just… tired. He wants to get better, but getting better takes a lot of energy and time. 

He should probably be eating something. 

“Excuse me?” an unfamiliar voice reaches his ears from behind, followed briskly by a soft hand landing on his bicep, “forgive me, but are you perchance a witcher?” 

Eskel turns around, only just realising that he had, at some point, taken his hood down, and manages what he hopes is a friendly smile at the elderly woman. She looks past her child-bearing years, with greying hair and wrinkles gracing her elegant face. The woman holds herself proudly, but not haughtily, with all the grace and modicum of a high-born lady. She’s smiling at him too, soft and motherly, and in a way that makes Eskel instantly trust her. Expressive brown eyes stare at Eskel, carefully avoiding his scars he notices, before falling onto his medallion. 

“Ah, today seems to be my lucky day. I thought I recognised your medallion. School of the Wolf, is that right?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Eskel confirms in what he likes to call his “customer-friendly” voice - calm, even, just at the right pitch not to scare off the more skittish humans, “how can I help?” 

“Well, you see, I’ve been trying to hire a witcher for weeks now. I live in an old townhouse not far from here, it’s been in my family for generations. However, recently, I keep hearing this creaking and howling coming from the basement. Now, I never went down to check for myself, you understand, and it could simply be a family of rats, but it would truly put my mind at ease if I had a professional look at it. You’ll be rewarded for your work, though that goes without saying.” 

“Trust me, ma’am, many humans aren’t as quick to part with their coin, even for a job well done. I’ll be happy to check your basement, if you’ll allow.”

Eskel is, as a matter of fact, dying to do anything that is witcher related. Now that Geralt isn’t here to hold him back, Eskel can finally get back in the swing of things. The fingers on his sword hand twitch in anticipation at the thought of killing some monsters today. He finds himself hoping that the kind old woman’s basement is haunted. The elderly lady offers a toothy smile in response before reaching her hand for Eskel to shake. 

“Excellent. Apologies, I didn’t even inquire about your name, master witcher?” 

“Eskel.” He takes her hand in his gently and brushes his lips over her knuckles. “Name’s Eskel.”

“Well then, master Eskel. Follow me this way.”

__________

The first thing Eskel notices - and which really should have raised red flags in his mind - is the extensive collection of witcher gear that he finds in the woman’s house. Armour, weaponry, medallions , bestiaries… Eskel is beginning to wonder if he walked into an elaborate trap, which will end with this seemingly sweet and innocent woman gutting him and stripping him of his armour, swords and medallion. Well, that would certainly be an embarrassing way to go, and Eskel doesn’t know just how willing he is to kill an old woman. Well, if she turns out to be a monster he might just have to, won’t he? 

Something catches his eye then, but no… no, it can’t be. Eskel hasn’t seen that gambeson in years . Sleeves of chainmail, a snarling wolf head embroidered right above the right breast… cheesy as far as armour went, which could only mean one thing. This is Vesemir’s old armour! Impossible. Eskel remembers that armour. Vesemir was so proud of that model, even though master Varin and Rennes used to tease him about it. A fine piece of armour, crafted by none other than Vesemir himself back when his articulations still permitted it. 

Why the hell is this gambeson here , of all places?

“Ah, I should’ve known that you’d gravitate towards that one.” The woman’s voice startles  Eskel out of his musings, pulling a soft chuckle from his host. “Oh, this is terribly embarrassing, but I must drop the pretence. I don’t truly have a monster problem, Eskel. No, I have more, hm, personal reasons to invite you here.” 

Eskel squirms at the thought of what this lady might want from him. He’s positive that this woman is probably what can be considered attractive for her age, and Eskel isn’t sure how to turn her down without offending her. Whatever she means by ‘personal reasons’, Eskel isn’t sure if he wants to find out. 

“Oh?” is all he manages to say, his voice uncharacteristically high-pitched as he forces that word out despite the tightness in his throat. 

“Yes. I never gave you my name at the market, but I shall do so now. I am Countess Mignole, though I prefer to go by my given name. I know your mentor, Vesemir. He and I are-”

“Oh, thank the Gods ,” Eskel splutters in relief, his shoulders sagging when realisation dawns on him. He realises just how rude he sounded and immediately flushes bright red, one hand coming to rub nervously at his scars. “Oh, no. Forgive me, my Lady, I didn’t mean to… offend, it’s just… well, I thought you… doesn’t matter.” 

His nervous stammering pulls a delighted laugh from the countess, whose brown eyes now spark with unmatched mischief as she, too, realises Eskel’s mistake. She brings her hand up to her mouth, trying as she might to stifle the amused giggles that tumble past her lips, while Eskel does his best to disprove every single mage who ever claimed that witchers can’t blush.

“Oh, dear child. No, that was not my intention, bless your heart. No offence, but you look a tad young for my taste.” 

Eskel refrains from telling the countess that he’s probably older than her, figuring he has already embarrassed himself enough for one night. 

“Forgive me, I… I have no words.”

“Now, Eskel, do stop your squirming and join me for a spot of tea? My intentions will become clear in a moment, if you do pardon the innuendo.” 

Eskel realises in that instant that Countess Mignole and Vesemir are perfectly matched, truly, a match made in heaven and blessed by the gods themselves. What’s the harm in sharing tea with her? After all, he still needs to eat. His stomach makes itself known then, and Eskel barely flinches at the sound. He still brings one hand to his abdomen to stifle the sound somewhat, but the flush that creeps up his neck has nothing to do with that. 

Huh. When did he stop feeling conscious about the sounds his body makes? 

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll have the maid prepare some tea. Help yourself to biscuits, I just need to fetch something from my study. Shan’t be long, dear Eskel.” 

Eskel sinks down in the comfortable seat, feeling every muscle in his body relax for the first time in… weeks, probably. He barely bites back a satisfied groan at the sensation of plush cushions supporting his back. The biscuits on the table look inviting enough. Eskel leans forward and grabs one from the plate, feeling his stomach growl once again. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as he brings the biscuit to his lips and takes the tiniest bite out of it. This, he realises, is the first time he’s eaten of his own initiative since travelling with Geralt. He doesn’t know why that realisation makes him so emotional.

As Eskel waits for Mignole to return, he is suddenly reminded of his conversation with Vesemir months ago, when his mentor realised just how much weight Eskel had lost. “Who’s Mignole?” “Doesn’t matter who she is… what matters here, for the purposes of our conversation, is that she also developed an aversion to food. Not to punish herself, though. She starved herself to conform to these made-up ideals of noble society.” Eskel’s heart lurches in his chest and settles in his throat. Fuck, is this some kind of intervention? He doesn’t know if he can handle another one, not after Geralt breathing down his neck for months now. 

When Mignole returns with her maid in tow, carrying a heavy platter despite her petite frame, Eskel is on his feet instantly offering to help. The maid levels him with a surprised look bordering on defiant. “I’m fine, master witcher, thank you. I may not have your muscles, but I can certainly still carry a platter by myself.” Well, consider him told. Eskel voices a genuine apology before sitting back down in the frankly sinfully comfortable chair, noticing the smirk on the countess’ face. 

“Thank you, Marina, you may leave us now.” Mignole waits until the servant is out of the room to shoot Eskel a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t mind her. She comes from a large family of brothers. Her mother died young, so she had to take over the ‘wifely’ duties in her household while her father worked at the docks. A strong-willed woman, that one, but I know your offer came from the goodness of your heart.”

“Times are changing, my lady,” says Eskel, feeling every bit the century-old man that he is, “gallantry is often mistaken for misogyny nowadays.” 

“Hm, indeed. My father used to say the same thing.” Oh boy, way to make Eskel feel ancient. “Thank you for accepting to stay for tea. I know you must think this visit strange, but all will become clear.” 

“Certainly not the strangest thing that’s happened to me over the years, my lady.”

“Please, call me Mignole.” She offers a kind smile before pouring tea in two cups. “My lady makes me feel… well, old. Besides, I’m only a lady by virtue of my husband.” 

“A lady nonetheless,” Eskel reaffirms as he accepts the cup Mignole hands him. His hands are large enough that the tiny piece of crockery can fit in the palm of his hand, but he doesn’t comment on that and diligently takes a sip. “Thank you.” 

“I see you had a biscuit,” Mignole remarks conversationally, like she’s discussing the weather, “I’m glad.” 

“Look, I don’t want to seem rude, especially since you’ve been so kind to me, but…” Eskel bites his lower lip, trying to find the right words, “why exactly did you invite me here? Surely it’s not just to hear about Vesemir.” 

“Oh no, darling, don’t be silly. Vesemir and I have been writing to each other for years. Ever since my husband died when I was still a young woman, Vesemir and I have grown very fond of each other again. But I understand your curiosity and of course, you deserve to know. Vesemir has told me about your struggles over the winter. I recognised your medallion and your description, so I thought I’d invite you over. Vesemir may have mentioned that I, too, struggled with a similar affliction.” 

Eskel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to hide how awkward this conversation feels for him. 

“Did he ask you to speak to me?” 

“Not at all. But he is worried about you.” Mignole’s smile turns sad, almost melancholic, as she hands Eskel a folded piece of paper. “In fact, he came to me for advice when he realised how bad it was. Now, understand that these are his private thoughts, and if he asks, you didn’t get them from me. But I believe that you should see them anyway. I know that for me, knowing how much people close to me cared about my health gave me a reason to change my habits.” 

Eskel swallows thickly past the lump in his throat as he hesitantly reaches for the letter in Mignole’s hands. He should probably refuse to read this letter, Vesemir’s private thoughts as the countess put it, but part of Eskel wants to know, craves to know exactly what his mentor thought of his… habits. Sure, Vesemir voiced his concern over winter, but Eskel could never be sure that he meant it. This might be his only chance. 

He exhales shakily one last time before opening the letter.

My dearest Mignole,

Forgive me for not writing to you earlier, my sweet, but this winter has been a difficult one for all of us. I hope you won’t mind me foregoing the usual formalities and questions about your health - I trust that everything is well and know that I think about you daily, and wish that you were here to counsel me on what to do.

I have something urgent to ask of you, sweet Mignole. I have told you about my eldest pup Eskel on many occasions now. A kind one, perhaps too kind for his own well-being. The world needs a witcher with a heart like Eskel’s, but the world certainly doesn’t deserve him. He's a good man, and most days, I'm not sure where he learned it from. In recent months, however, he has changed, and not for the better. He’s ill, my sweet. Very ill. Last winter he looked strong and healthy, but this year he’s barely flesh and bones. The last time I saw someone that thin, I almost lost the love of my life, and my own dear friend.

I hate to drag up past hurts, my dear, but I need whatever advice you can give me. It kills me inside to see him this way. I have lost too many of my pups to lose another, and certainly not like this. Eskel, Geralt and Lambert are the only pups I have left, so the universe will forgive me, I’m sure, for being protective of them. I haven't been the best to them, nor to Eskel specifically, and I realize that now. The pup deserved better than me, but I couldn’t give that to him. I wish for more time with Eskel, to show him how much I care, but I fear I will never receive that if he continues to go down this path. So, please, my love, if there is anything you can tell me to help him, I am willing to listen. I can't lose him. I can't lose any of them.

Eskel rereads the letter once, twice, three times… his heart clenches a bit more every time he reaches the end of the letter and notices the smudged writing. If Eskel concentrates hard enough, he can smell the saltiness of Vesemir’s tears on the paper. When he looks up, the countess is staring at him with her kind brown eyes, and all the tender and motherly affection Eskel doesn’t remember ever feeling. As he opens his mouth to speak, he and the countess hear a commotion in the front room, followed by Marina’s high-pitched shriek and the metallic clang of a pan hitting something - or someone - with brute force. The pained groan, undoubtedly belonging to a male intruder, forces Eskel onto his feet. He fights the dizziness long enough to draw his sword and shield Mignole with his own body. 

“Marina, what in the world -”

“Mistress!” Marina shouts as she hurries into the reception room, looking flushed and terrified, “mistress, another witcher with cat eyes, my lady. Long white hair-”

“Geralt is here?” Eskel exclaims, instantly lowering his sword when he sees his brother in the doorway, holding his head with one hand and bracing himself against the doorframe with the other. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Geralt grates, his eyes blinking as if in a daze as he forces his vision to clear, “I was coming to find you, you dumbass. Taking on a contract by yourself? In an old townhouse basement? What the… ouch , fuck, that hurts like a bitch!”

“ Language , young man,” the countess scoffs, jutting her chin out in a haughty manner, “you already broke into my house and startled my maid, the least you could do is watch your manners.” 

The look of utter dismay on Geralt’s face is what does it for Eskel. He laughs harder than he has in months, ignoring the glare his brother levels him with. 

“Care to explain what’s going on?” Geralt grouses as he sheathes his sword and straightens up. 

“In a minute,” Eskel manages between fits of laughter. He can’t remember the last time he felt so carefree and happy . 

Huh. Happy, eh? Certainly progress, indeed. 

__________

Once the two witchers left her house some hours later, bellies full and, in Eskel’s case, aching from all the laughing, Mignole sits at her desk and dips her quill in the inkpot by the candle. She brings the tip of her quill to paper and lets the familiar scratching sound fill the room and wash over her in calming waves.

My dearest love Vesemir,

You won’t believe who I had over for tea and supper today. Before I say anything else, I want you to know that I need to replace my front door because your sons are heathens. You may be called "wolf" witchers, but you're not actually animals! You do realize this, correct?

Chapter Text

Eskel wishes he didn’t have to say goodbye to his youngest brother so soon. Not that he hates travelling with Geralt, but Eskel missed Lambert all year and separating from him after only two weeks hurts more than he wishes to let on. He follows Geralt back into the forest, intent on walking the Path as always, but not before pulling Lambert into a bone-crushing hug.

“I’ll see you soon, brother,” Lambert whispers, patting Eskel’s back. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. And remember that it’s okay to struggle sometimes.”

A few tears may have tried to escape Eskel’s eyes at those words, but neither witcher mentioned it. Instead, Eskel bid farewell to Jaskier, and he made sure to give Aiden an equally warm departure. The Cat kept good company throughout Midaëte, and if Eskel and Geralt hinted to Lambert about bringing Aiden to Kaer Morhen for the upcoming winter, well, Vesemir wasn’t there to argue.

Geralt leads Eskel across the Continent for the better part of two months until they come across another witcher. This time, it’s not exactly a witcher they would have liked to meet. Really, Eskel would have greatly preferred Coën over this guy. Gods, Eskel wants to walk in the other direction the second he hears,

“Wandered t' the wrong neck of the woods, wolf?”

A low growl comes from Geralt as he tenses, fingers itching to grab his sword. Eskel can’t say he’s too far off from doing the same thing. Eskel watches as the giant witcher lumbers towards them, and for a moment, Eskel thinks he can take him, only to remember that Eskel can’t...because he’s not as large as he used to be anymore. If Eskel can’t handle archespores or drowners, then he certainly can’t take on a man who kills those monsters for a living.

“What do you want, Letho?” Geralt snarls, amber eyes piercing the Viper as he makes his way over to them.

Letho crosses his arms, raising an unamused eyebrow in Geralt’s direction. “I should be askin’ you that, puppy,” he teases, ignoring Geralt and Eskel’s warning growls at the name. “You’re the one who’s driftin’ too close t' Gorthur Gvaed.”

“Last I checked,” Eskel huffs, “Gorthur Gvaed is gone. No reason for you to be here either.”

Eskel should’ve kept his mouth shut. The way Letho’s snake eyes lock onto Eskel and rake him up and down almost leaves Eskel shuddering. A look passes over Letho’s face, gone as soon as it appeared, but the smell that reaches Eskel’s nose says all he needs to know: disgust.

Geralt takes a step forward, eyes flashing in the morning sun as he glares at the other witcher. “Fuck off, Letho. We’re just passing through.”

“Don’t seem like you’re gonna go far with the way he’s lookin’,” Letho muses, jerking his chin in Eskel’s direction. Eskel grits his teeth, his body starting to shake with the barely restrained urge to unsheathe his sword. Letho hasn’t made any movement as a threat, so Eskel won’t start a fight, but let it be known that Eskel’s bountiful patience is wearing thin.

“Leave off,” Geralt threatens, voice low and dark. Every muscle in Geralt’s body coils, ready to lash out at Letho for something as simple as words. Eskel reaches out, placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. His brother glances at him from the corner of his eye. Eskel shakes his head lightly. It’s not worth it. 

A short, sardonic laugh comes from Letho’s direction, and both wolves scowl at him. Letho levels them with an amused smirk, eyebrow raised. “Really, wolf?” Letho asks, shaking his head lightly at Geralt. “Taking orders from nothin’ but a frail runt?”

The acrid scent of rage floods Eskel’s sinuses, and he isn’t sure who reeks of it more: him or Geralt. For his credit, the White Wolf steps in front of Eskel, teeth bared at the Kingslayer himself. Had Eskel been a little less angry, he would have been equally warmed and annoyed by Geralt’s protective stance. As much as Eskel wishes he could say he can defend himself, he knows he can’t, not like this. 

“Let us pass, snake,” Geralt rumbles. It is a commonly known fact that the Wolves hate Cats, but the Vipers are just as bad. For as amicable as Eskel tries to be, he can only stay so partial when it comes to human contracts. Needless to say, Letho isn’t exactly a favourite of any of the Wolves, and Eskel, for once, wishes he had his old bulk to take Letho on in a fight. His Signs haven’t recovered either, which contributes another downfall to his situation.

“No point in that, wolf,” Letho muses, tilting his head. “We’re just gonna end up in the same direction anyway.”

Geralt snorts derisively. “Unlike you, we have a keep to go to. You can curl up in a cave for all I care.”

A smug smirk crosses Letho’s face as he regards the two witchers in front of him. “Take it old Vesemir didn’t tell you?” At Geralt and Eskel’s confused looks, he chuckles. “I got an invitation t' winter with you all.”

“What?” Eskel protests, while Geralt bristles beside him. “That’s impossible. Vesemir wouldn’t invite a Viper into his keep willingly. He barely tolerates Cats.”

Letho shrugs, seeming all too proud of himself. “What can I say? I was as surprised as you are. Either way, travellin’ separately wouldn’t be beneficial to any of us, would it? We’d only continue to bump into each other since we’re goin’ up the same way.”

As loath as Eskel is to admit it, Letho has a point. Avoiding each other would be nigh impossible since they’re headed in the same direction. It would be a continuous back and forth as they passed each other. Besides, travelling with Letho could bring some promising benefits as well. For one, Geralt wouldn’t have to take contracts alone. They have their differences, but Geralt and Letho could find a way to work with each other when it involves monster hunting. Letho may be a bastard, but he wouldn’t leave Geralt to die, and vice versa. It would certainly ease Eskel’s mind.

The problem lies with Eskel himself. Travelling together means Letho sees Eskel at his worst. Vacationing with Aiden and Jaskier for Midaëte was one thing. At least then Eskel could hide his issues behind closed doors with Geralt or Lambert, but with Letho, they’re out in the open, no doors to hide Eskel’s shame. Eskel has improved since they left Kaer Morhen, but he still has moments where he can’t eat as much as he would like, or perhaps he gets ill from consuming certain foods. 

But do those worries justify making Geralt hunt alone?

Geralt opens his mouth to argue, likely ready to tell Letho to fuck off, but Eskel stops him with a squeeze to his shoulder. Geralt looks at him once more, and they exchange a silent conversation between the two of them. A frown mars Geralt’s face, but Eskel holds fast, firm in his decision that it would be best for Letho to tag along. Besides, it’s not like they’re terribly far from Kaer Morhen. They’ll be travelling together for the majority of autumn, but Geralt and Eskel had intended to arrive at the keep early this year. Lambert and Aiden won’t be far behind.

“If you two are done eye-fuckin’ each other,” Letho says, clearly unamused, “we should get a move on. Auckes and Serrit are on their way, and if you have a problem with me, they’ll certainly have a problem with you.”

“Your little snakelets aren’t joining us, Letho,” Geralt snaps, nipping that thought in the bud. Eskel agrees. It’s enough that Letho is accompanying them, but having two more Vipers tag along is more than they can handle. Not to mention how much more supplies they’ll have to haul up the Trail to accommodate all the newcomers.

Letho rolls his eyes. “They’re stayin’ here. We’re fixin’ up Gorthur Gvaed. They’ll be in charge of the keep while I’m with you for the winter.”

“Abandoning them?” Geralt sneers.

“Never.” Letho scowls at the two of them, displeased at the insinuation. “For all your questions, you should know it is none of your concern why I’m winterin’ at Kaer Morhen. I’m there as a favour for Vesemir. He and Ivar may have had their conflicts, but I respect the wolf enough to help when he needs it.” Letho eyes Eskel up and down scrutinizingly. “Though it seems like he’s not the only one.”

“First thing to note if you’re coming with us,” Geralt warns, keeping his voice low and threatening, “watch how you fucking address my brother.”

Eskel feels a spark of annoyance at Geralt’s overprotective display. He pushes it aside and clears his throat. Geralt may be trying to help, but Eskel can speak for himself. Eskel glares at Letho, not letting the Viper’s insults affect him.

“You can join us, snake,” Eskel acquiesces, “but you better pull your weight.”

Letho hums, an amused scoff escaping him. “I can pull my weight. Just hope you can pull yours. Hm...not that there’s much to carry.”

With that, Letho turns away, heading off to grab his supplies and packs. Geralt reeks of rage as he glares daggers in the direction Letho disappeared off to. Eskel sighs and bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. His brother barely acknowledges him.

“You alright there, wolf?”

“I hate him,” Geralt declares, shoulders slumping forward.

“Me, too, brother. Me, too.”

__________

For the better part of the first day, walking the Path with Letho involves very little fighting. Eskel expected a lot of growling on Geralt’s side and snide remarks from Letho, but they seem to behave well enough with a certain amount of distance between them. True, Eskel works as some kind of buffer for the two of them, but he hardly has to say a word. They travel in relative silence, Geralt occasionally sending affirming glances Eskel’s way. Though they don’t say anything, they understand each other perfectly fine through simple looks and body gestures. Today alone, Geralt has asked Eskel if he needs to stop fourteen times. Yes, Eskel has a running tally going.

When night falls over them, Geralt calls it quits and declares that they rest in the woods off the path. Letho gives a disapproving grunt, likely ready to argue that they can travel just as well through the night as they can during the day, but he says nothing. To be fair, he plays his role in setting up camp. Letho drags a couple of fallen logs he found in the forest into the clearing, giving them ample seating for the night. He takes over hunting for dinner while Eskel and Geralt set up the bedrolls and get the fire going. Once he’s out of earshot, the Wolves take advantage of the privacy.

“I don’t like him,” Geralt says, and while he might say it isn’t a pout, Eskel can definitely admit his brother looks like a child who couldn’t get a honey cake.

Eskel smirks, chuckling softly. “I don’t like him either, Geralt, but if Vesemir said…”

“We don’t know if Vesemir actually invited him,” Geralt points out, levelling Eskel with a serious glare.

Eskel halts from where he’s setting down the bedrolls. He gives Geralt his full attention, noting the tense shoulders and crossed arms. Anxiety wafts in the air between them, and for once, it doesn’t come from Eskel. The older witcher sighs, wracking his brain for something to calm Geralt down, but it appears his brother isn’t finished.

Geralt glances over to the treeline where Letho disappeared, keeping his voice down like Letho can hear them from wherever he wandered off to. “Vesemir hates Vipers just as much as he hates Cats. He won’t even let Aiden come into the keep, a Cat we have all befriended, but he’ll invite Letho? No, I don’t buy it.”

“Geralt, Ves does a lot of things we don’t really understand. He has reasons for his actions, even if we’re not privy to them all the time. Maybe he did invite Letho. We don’t know. We’ve been gone for months.” At Geralt’s scowl, Eskel tilts his head, giving his brother a gentle look. “Look, if Letho pisses us off while we’re travelling, we’ll ditch him and send a letter to Vesemir saying that we don’t want the snake in the keep during winter, deal?”

“He’s already pissing me off,” Geralt mumbles under his breath. Eskel half-expects him to kick a pebble on the ground angrily or stomp his feet in a little tantrum.

Eskel opens his mouth to respond, but they hear leaves rustling as Letho approaches, loud enough that he’s likely making noise to not startle them. Inwardly, Eskel cringes. He used to make noise every time he walked, no matter how silent he tried to be. How could Letho mask his footsteps, but Eskel couldn’t?

The large witcher makes his way into the clearing, a deer slung over his shoulder. He regards the campsite as he sets down the deer, unsheathing a knife to skin it. He notices the lack of a campfire and hums. Before he can say anything, Geralt cuts him off.

“Shut up. We’re gonna grab sticks in a minute,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

Letho raises an eyebrow. “Sticks? Why would we need sticks when we got one right here?” 

Eskel’s eye almost twitches as Letho’s words sink in. Geralt lets out a threatening growl, scowling at Letho. It’s basically his instinctual reaction to Letho at this rate, but Eskel doesn’t pay his brother much mind. Instead, he glares at the Viper, clearly unamused. Letho looks back at him with a smug grin, knowing damn well what he said and meaning it.

“Fuck off, Letho,” Geralt snaps, fists clenching.

Letho shrugs, unbothered by Geralt’s posturing. “You can’t look at me and tell me he doesn’t look like one. Could probably take him over my knee and snap him in half. Think he’d make the sound of a stick breaking, too?”

Taking a deep breath, Eskel ignores Letho and climbs to his feet. “I hate you,” he mutters, heading off to find decent wood for their fire. Behind him, he can hear Geralt arguing with Letho, though it’s more one-sided than it should be.

By the time dinner finishes cooking over the fire, Eskel has sat beside Geralt, slumped onto his brother’s shoulder in exhaustion. His energy fluctuates as much as his appetite does. Eskel may be doing better in terms of eating and gaining weight, but he still has moments where he feels too drained, eyes drooping closed and not of his own volition. He watches Letho turn the deer meat, checking to see if their dinner has properly cooked, before serving it to them on their wooden plates. Letho shows Eskel his plate, checking to see if he wants more.

Eskel looks at his portion, noting how it almost covers the entire bottom of the dish. He grimaces, looking up at Geralt, who hums and nods. Eskel turns back to Letho.

“Uh, less than that.”

Letho scrapes a bit of the food from Eskel’s plate onto his own, then raises it for Eskel to see. “There.”

Eskel hesitates, holding his breath before saying, “...less.”

“Seriously?” Letho asks, raising an eyebrow. He scrapes off a little more from Eskel’s plate, leaving less than half of Eskel’s original meal sitting there. He shows it to Eskel again. “Better?”

When Eskel doesn’t respond, simply staring at the plate with a distant look in his eyes, Letho turns to glare at Geralt. “Really, wolf?”

For once, Geralt doesn’t snarl or snap at Letho. Instead, he nods solemnly, licking his lips. “Yeah. His stomach can’t handle it.”

Letho hums quietly to himself. He takes off a small piece from Eskel’s plate and dumps it onto his own. By now, Letho’s plate nearly overflows, while the meat on Eskel’s doesn’t cover a third of it. He looks at the two wolves and shoves the plate into Eskel’s hands.

“That’s as far as I’m goin’,” Letho says, tone brooking no room for an argument. Eskel purses his lips, no longer in the mood to banter back and forth with the stubborn witcher. Geralt takes his portion without protest, and the three of them sit in silence, eating their dinner.

Eskel picks at his food, feeling Letho’s eyes boring into him from the opposite side of the fire. Geralt shifts next to him as he eats, occasionally nudging Eskel into eating when he sees his brother pause for too long. Eskel has been getting better in that aspect, eating on his own, but something about Letho’s presence puts him off. He does his best to clean off his plate, eating at a pace that avoids stomach cramps. The last thing he wants is to get sick with Letho nearby.

When he heads to sleep that night, he can hear Letho and Geralt conversing quietly, keeping their voices at a whisper they hope Eskel can’t hear. They must figure him asleep because neither censors themselves when they talk.

“You can’t keep enablin’ him, wolf,” Letho grunts, his voice no longer teasing and taking on a much more serious tone.

Geralt lets out a long, resigned sigh, and Eskel wants to cringe at how tired his brother sounds. Eskel thought he was doing better, but maybe he isn’t doing as well as he believes. 

“He ends up in pain if he eats too much," Geralt confesses. There’s a soft rustling in Geralt’s direction, likely him running a hand through his hair. “He takes trips to the privy because he can’t handle dairy anymore. What am I supposed to do?”

Letho must take pity on Geralt because Eskel can hear him take a deep breath. “No one ever said it was gonna be pretty, but let’s be honest, when has he ever been pretty?”

The growl Eskel has been anticipating from Geralt finally comes, hackles rising at the mention of someone insulting Eskel. He allows himself a small smile, grateful that his back is turned to them. If there is one thing Eskel is sure of in this endeavour, it’s that his brothers are behind him all the way, and he loves them for it.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Geralt rumbles, the scent of anger rolling off of him.

“Relax, puppy, and go cuddle with your favourite stick.”

Eskel toys with the idea of opening his eyes just to glare at Letho, but then Geralt starts muttering something under his breath that Eskel can’t quite hear. Before he can think too much about it, he hears Geralt’s bedroll being kicked until it aligns behind Eskel. Geralt lays down, pressing himself against Eskel’s back and throwing an arm over his hip. Eskel tries not to react, but Geralt is holding him close, disregarding all of Eskel’s worries about his new layer of blubber. Geralt acts like there isn’t a damn thing to be grossed out about, and instead, the scent of contentment floods his sinuses while Geralt purrs lightly. Eskel can hear Letho moving about their campsite, but he doesn’t care, settling into Geralt’s warmth and sinking into a peaceful slumber.

__________

Eskel wants to kill Letho and Geralt.

The peace from the first day has fled, making way for weeks of constant bickering, growling, and taunting. Eskel’s head pounds, and for once, it’s not from the lack of food. He’s actually been eating well since Letho joined them, but Eskel can’t savour the moment without hearing Geralt barking at Letho and Letho insulting him back.

“You two are like godsdamn children,” Eskel groans, rubbing his throbbing temple with two fingers. Scorpion lingers behind Letho and Geralt’s horses, seemingly wanting to escape the arguing, too. Eskel doesn’t blame him.

“Why the hell did Vesemir invite you?” Geralt huffs, turning his head from Letho.

Letho rolls his eyes. “Maybe because I offer more than whinin’ when I don’t get my way.”

“Boys, you’re both pretty,” Eskel sighs. “Can you shut up now?”

“You’re one t' talk,” Letho remarks, giving Eskel an appraising look. “You look like shit.”

Eskel scowls. “Fuck off, snake.”

Shrugging, Letho continues, “Jus’ sayin’. Musta been hard t' get contracts if you can’t even eat.”

“It was a choice,” Eskel argues, ignoring how Geralt flinches slightly at that. He’ll apologize to his brother later, but right now, he would like Letho to shut up.

Letho snorts, shaking his head. “A fuckin’ dumb choice.”

Eskel takes a deep breath, calming his rising annoyance as he sarcastically answers, “I’m watching my figure.”

“Watch it closer. It’s slippin’ away from you.”

“What does it matter to you?” Eskel snaps, finally reaching his breaking point as a smirk crosses Letho’s face. Eskel takes it back. He agrees with Geralt. He’ll face Vesemir’s anger if it just means they can ditch Letho somewhere in the backwoods of bumfuck nowhere.

“It doesn’t,” Letho replies simply, “but I’m just sayin’, lose any more weight and you’ll disappear into thin air. I could snap you like a twig.”

Eskel gears up for another argument, but Geralt cuts through with an exaggerated huff. He turns to his brother, meeting Geralt’s deadpan glare. 

“So much for me and Letho acting like children,” Geralt mutters. “You two are doing the same thing!”

“Hush it, puppy,” Letho muses. “The adults are talking.”

If anyone ever asks, Eskel will forever deny the high-pitched whine of despair he makes when Letho and Geralt start up again. For people who don’t speak much, the two witchers argue nonstop, and Eskel prays to Melitele for silence.

Just a couple more months, Eskel, he reminds himself. Just a couple more months.

__________

Waking to sore muscles and an aching head is never Eskel’s idea of a good time. He figures it has nothing to do with a hangover since Geralt won’t let Eskel even look at alcohol, but Eskel can’t figure out what else would cause him to feel so damaged. He opens his eyes, confusion setting in when he’s greeted with a wooden ceiling. What? Weren’t they just walking their horses along the path?

Eskel groans quietly, rubbing his palms over his eyes. “What happened?”

“Mornin’, princess,” Letho’s voice greets cheerfully. Well, as cheerful as Letho can sound. Eskel groans louder. Dammit. Where’s Geralt, and why the hell did he leave him with the snake? “You fainted.”

“Fuck.”

“Like a damsel in distress,” he adds unnecessarily. Eskel glances over, spotting Letho in a chair that’s much too small for him. The Viper sits at a table tucked into a corner, sword in his lap as he slides a whetstone down the flat of his blade.

“Why am I so sore?” Eskel asks, grimacing when he shifts on the bed, his muscles aching in protest. He scrabbles to get into a more comfortable position, but every spot makes his pains very well known.

Letho snorts, turning his attention back to his sword. “As I said, you fainted.”

Eskel closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and attempts to gather the amount of patience he knows he’ll need. He can only take so much when it comes to Letho, and if he wants to find out what happened, it’s best he doesn’t get pissed immediately. When he thinks he has enough to get him through the conversation until Geralt gets back from wherever the fuck he ran off to, Eskel asks,

“And you didn’t catch me?”

The look Letho gives him is sobering. Deadpan and unamused, Letho replies, “Do I look like a suitor vying for your hand? Of course, I didn’t.”

Eskel takes it back. He doesn’t have enough patience. He hates this man. Where is Geralt? “Asshole.”

Shrugging, Letho remains unfazed and turns back to his task. “If you don’t want it t' happen again, eat. I won’t be responsible if you crack your head open next time.”

The door opens before Eskel’s mouth does. Eskel turns his head, willing to look at anything that isn’t Letho’s face. Geralt makes his way into the room, expression contorted into one of concern. In his hands rests a plate of food, and Eskel already knows where this is going. He props himself up against the headboard, grunting slightly at the pain in his back. Geralt makes a soft noise, drawing Eskel’s attention to him.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, handing over the plate to Eskel.

“Yeah, just sore. What happened?” Eskel pauses, swallowing thickly. “Geralt, I swear I ate.”

Geralt sighs quietly. “I know. It was a mix of heatstroke and exhaustion. You weren’t drinking enough water, and you hadn’t taken a rest yet.”

“It didn’t feel like I needed one,” Eskel whispers, trying to put all of his honesty into that one sentence. He means it. He didn’t think he needed a break, hasn’t needed one for almost a week now.

“I believe you,” Geralt assures gently, “but you still need to take it easy.”

“And eat everythin' on that plate,” Letho cuts in. Geralt and Eskel turn to glare at him, but Letho levels them with a glare of his own.

Eskel can help but act contrary. He was going to eat everything on the plate, but now he doesn’t want to just because Letho ordered him to. Eating all of it now makes it seem like Eskel’s listening to him, which he’s not. He’s choosing to eat this all on his own. 

“What are you gonna do if I don’t?” Eskel argues, rolling his eyes. “Force-feed me?”

“Do I look like your mother?” Letho scoffs. He shakes his head and sets his sword aside.

Eskel hums contemplatively. “A bit too ugly for that.”

Letho snickers, standing up and heading over to his packs. Eskel watches him scrounge around while ignoring how Geralt sits on the bed beside him, spectating the argument and making sure it doesn’t go too far out of hand.

“I don’t know,” Letho continues. “Seeing the way you turned out, it can’t have been far off.”

“Shut up, Letho,” Geralt warns, but Eskel pays no mind. Instead, he draws his plate closer to him, picking at the carrots and pieces of beef scattered about. 

“Have you always been such an ass?” Eskel murmurs.

Letho grunts, finally finding the oil he was looking for and heading back to his sword. “Just get on with it. I don’t wanna be stuck in this dump for another day. Eat more beef, too. That shit ain’t cheap.”

Eskel glances at Geralt, who pointedly avoids Eskel’s gaze. That tells Eskel all he needs to know about how much his brother spent on his food. The thought makes Eskel frown, but Geralt continues to not look at him, choosing to close his eyes and lean back against the headboard.

“Letho’s right. You should eat,” Geralt muses, keeping his tone light and far too innocent.

With a huff, Eskel finally stabs at the beef and stuffs it in his mouth. “Bastards.”

__________

Ard Carraigh brings a sense of relief Eskel needs after the past few months. Eskel can’t wait to finally trek up the Trail, lock himself in his room, and enjoy blessed peace and quiet for more than three seconds. If Eskel had to hear Letho and Geralt bicker one more time, he thinks he might actually kill them both. Tonight, they’ll stay in Ard Carraigh, collect their supplies to head up the Trail, and then-

They have to stay in Ard Carraigh.

Eskel’s blood runs as cold as the chill of the late autumn air. The only inn Ard Carraigh hosts belongs to none other than Ivan. Between this time last year to now, Eskel has gained back a decent amount of weight. Though he isn’t what he used to be, Eskel can see the layer of fat over his belly starting to grow, and his thighs cover up more of his seat whenever he sits down. His arms jiggle a bit, too. Ivan told him last year that he looked good when he was thin, that he was on his way to becoming a “stud.” 

All thoughts of escaping the perpetual arguments flee Eskel’s mind as his anxiety grows. Gathering supplies means visiting Winifred for medicinal purposes, and she said he looked good, too. She had even been attracted to him. When he visits her shop, will she gaze at him with disappointment in her eyes? Will she shake her head, clicking her tongue, and commenting on how he let himself go?

Eskel drifts closer to Geralt absentmindedly. His brother sends him a sceptical look, but Eskel doesn’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t know how to explain this, only that he dreads entering the inn. Letho strides beside them, and Eskel braces himself for the amount of shit-talking the Viper will entertain Ivan with when it comes to Eskel. 

Letho pushes open the inn door at Geralt’s instruction, seeming a bit disbelieving that someone willingly houses witchers for free. Eskel resists the urge to pull up his hood, knowing that would set Geralt off faster than anything. He toys with the idea of using the horses as an excuse to escape, but Geralt already has their reins tied to the fence post outside the inn and is following Letho through the door. Eskel sighs to himself. There is no point in delaying the inevitable, though Eskel wishes he could.

The inn has a few patrons sitting around the dining area, but for the most part, it’s relatively empty. The smell of alcohol and fresh dinner has Eskel’s stomach grumbling, and he presses a hand to his abdomen, suddenly self-conscious of noises he barely registered for the past two seasons. He feels eyes on him from behind, but he doesn’t turn around. The staircase to his left seems particularly inviting for the simple reason that closed doors sit at the top, a place where Eskel can hide away from prying eyes.

Ivan turns around from where he washes dishes, a smirk on his face that quickly fades upon seeing Letho. “Huh. A new one, eh?”

Letho raises an eyebrow, leaning to the side enough to expose Geralt and Eskel. Eskel looks away, not willing to meet Ivan’s face and choosing to glance at the front door instead. He hears Geralt take a few steps forward to engage Ivan, but the innkeeper continues on.

“Ah, Geralt. Vesemir came down just last week, said ta expect ya and two other witchers. Guessin’ this is one of ‘em?” 

“Hm. Letho,” Geralt introduces briefly. “Letho, Ivan.”

Eskel hears Letho grunt as a greeting, something much colder than what he first gave Geralt and Eskel back at Gorthur Gvaed, but Eskel can’t linger on it long. He wonders if he can slip back out the front door, take Scorpion, grab Geralt’s supplies instead of his to avoid Winnie, and start his way up the Trail on his own. Geralt would be pissed at him ditching them, but if Eskel can get away from this stifling atmosphere, then it would be worth it. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to go far.

“And Eskel,” Ivan drawls. Eskel resists the urge to flinch, tearing his eyes away from the front door and looking over at the bald innkeeper. Ivan must not be impressed with what he sees because he sighs heavily, crossing his arms. “I see ya forgot our talk from last year.”

Eskel bites the inside of his cheek, noticing Geralt’s stare from his peripheral vision but choosing to ignore it. “I remember,” Eskel replies, keeping his voice low. 

Ivan seems to have no qualms about volume, though, speaking at a tone loud enough that almost the whole tavern can hear. “If that’s the case, then ya should know how disappointed I am.”

“Don’t know why it would affect you,” Eskel snarks back, feeling a well of annoyance spring open in his gut. Anxiety simmers there, too, but Eskel refuses to back down. He has people on his side now. He knows this. Geralt will defend him, even if Letho doesn’t.

“Real shame,” Ivan huffs. “Ya really let ya’self go this year, didn’t ya?”

Eskel thought he was prepared for those words, but the way his chest tightens tells him he wasn’t. He purses his lips, resisting the urge to look away from Ivan’s condescending eyes and failing. He averts his gaze to a spot over Ivan’s shoulder, a well of embarrassment and insecurity opening up in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Geralt tenses, but surprisingly, before Geralt says a word, Letho hums unhappily.

“What did you jus’ say t' him?”

Ivan raises an eyebrow, and Eskel almost wants to laugh at his audacity, but nothing about the situation is funny to him, and he only wants to go home to Kaer Morhen. Geralt steps closer to him, staying near enough that their shoulders touch. Eskel takes comfort in the silent reassurance, even if he prefers the safety behind a locked inn room door instead.

“Ya can’t tell me ya don’t see it,” Ivan scoffs, gesturing a hand at Eskel, who turns his eyes downward. 

Letho shifts, leaning his weight a little more forward. He isn’t hovering over Ivan, but Letho is large in every way, somehow towering over the old innkeeper despite being several feet away. “Dunno what you’re talking about. You’ll have t' be a little more precise.”

There’s an edge to Letho’s tone that sends a shiver running down Eskel’s spine, a sharp undertone that suggests Letho’s patience is wearing thin, and Ivan will be at the receiving end of his temper. The tavern has gone silent, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Eskel instinctively rests a placating hand on Letho’s bicep, a silent plea to not cause a scene. If Letho feels the touch, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Well, y’know,” Ivan continues, voice pitched slightly higher as he waves a hand in Eskel’s direction, “he’s lettin’ hi’self go. Was much fitter last year when I saw him.”

A contemplative hum comes from Letho, sounding much more patronizing than Eskel thought possible. “Big words comin’ from a man who parks his ass all day and personally drains half his liquor stock over the winter.”

“I...I beg ya pardon, sir?” Ivan stammers, looking taken aback as he stares at the larger witcher. He sends furtive glances to Eskel and Geralt, but Eskel himself remains too stunned to move. Geralt, on the other hand, has a hint of excitement in his eyes when Eskel shoots him a look. He’s enjoying this.

“Human anatomy never lies,” Letho muses, stalking forward. He takes short, slow steps, drawing out the time it takes for him to approach Ivan. The innkeeper backs up slightly, only to hit the sink behind him. Ivan has nowhere to go, and Letho wouldn’t let him even if Ivan tried. “The red nose, the flushed cheeks, the glassy eyes, the smell. You’re drunk. Probably not the first or last time this season, either.”

Ivan scowls, but he trembles like a leaf in a storm. Even Eskel can’t take him seriously when he snaps, “How dare ya-?”

“So it’s alright for you t’ comment on other people’s health,” Letho interrupts, speaking like he didn’t hear a word Ivan said, “but when I extend the same courtesy, you take offence? Smells awfully like double standards.” Letho finally reaches the front bar, uncrossing his arms to lean against the countertop. Ivan’s eyes drop to those bulging biceps, swallowing nervously. Letho’s voice drops an octave, and he leans forward into a trembling Ivan’s space. “And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people with double standards. Means they’re shifty. Means they’re likely t’ stab me in the back.”

Eskel sends a pleading look in Geralt’s direction, and his brother rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. He steps forward, clapping a hand on Letho’s shoulder and tugging. “Alright, Letho. That’s enough intimidating.”

Unlike with Eskel, Letho actually registers Geralt’s touch this time, straightening himself and taking a step back. He keeps his glare level with Ivan’s fearful eyes, though, looking composed as if he hadn’t just threatened a man. 

Geralt looks back at Ivan, who barely bites back a whimper at Geralt’s cold stare. He holds out a hand with his palm facing up, the movement making Ivan flinch. Geralt smirks with satisfaction and beckons with his fingers. “The key to our room, Ivan.”

Ivan scrambles to grab the key from beneath the counter, all but dropping it into Geralt’s hand and not wanting to touch the other witcher. Geralt hums, tucking the key away. He doesn’t move yet, eyeing the old innkeeper with a stern look.

“Watch yourself, Ivan. We won’t be as forgiving next time.”

Geralt turns back to face Eskel, giving him a meaningful glance that has Eskel falling into step beside him. Eskel doesn’t look at Ivan, his nerves far too frayed to handle any more... excitement after that. He hears Letho follow after them, but a squeak of terror tells Eskel that Letho must have done something to Ivan before leaving. Eskel keeps his mouth shut, his mind still whirling from the past few minutes as they make their way into their room. Geralt enters first, unlocking the door, and Letho closes it behind them. 

“You alright?” Geralt asks, facing Eskel and scanning his brother from head to toe. Eskel nods silently, not having the words to speak yet. Geralt clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t force anything, nodding in return. Letho watches the exchange then scoffs.

“You,” Letho starts, pointing a finger in Geralt’s direction, “need t’ keep your hands t’ yourself, and you”   - Letho points at Eskel - “need t’ grow a fuckin’ spine.”

Eskel nods again, words stuck in his throat as he sits at the room’s table and looks out the window. He doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t have the words to explain what happened down there. He’s been doing so well, but one look at Ivan, and his whole world came crashing down. To think he’ll have to face Winnie, too...

Geralt huffs, likely glaring at Letho. “Lay off him, snake. It’s been one hell of a day. Don’t need your shit piled on top of it.”

Letho growls, and that draws Eskel’s attention. He glances over to see Letho’s face contorted into anger. While it’s not rare for Letho to get angry, he doesn’t often show it, but it’s written plainly on his face this time. 

“You can’t do that,” Letho tells him, pinning Eskel with a strict glare. “If you let someone walk over you once, they’re gonna do it again. If someone’s fuckin’ wrong, correct them, put them in their place. No one gets t’ tell you that you’ve ‘let yourself go.’ It ain’t fuckin’ true, and we’ve all said it at one point. I’m sure the runt of your pack has said it, too.”

Eskel feels a familiar fire burn in him at Letho calling Lambert a “runt,” and he sees Geralt twitch at it also. Both of them keep quiet, though, letting Letho get his rant off his chest. For as much as Eskel would rather leave Letho in the forest, the man hasn’t been the worst to travel with. He helped Geralt with contracts, got Eskel food when he needed it, and stuck up for him when it counted. Eskel almost thinks there’s an ulterior motive there.

“Learn your fuckin’ boundaries, wolf,” Letho continues, voice low and dark, “‘cause ain’t no one gonna respect them if you don’t. What you got goin’ on, it ain’t healthy, and anyone tellin’ you otherwise is a fuckin’ moron.”

Their stares must make Letho uncomfortable because he scoffs, shaking his head and turning back to the door. “I’m gonna go stable the horses and grab dinner from somewhere that ain’t here,” he mutters, leaving the room and slamming the door behind him. They hear him thump down the hallway, likely making noise just to be petty and scare Ivan again. 

Once he’s gone, Geralt turns to Eskel, a slightly giddy grin on his face. “I think I like him now.”

Eskel sighs heavily. “I can’t wait ‘til Lambert and Aiden get here.”

__________

The next morning, Letho fetches breakfast while Eskel and Geralt make a list of supplies they’ll need to carry up to the keep. They’re expecting a couple more people than normal, so they add up the new totals and count the coin they have between the three of them. Likely, Vesemir has already paid for what they need, but that only accounts for the four Wolves. They need to account for the additional things Aiden and Letho need. When they fall short by a fair bit of coin, Geralt points out that Lambert and Aiden can pay their own way, too, and that settles that. All that comes after is figuring out who goes to grab what. 

Eskel knows he should tell Geralt that he really doesn’t want to see Winifred. If he can avoid her hut, that would be the best Yuletide gift he could ever ask for. The only thing that stops him is that Eskel always had a stop at Winifred’s hut because he’s the only one who didn’t have a problem with her. Geralt said she made him uncomfortable with the way she ogled him, and Lambert backed that up, also implying that Winnie’s a quack healer and “shit at her fucking job.” Eskel didn’t realize what they meant back then. He supposes he was never Winnie’s type until last year.

“You’re gonna be okay with heading to Winnie’s hut by yourself?” Geralt asks, leaning back in his chair.

Eskel shrugs, trying to hide his nervousness. He doesn’t want to tell Geralt that he’s uncomfortable and, in turn, make one of his brothers uncomfortable as well. For all they’ve done for him lately, they don’t deserve that. They could just as easily send Aiden or Letho to do this, but Letho’s done a lot, too, and no one knows better than the Wolves that the people of Ard Carraigh can be a bit...particular of who they associate with. They only help the Wolves out of familiarity. 

“Should be,” he answers, scooping his portion of coin into his purse. “Won’t take me long. Just don’t make me deal with Gregor.”

“The butcher? Why not?”

“He’s a dick and an asshole.”

Geralt gives a low whistle. “Both? Wow. What did he do to earn that?”

“Upped the prices of our meat on me last year,” Eskel mutters. “Gave me shit the whole time.”

“Lambert would’ve just knocked his teeth in if he tried that,” Geralt points out, giving Eskel a teasing smirk.

Eskel snorts. “Then send Lambert to do it. I’m not going.”

Geralt chuckles, grabbing his coin and stuffing it into his purse. The door opens to reveal Letho carrying food in his hands, but he doesn’t come alone. Behind him, Lambert and Aiden shuffle inside, sending them wide smiles as they enter the room. Eskel allows himself one cursory look over Aiden’s figure, noting that Aiden hasn’t lost a pound since they last saw each other. If anything, he looks a little plumper around the waistline, and Eskel’s mouth goes dry. Aiden wears it well, and Eskel briefly wonders if he can pull it off, too.

He doesn’t get to go down that road as Lambert strides up to them. Geralt and Eskel stand, arms reaching out to bring their youngest brother into a hug. They take a moment to scent each other, familiarize and assure themselves that their pack is almost complete. They just have to get to Kaer Morhen, greet Vesemir, and then they’ll all be together again.

Lambert pulls away first, giving Eskel a quick once-over and grinning at what he sees. Eskel feels his chest clench and a sense of pride bubbles up inside of him. Fuck Ivan. That’s the smile Eskel wants to see, and he resists the urge to bring Lambert back in for another hug.

“Lookin’ good, brother,” Lambert says to him, winking. He turns to Geralt and scrunches up his nose. “You look like shit, though.”

“And to think I prettied myself up for you,” Geralt deadpans, giving Lambert an unamused look.

Lambert shrugs. “What can I say? I’m hard to impress.”

Letho rolls his eyes, shoving Lambert out of the way easily and depositing their food on the table. He ignores the growling from everybody around him and says, “Didn’t get food for you and your alleycat. Figure it out yourself or starve.”

“We already ate, Letho,” Aiden hisses, crossing his arms, “but thanks for the kind offer.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Letho grabs his food and goes to lean against the windowsill. Lambert rolls his eyes, perching himself on the edge of one of the room’s beds. Aiden sits beside him, and they all face each other as Geralt and Eskel grab their own food. Eskel looks down at his portion. It’s more than what he’d normally eat, but not overly so. Letho must’ve taken into consideration how much he would be willing to try so early in the morning. He looks over at Letho and gives a thankful nod. He gets a curt one in response.

“So do you know what we need to get before heading up the Trail?” Lambert asks, slinging his swords off his back and resting them on the mattress.

Geralt hums, picking up a third list and handing it over. Lambert takes it, eyes following down the page while Aiden reads over his shoulder. “We each have our own stops to go to. You’re taking the butcher this season, though.”

“Thought that was Eskel’s job?”

Snorting, Geralt smirks at Eskel, who glares back at him. “Gregor pissed Eskel off last year.”

“Oh, lovely,”  Lambert drawls, but he grins when he looks at Eskel’s annoyed face. “Did you punch him?”

“I wanted to,” Eskel grumbles.

“Well then, boys, prepare for a great escape ‘cause if Eskel wanted to punch him, I certainly will, and something tells me the bastards here won’t take that lightly.”

Aiden reaches out, smacking Lambert on the shoulder. “Play nice.”

Lambert grins toothily at his lover. “Now, kitten. You know I don’t do that.”

Geralt gags, Eskel and Letho groaning at the sappy display. Lambert ignores them, choosing to kiss Aiden on the cheek and watch his lover grin happily.

“Get your own room!” Eskel snaps, but there’s no real heat to it. He’s happy for his brother, truly. It’s nice to see this playful side of Lambert.

Lambert sticks his tongue out at Eskel before grabbing his swords and standing. “I’ll get a head start on my stuff. Do we have enough coin for the extra shit?”

Eskel pushes the last pile of coin towards Lambert. It’s less than what Geralt and Eskel took, but they’re hoping Lambert will have enough on his own to cover the difference. “That’s all we can offer you besides what Ves already put down.”

Lambert hums, scooping the coin into his purse. “Should have enough on my own.”

“I can help with whatever else, Lamb,” Aiden offers, giving a one-shouldered shrug. Lambert waves him away, shaking his head. 

“Nah, we should be fine.” Lambert turns to his brothers. “I’ll meet you at the city gates?” When Geralt and Eskel nod, Lambert heads out. Aiden offers them a wave and smile, following after his wolf. As soon as they’re gone, Geralt turns to Letho.

“Don’t start a fight with him in Kaer Morhen.”

“The puppy or the kitten?”

“The fact that you even have to ask...” Eskel mutters, tearing off a piece from his bread roll. “Both.”

The three of them finish up their food and head downstairs after packing up their things. Ivan isn’t behind the bar when they leave, but Eskel can sense the innkeeper’s heartbeat in the kitchen. He allows himself a small, satisfied smile that he quickly wipes off. No need to be too proud of himself since he didn’t actually do anything.

They get their horses from the stables and take the carts sitting there. Usually, they’ll take the carts to carry supplies up to the keep and bring them back come spring, but this time, Geralt proposes to never give them back. 

“Compensation for dealing with that asshole for decades,” Geralt says, shrugging as he feeds Roach an apple. 

Upon reaching the town’s square, the three of them split up. It takes some arguing, but Eskel eventually gets Geralt to agree to take Letho, who tries not to look too annoyed about being babysat. Eskel knows Geralt wants to look out for him, but he also wants some time to himself and to get these supply runs dealt with as quickly as possible. His stomach also twists at the thought of going to Winnie’s hut, but he doesn’t mention that.

He doesn’t drag his way through his stops, but he does save the worst for last. Eskel looks down at himself, noticing how he fills out his britches more than he did last year. They still hang a bit looser around his thighs and hips, but they don’t sag completely and he doesn’t need to tuck in his shirt to pad the space between. Licking his lips, Eskel pauses in front of Winnie’s place and reaches a hand out to brush Scorpion’s neck. 

Scorpion nickers, bumping his head against Eskel’s chest. Eskel wobbles a little bit, but he keeps his footing, allowing him to bump his forehead against Scorpion’s in retaliation. He scratches behind his stallion’s ears, glancing into the cart attached to Scorpion’s harness. It looks a bit empty after giving up his meat supply run, but overall, he has everything he needs...except the damn medical supplies.

“Suppose it’s too much to ask of us not to get hurt while we’re up there this year, huh, Scorp?” Eskel sighs, brushing a hand down his companion’s nose.

Scorpion snorts in response, almost as if to say, It wouldn’t be if you weren’t the one fainting all the time.

Eskel purses his lips, nodding slowly. “Harsh, but true.” He lets out a long, deep breath. “Can’t avoid her forever anyway, can I?” Well, he could since he can outlive her, but Winnie is young and she’ll be around for some time yet.

Mind made up, Eskel steels his nerves. He gives Scorpion one last affectionate pat, then heads inside the small hut. He knocks on the wooden door, then pushes it open. His heart races in his chest, and he prepares himself for whatever comes next.

Winifred looks up from where she’s sorting herbs on the counter. At first, she greets him with a polite smile reserved for all customers. When she finally recognizes his face, her eyes light up, clearly excited to see him. For a moment, Eskel thinks this might actually go over well, but then Winnie’s eyes drift down, taking in his new weight. The light in her eyes dims, and her smile falters. Eskel avoids looking in the mirror hanging on the wall.

“Ah...Eskel. Welcome back. Had a good year?” she asks, raising her eyes to meet his. Winifred carefully avoids looking anywhere else on him, a complete change from her ogling last winter. Eskel feels his throat tighten as a new scent floods between them, something he smelled from Letho. 

Eskel is starting to cringe at the smell of disgust. 

“I did, actually,” Eskel replies, trying to keep his voice level. He gives her a gentle smile, but her eyes lock onto the right side of his face, making her flinch slightly. Eskel feels his confidence waver by the second. What was it Letho had said? Not to let people walk over him? It’s harder than it sounds.

Winnie nods curtly, giving a tight smile. “That’s good. I’m glad.” She bends down, likely reaching for the parcels Vesemir had ordered from her. Eskel comes closer, ready to take them from her and leave as soon as he has them. He planned with Geralt to add a little more to their stock, but honestly, Eskel doesn’t want to stay any longer than he needs to. They’ll survive with what they have now.

When she puts the packages down on the counter, she pauses, keeping her hands on top of them so Eskel can’t grab them yet. Her eyes stay downcast for a while, and Eskel shifts uncomfortably. After a minute or two, Winnie lets out a long sigh.

“You know, Eskel, as a healer, it’s my responsibility to make sure my clients are in good health.”

Eskel swears he hears the door open behind him, but the sound of his blood rushing through his ears drowns out any certainty he had. He focuses on Winnie’s words, dread filling him as he predicts her next statement. Deep down, Eskel thinks he knows what she’s going to say, but he desperately hopes that she won’t say it at all.

Winnie looks up at him, and Eskel nearly recoils at the overwhelming amount of pity and disappointment on her face. He hates it when his family looks at him like that, and he definitely hates it from someone who’s practically a stranger. He swallows past the lump in his throat. He should open his mouth to say something, to cut Winifred off and stop her impending scolding, but no words come out. 

“This new look of yours does not suit you, witcher,” Winnie admonishes, though her tone remains falsely polite, “and it can be very damaging to your health. I have seen you in past years, and you were unhealthy back then, too. You looked to be on the right track last winter, and I urge you to reconsider for the benefit of your health and-”

“Finish that sentence, I dare you.” 

Eskel whips around, embarrassment gripping his heart when he sees Aiden standing there. The Cat glowers, but not at Eskel. Rather, he scowls past Eskel and pins Winifred with an angry look. Aiden stalks closer, and Eskel notes the fearful expression on Winnie’s face when he turns to her. She looks Aiden over carefully, taking in all the attributes of Aiden that caught Eskel’s attention when they first met.

“I-I’m s-sorry. Who...Who are you?” Winnie asks, stumbling over her words as she glances at Eskel for help. Eskel doesn’t. He lets Aiden stand beside him, bristling with barely restrained annoyance. Eskel has heard about the tempers Cats can have, and he is loath to draw that attention to him.

Aiden narrows his eyes, lips pulling back into a slight snarl. Winnie visibly swallows, skin turning a couple of shades paler. “I don’t know who taught you,” Aiden continues, ignoring Winnie’s question, “but they brought about a really shit medic.”

“Ex-excuse me?!” Winnie’s voice reaches a new pitch, bordering on a shrill as she takes a step away from Aiden.

“If you knew the basics of medicine,” Aiden growls, “then you should know that Eskel needs to be heavier, just like I am. We’re witchers, dumbass. We don’t lounge about all day like you do, sitting behind a counter and giving wrong advice. We fight monsters, and we need the energy to do that. How’s he gonna accomplish that half-starved?”

Winnie bites her cheek, tears of shame filling her eyes as she glances at Eskel again. Almost immediately, she tears her gaze away, looking down at the counter. “Too much weight can be a bad thing,” she argues quietly.

Eskel watches as Aiden’s face contorts into something partly exasperated but mostly just furious. He draws his eyebrows in, nose scrunching in repugnance as he glares at Winnie. Aiden’s fists clench at his sides, clearly attempting to rein in his anger. Eskel starts to reach out a hand, only to pause. Letho didn’t listen to him yesterday. Would Aiden listen to him now? Besides, this is his brother’s boyfriend. The last thing Eskel wants to do is piss Aiden off more. Eskel drops his hand.

“It can be,” Aiden points out, “but Eskel isn’t there yet. Far from it. And the fact that you don’t realize that as a healer is fucking disturbing.”

Tears finally start to stream down Winnie’s face, and Eskel takes pity on her. Maybe he shouldn’t after all she’s said to him, but he hates to see her cry over this. Eskel bites his lip and places a hand on Aiden’s bicep. The Cat freezes, turning to look at Eskel with wide eyes. Eskel shakes his head, taking the parcels from the counter. 

“Aiden, let’s just go,” he whispers, giving the other witcher a meaningful look. Aiden hesitates, eyes flickering between Eskel and Winifred before taking a deep breath and nodding.

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees softly. “Sure, wolf. Let’s go.”

Eskel leads them out of the hut, trying not to feel too guilty at the sound of Winnie crying. He holds it together until they reach outside, moving towards Scorpion and a grey gelding that Eskel doesn’t recognize. Probably Aiden’s, but that isn’t Eskel’s concern right now. Neither of them says anything as Eskel places the packages in Scorpion’s cart. They stand in silence for a moment, neither knowing what to say.

“I’m sorry,” Aiden murmurs after a moment. “I shouldn’t have gone that far.”

“What were you doing here, anyway?” Eskel asks, trying to keep his tone free of anything accusatory. He doesn’t think he accomplishes it as well as he would like, seeing Aiden flinch in his peripheral vision.

Aiden clears his throat, looking sheepish. “Lambert went to the butcher, and I thought I’d let him take care of that himself. Came to see if you needed any help since I saw Letho with Geralt.”

Eskel exhales heavily through his mouth, turning to face Aiden. Honest regret coats Aiden’s features, and Eskel aches at the thought of stressing Aiden out. “It’s not...it’s not that you went too far, it’s just…” Eskel cuts himself off, searching for the right words to say. “Last winter, Winnie...found me attractive when I was thinner. A lot thinner than what I looked when we first met.”

Aiden frowns, and Eskel is still taken aback by the concern in those yellow-green irises. They barely know each other, only talked for the first time during Midaëte. Everything else, they learned about one another through Lambert. To see Aiden worried over someone he hardly knows has Eskel’s gut twisting in a way that doesn’t pain him. In fact, it contributes to how his heart warms at the thought.

“Eskel, you need more on you,” Aiden presses gently. “I’m not gonna say I know everything about what’s going on, but what I do know is that you’re not weighing what you should be. I’m sorry if you’ve heard it before and you’re getting tired of hearing the same old thing, but look at me for example.” Aiden gestures to himself, to the paunch of his belly, to his thick thighs, to the layer of fat over his muscles. “You don’t have to be thin to be flexible or agile. Weight has little to do with being a good witcher. That lies in your skill, and don’t tell Lamb I said this, but...he praises you a lot.”

A small smirk crosses over Aiden’s face, and Eskel knows he isn’t lying. Lambert gloats about Eskel when he’s not there, completely disregarding Eskel’s weight. Aiden admits that he’s on the thicker side, too, but it doesn’t affect Aiden’s flexibility or monster-hunting capabilities. If it doesn’t affect Aiden, and it doesn’t affect Letho, then maybe…

“Thank you,” Eskel says, putting forth as much genuineness as he can. He means it. “I think I needed that.”

Aiden nods, bumping shoulders with Eskel. “Between you and me, wolf, I think Lambert likes a bit of weight anyway.”

Eskel lets out a short laugh, his own smile crossing over his face. Yeah, he thinks Lambert does, too. His brother doesn’t like to admit it, but Eskel knows from back in Novigrad that Lambert loves to bury himself in Eskel’s arms. Eskel thinks Geralt might also.

“Let’s go, Cat,” Eskel prods, gesturing to the grey gelding. “They’re probably waiting for us by now.”

Aiden nods, flashing Eskel a grin as he leads his horse behind Scorpion. Upon reaching the city’s gates, they spot the others waiting for them, carts loaded up and ready to brave the trek up the Trail to Kaer Morhen. A heavy weight in Eskel’s chest lifts, ready to leave Ard Carraigh behind and embrace the coming winter with people who actually care about him and want the best for his health. 

Geralt nods at him when they approach. “Got everything you needed?”

“Yeah, you?” 

“All set here,” Lambert puts in. He looks at Aiden, who nods back.

Letho rolls his eyes. “If you’re done, we should get goin’ while it’s still light out.”

None of them can disagree with that logic, so they push forward, leading their horses along the path. Eskel lets himself breathe, taking comfort that he’ll be home soon, and maybe things will be better this time.

Chapter Text

It’s snowing by the time the witchers reach the main gates. They must make an odd sight, Eskel muses - it’s unusual enough to see witchers travelling in pairs, never mind in a group of five. Out of habit, Eskel gives a sharp whistle to announce his arrival even though Vesemir probably spotted them the second they reached the valley several days ago. The rusty chains of the portcullis still creak in protest as the century-old gate is raised, the sound so intrinsically familiar that Eskel can feel every muscle in his body react to it. The tension that has been building up in his shoulders over the past year suddenly drops as Eskel heaves the kind of sigh that he only truly allows himself inside the safety of Kaer Morhen’s walls. 

He’s made it home once again after another dreadful year. Lambert and Geralt are there, too, as well as their two guests. The scene feels at once comforting and alien - it reminds Eskel of times long gone, when he would meet Geralt, Gweld and Aubry in Ard Carraigh before winter and travel up the mountain together. The scene is also a painful reminder that it has been decades since Kaer Morhen has housed this many witchers under a single roof. Eskel can’t help but wonder how Vesemir will act around Letho and Aiden - part of him still doesn’t quite believe that his mentor would willingly invite a Viper to winter at the keep. 

They are all met in the courtyard by Vesemir, who greets the witchers with varying degrees of affection. Lambert lets himself be pulled into a tight hug, and for all the youngest witcher’s huffing and grousing, Lambert discreetly reciprocates the gesture by squeezing Vesemir’s bicep. Geralt goes more willingly, hugging the old wolf back with enthusiasm, and he even manages to look sheepish when Vesemir reprimands Geralt for scaring the living soul out of Countess Mignole’s servant in Novigrad. Eskel tries as he may not to laugh at his brother’s predicament, but then makes the rookie mistake of meeting Lambert’s gaze across the courtyard, and both wolves end up snorting at the memory of Geralt sporting an impressive bruise on the side of his head for weeks where Marina whacked him with a frying pan. Letho, for his part, is greeted with a curt nod of the head, but Vesemir barely even spares Aiden a glance. This, Eskel knows, will only cause more friction between Lambert and the old wolf. 

They’ll cross that bridge when they get to it, Eskel reassures himself. If there’s anything he’s learned over the past century, it’s that behind Vesemir’s coldly unemotional exterior there’s a heart of gold with a penchant for strays. If Aiden isn’t a stray, then Eskel doesn’t know who is.

“It’s nice to see you, pup,” Vesemir tells Eskel before pulling him into a firm embrace, which lasts longer than Eskel initially anticipated. A year ago, Vesemir’s strength was almost too much for Eskel, but this time he’s able to hug Vesemir in return. He doesn’t miss the way the older witcher’s hands strategically linger over Eskel’s ribs, arms, and midriff for longer than strictly necessary. Vesemir is examining him, looking for traces of improvement, and judging by the small smile tugging at the moustached lips when he and Eskel part, the old wolf is pleased with Eskel’s progress. 

“I made enough stew for everyone. You two,” Vesemir points at Aiden and Letho, “help me untack the horses while the others take the supplies and packs inside.” 

Eskel remembers how, precisely one year ago, he stepped into the same mess hall and was presented with a similar bowl of stew. Eskel remembers taking one bite from said stew and feeling sick to his stomach, so much so that he resigned himself to forgo food for the foreseeable future. Now, as he helps his brothers lug the supply bags and other luggage inside the keep, Eskel wonders how much has changed. 

“You think that Vesemir is giving your boyfriend the ‘don’t hurt him or I’ll kill you’ talk?” Geralt jokes in a feeble attempt to lighten Lambert’s mood, but the youngest wolf is too far gone in his own anger to care. 

“Did you see how Vesemir just blanked Aiden but acknowledged the fucking snake? What’s his deal? If he only took one second to look past the Cat medallion around Aiden’s neck-”

“The memories of the Tournament are still fresh in his mind,” Eskel reasons, noticing the way Geralt flinches at the mention of this contest that cost so many of his and Eskel’s friends their lives, “he’ll warm up to Aiden eventually, Lamb. Give him time.” 

“I’m tired of waiting until papa Vesemir gets his head out of his own ass. If he has a problem with Aiden, then he has a problem with me.”

The three wolves carry out their chore in silence after that. They’re all drained from climbing up the Killer, hungry and tired, and yes, very irritable to say the least. Eskel knows not to poke a sleeping bear, so he decides that the best course of action is to steer clear from Lambert for a couple of days until he’s settled in properly. By the time Vesemir, Letho, and Aiden join them again in the main hall, Geralt and Lambert have devolved into another meaningless squabble because Geralt just had to come to Vesemir’s defence again. Eskel sincerely hopes that the palpable tension in the air will dissipate over winter, once everyone has found their own personal routine. 

“... and besides, Aiden wasn’t even at the stupid Tournament, so what you’re saying is-”

“That’s enough!” Vesemir steps between Geralt and Lambert, forcing them apart and levelling both of them with a sobering look. “You barely just got here and you’re already at each other’s throats.”

“Maybe if Lambert wasn’t such an ass!” Geralt grouses, jerking away from Vesemir in a huff. 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, pretty boy?” comes the biting retort, at which point Eskel decides that he’s had quite enough of his brother’s bickering. His stomach chooses this moment to growl in protest, demanding to be fed. A year ago, Eskel would have been mortified at his body’s natural reaction to hunger, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the noise as much as he used to. Eskel doesn’t know what to do with that information. 

“You puppies always pickin’ fights like tha’?” Letho’s grating voice startles Eskel out of his musing. 

“Lambert and Geralt clash. Sibling banter. Don’t expect a Viper to understand that.” Eskel regrets his words the second they make it past his lips. If Letho is at all affected, he doesn’t let it show. “Sorry, I… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did,” Letho assures him like he knows better than anyone else what goes on in Eskel’s head, “I’ll let it slide. You’re just hangry.” 

“Hangry?” 

“Hm. Angry because you’re hungry. Hangry.” Letho claps Eskel on the shoulder and the force of the action nearly sends the wolf witcher toppling over to the side. “You’re not you when you’re hungry. Let’s get some of Vesemir’s stew into you.”

For reasons that seem to elude him, Eskel follows Letho into the kitchen.

Dinner is tense. Lambert is still stewing as far away from Vesemir as physically possible while they’re all sitting at the same dinner table. Vesemir and Geralt refuse to look up from his food, Aiden probably wishes he could relive his own Trial of the Grasses instead of enduring this painfully awkward first dinner with his lover’s family, and Letho… well, Letho looks right at home, actually. As it stands, he’s probably helped himself three times to more stew while Eskel is still struggling with his own serving. Geralt and Lambert are, as it seems, too tired and cranky to pay anything or anyone else much heed, which means that his brothers didn’t notice that all Eskel’s been doing is drinking the watery broth. 

“Y’know, leaving food on your plate ‘s considered rude in some cultures,” Letho remarks conversationally, completely unaffected by the tense atmosphere. When Eskel looks up, he meets Letho’s pale yellow eyes. The Viper raises an eyebrow pointedly before nodding at the contents of Eskel’s bowl. 

“Leave off, snake,” Geralt grates moodily from beside Eskel, “he ate half of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Letho drawls, calmly stabbing a chunk of beef with his fork, “I didn’t realise Eskel needed his mommy to speak on his behalf.” 

“What’s a snake know about what’s rude?” Lambert chimes in, “eh, Kingslayer?”

“Geralt, Lambert don’t!” Eskel’s warning tone is enough to shut his brothers up before another, and undoubtedly much bloodier argument can break out.

Geralt huffs in disbelief when Eskel takes Letho’s side. Eskel holds Geralt’s gaze, tilting his head ever so slightly and levelling his brother with a look that has become all too familiar over the many decades spent together. This expression goes back to their earliest years at Kaer Morhen when Geralt’s implacable sense of justice would often lead him to take the side of the defenceless, even if it meant being at the receiving end of Master Rennes’ belt. Please, don’t make a scene out of this . Realising that he didn’t have Eskel’s support in this, Geralt turns his attention to Vesemir. 

“You gonna let him talk to Eskel like a child?” 

Vesemir raises his eyes from his bowl, meeting Letho's across the table. He holds the Viper's gaze for a moment longer - a nonverbal conversation clearly taking place between the two of them - then hums as he turns back to his food. Letho snorts in satisfaction at Geralt's blatant disbelief.

"Vesemir!" Geralt snaps. Vesemir levels his pup with a stern look. 

"Eat your food, Geralt. What happens between Letho and Eskel does not concern you." The older witcher glances at Eskel meaningfully. "Eskel can fight his own battles."

Eskel has the decency to blush at these words. Vesemir has a point. It’s time Eskel held himself accountable for his poor decisions and life choices. 

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that all you did was eat two spoonfuls of broth,” Letho resumes his lecture, drawing Eskel’s attention on him once again. He can hear neither mockery nor malice in the other witcher’s tone, only a coldly calm matter-of-factness that makes Eskel feel like a scolded child. Without breaking eye contact with Letho, Eskel shovels a chunk of turnip into his mouth and chews on it with intent, almost daring Letho to be a smartass again just so Eskel can be petulant about this. 

Eskel doesn't finish his food. He leaves several bits of turnips at the bottom of his bowl. He feels like a failure for it. Nothing’s changed then , he thinks to himself, months and months of forcing food down my throat for what? He’s back at square one again. Geralt and Lambert will be so disappointed in him, especially after all the efforts Eskel made to please them. No , Eskel mentally chastises himself, remember what Lambert said. You’re trying and they’re proud of you for trying. When Eskel looks up, he meets Vesemir's proud gaze across the table, notices the warm smile playing on the older witcher's lips, and Eskel wills the negative thoughts away.

You’re human. 

You’re trying. 

Change isn’t easy. 

You’re doing better. 

Recovery is a process, similar to the one Eskel follows when he’s badly injured on a hunt. Deep scars need more time to heal. Eskel will usually have to rest or a few days longer between contracts to make sure the wound heals as it should. Recovery is a process, and much like with his physical scars, Eskel will have to spend more time tending to the emotional scars before he’s fully healed. 

You can do this , he reminds himself, you’ll get there, eventually. 

__________

“So, you gonna tell us why you invited Letho here?” Geralt asks Vesemir later that evening when all the other witchers have retreated to their respective rooms and retired for the night. The fire warming the mess hall is still roaring merrily in the hearth as the two wolf witchers finish their drinks in each other’s company. Vesemir heaves a sigh at the question, looking up from his tankard with tired eyes. 

“My castle, my rules. I invite whomsoever I please.” There’s a smugness to Vesemir’s tone that Geralt doesn’t care for. 

“I’m serious, Ves.”

“So am I, pup.”

Geralt lets out an irritated groan, which he only partially manages to stifle as he brings both of his hands to cover his face, mentally counts down from ten. Vesemir is having far too much fun at his pup’s expense, seemingly revelling in the frustration oozing off Geralt. 

“Please, Ves,” Geralt mutters, face still buried in his hands, “a straight answer. I’m tired and cranky, and I just want to understand why .”

“Fine,” Vesemir takes pity on Geralt and relents, “I did have my reasons for inviting Letho. When you look at him, what do you see?” 

“A mountain of dickishness and murderous tendencies?” Geralt mumbles, earning himself a sobering look from Vesemir. “I don’t know, Ves. I see a witcher with dubious morals whose primary means of communication is sarcasm.”

“Don’t overthink this,” Vesemir tells Geralt cryptically, “ physically what do you see when you look at Letho?” 

Geralt frowns. “About 300 pounds of flesh and muscle?” 

“Exactly.”

It takes Geralt’s brain a while to connect the dots, admittedly. When realisation dawns on him, Geralt feels an unfamiliar weight settle heavily in his stomach. He trusts Vesemir with his life, but this time Geralt wonders if maybe Vesemir went in way over his head. 

“You want Letho to coach Eskel?”

“Yes.”

“You think that’ll solve everything?” Geralt hates how dubious he sounds - he’s never been one to question Vesemir’s decisions - but the idea that Letho is the solution to all their problems somehow just doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Of course not.” Vesemir pauses to sip at his vodka. “It won’t miraculously change the way Eskel thinks about himself. There isn’t an easy fix for how Eskel feels about his body, but there are ways to show him the benefits of muscle and a higher body mass. I’m convinced that, despite his moral flaws, Letho is a highly skilled witcher. Muscle, bulk and all. The point is to show Eskel that his skills as a witcher aren’t defined by his body weight. If anything, Eskel can use his bulk to his advantage.”

“I don’t know, Ves,” Geralt heaves a long-suffering sigh, “I don’t know if that’s what Eskel needs right now.” 

“What he needs,” Vesemir interjects, “is to see the practicality of his stature first and foremost. You know Eskel is a practical man. He believes in what he sees. Once he sees how he changes physically, maybe it'll help him mentally, too. Trust me, pup. I know what I’m doing.”

“I sincerely hope you do, Ves.”

__________

“Do I really have to partner with Letho?” Eskel definitely does not whine when he utters those words, thank you very much. “Why can’t Geralt do it? Why are you punishing me?” 

“I won’t entertain your temper tantrum, Eskel.” Vesemir doesn’t look up from where he’s currently chopping up vegetables in preparation for tonight’s dinner. “I don’t care if Letho doesn’t like to share his toys with you or if he pulls at your pigtails. The kegs need filling and it just so happens that you and Letho are the only ones who can do this.” 

“What if I swapped my chore with Geralt or Lambert?” Eskel bargains, feeling every bit like a petulant child. Vesemir heaves a deep-rooted sigh and levels Eskel with an unimpressed glare. It’s evident from that look alone that Eskel won’t get his way if Vesemir has a say in it. He bites back a pointed groan at the realisation that he will have to spend all fucking day enduring Letho’s sarcastic comments and couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude. 

“ Fine ,” Eskel grouses as he heads out the kitchen, feeling the weight of Vesemir’s glare on him the whole time, “but tomorrow, someone else is babysitting the snake!” 

Eskel doesn’t wait for an answer from Vesemir before storming out of the keep. When he reaches the cellar, he regrets letting the old wolf have his way almost immediately. Letho looks completely at home leaning against the wall of the keep, a shit-eating grin spreading on his thin lips, and Eskel briefly wonders if he can convince Geralt to help him persuade Vesemir into kicking Letho out before the trail closes… or convince Aiden to smother the snake with a pillow. Whichever works best. 

“Howdy, partner.” Letho’s gritty drawl makes Eskel want to punch him in his stupid smug face. “Ready to haul them kegs out of the cellar?”

“As ever,” Eskel sighs in a resigned tone, “cellar’s down that way. Follow me.”

When they reach the cellar, Eskel pointedly refuses to look at Letho as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. He removes the scattered spider’s webs hanging around the doorway with his hand before heading down the narrow passage. Once Eskel enters the cellar, he uses a quick burst of Igni to light the torch near the archway, basking the small damp room in a warm orange glow. Eskel doesn’t waste any time getting to work. He pulls the nearest keg towards him and removes the lid to check its contents. The keg is halfway filled with rye grains, so Eskel shouldn’t have much trouble lifting the barrel by himself. Just as he braces himself to lift the keg, Eskel realises that something is amiss. 

That damn snake is still standing at the top of the stairs, being as helpful as a chocolate teapot. 

“What are you waiting on, a formal invitation?” Eskel doesn’t bother hiding his irritation at Letho’s visible lack of personal initiative. “What’s the matter, afraid of a few rats?” 

“Just doin’ my job, puppy. You do yours and let me worry about mine.” 

“This is your job,” Eskel snaps, “you’re supposed to help around here, pull your own weight. Dunno how things worked in Gorthur Gvaed, but Vesemir doesn’t tolerate lazy bastards in his keep.” 

“I hear an awful lotta talkin’ and not enough liftin’.”

“Letho, get your ass down here, or else-”

“Or else what?” Letho interjects before Eskel has a chance to voice his threat, “ya gonna go runnin’ to papa Wolf like a child? Wind ya neck in, puppy, and get them kegs up the stairs. I’ll carry them inside the keep and fill them up. Sound a bit fairer now, princess?”

Eskel doesn’t care for Letho’s sarcastic tone, but the time he could spend arguing with the Viper over this could be used for more productive endeavours. Who knows, if Vesemir realises how lazy and uncooperative Letho is, maybe he’ll kick Letho out sooner than expected. Eskel grumbles something unintelligible under his breath as he braces himself to lift the keg of rye and carry it up the stairs. A year ago, Eskel couldn’t lift these barrels without nearly collapsing from exhaustion. This time he manages to get to the top of the stairs and drop the keg at Letho’s feet without so much as breaking a sweat. If that isn’t progress, Eskel doesn’t know what is. 

“Weren’t you going to take this inside?” Eskel asks, raising an eyebrow at Letho when the bigger witcher fails to move. Letho, who is still leaning casually with one arm pressed against the cellar door, only grunts noncommittally in response. 

“All in good time. Bring up a few empty kegs, too. Dunno what Snow White was thinkin’ buyin’ so much meat when we could have happily gone hunting over winter, but we got enough beef to feed an entire army.” 

“First of all, it wouldn’t hurt you to use the words “please” and “thanks” once in a while-”

“You never know, it might. I won’t take that risk.”

“... and second of all ,” Eskel proceeds as if Letho didn’t just rudely interrupt him, “when the pass is snowed over, hunting will become impossible. I get that the mountains of Tir Tochair are considerably warmer than the Blue Mountains, but this is just common sense.” 

“Alright, puppy, keep your snarlin’ and barkin’ for Geralt and Lambert and get back to work.” 

Eskel mentally counts down from ten. If he doesn’t snap Letho’s throat before the end of winter, he’ll consider that a miracle. As Eskel heads back downstairs, he ponders adding a few drops of rat poison to the Viper’s stew. It won’t kill him, of course, but it might just incapacitate him for long enough that he’ll be exempt from doing any chores for a while. If Letho refuses to be helpful, the least he can do is stay out of Eskel’s way. 

Eskel checks a few more kegs and sets the empty ones aside. Those that are already full to the brim Eskel moves over to one side of the cellar to separate them from the other kegs that still have enough space to store the various supplies the wolves procured in Ard Carraigh before heading up the trail. While he’s at it, Eskel gets rid of the various rats roaming around the cellar. Failure to eliminate the rats from the cellar could result in their entire stock of supplies being compromised, something you definitely do not want to happen when Kaer Morhen is snowed in with no way of travelling back to the nearest town for food. Eskel takes no pleasure in culling the rodents, but it’s a necessary evil. 

“What’s takin’ you so long, puppy?” 

“If you were down here helping, you’d know,” Eskel shoots back.

“Hurry the fuck up, I’m freezin’ my balls off out here.”

Eskel bites his tongue as he hoists one of the empty kegs and trails it up the stairs. His muscles are tired from moving all the barrels around and Eskel feels a sliver of sweat trickle down his neck and disappear in his gambeson. His lungs burn from the effort of carrying the second empty keg up the stairs, which doesn’t bode well for the remaining barrels left in the cellar… and with Letho all but refusing to help, Eskel worries…

No, he can do this. He’s stronger than last year. Besides, he refuses to make a fool of himself in front of Letho , of all people. Eskel places the last empty keg in front of Letho and takes a minute to catch his breath.

“There, three empty kegs. Now, how about you take them inside and start filling them up?” Eskel wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Letho ponders his words for a few seconds before grunting in a very Geralt-like fashion. 

“I’m not in the mood. You’ll have to do it.” 

“Wha- you’re supposed to help! Vesemir said-”

“Ohhh, ‘Vesemir said’,” Letho taunts, looking as unperturbed as ever, “I’m shakin’ in my boots.”

Eskel growls in irritation. “Letho!”

“That’s my name. Well done, puppy.” 

“Fucking help me, you ass!” Eskel snaps, the heat in his tone unfamiliar and grating. 

“No, I don’t think I will,” Letho retorts deadpan, “it’s a good exercise for you, twig. Will build your feeble muscles again, you know, since you’ve been starvin’ yourself for nearly a year.” 

“I’m starting to understand why people don’t like you or Vipers in general!” 

“I’ll get over it. Now, if I’m not mistaken, there’s more kegs to be taken out the cellar and then you need to carry all these bad boys inside, then to the kitchen or the ice house. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.” 

Eskel barely stops himself from punching Letho in the family jewels. 

__________

A couple of days later, Vesemir tells Eskel and Letho to chop wood to replenish their stock inside the keep. Kaer Morhen in winter is harsh and cold, even for witchers who are more resistant to the elements than mere mortals. More to the point, however, is the fact that Kaer Morhen now houses Letho and Aiden, who are both used to the milder winters of the southern regions. Aiden truly stands out with his darker complexion and his sleeveless armour which is not at all appropriate for the weather conditions of the far north. Aiden, too, seems to have wildly underestimated just how cold winters at Kaer Morhen truly are, which means that he and Lambert have spent most of their time crafting warmer clothes for Aiden whenever they have a moment to spare.

Eskel is dreading this task. The task of chopping wood has always been delegated to him because he used to be the strongest witcher in the keep. That isn’t the case anymore, and Eskel isn’t convinced that he won’t collapse from exhaustion halfway through the chore. At least Letho is there to assist him, and maybe this time, the Viper will get his head out of his ass and actually help for a change. After all, Letho is partly the reason why they need more wood in the first place. That, and the fact that Aiden decided to be stubborn and refused to buy new armour in Ard Carraigh, which he had deemed “unfashionable and boring.” The memory brings a small smile to Eskel’s lips. Aiden is truly full of surprises. 

Letho doesn’t help. Of course he doesn’t, because chores seem to be below him somehow. If Letho wasn’t a witcher, Eskel would have guessed that the prick grew up in a palace surrounded by fucking servants. What makes this worse is that Vesemir doesn’t seem to notice Letho being the laziest pain in the ass that ever graced the Continent. And yet, when the old wolf caught Geralt and Eskel sneaking ale out of the kitchen a few days ago instead of repairing the south wall, Vesemir had given both of them an earful. Sometimes, Eskel wonders if he woke up one morning in an alternate reality where Vesemir and the Vipers are suddenly best friends. Meanwhile, Eskel is left chopping wood until his arms are ready to fall off, sweat dripping from his face and lungs burning with the effort it takes to keep on going to spite the ass of a Viper just standing there and watching Eskel do all the fucking work. 

“Sun’s goin’ down,” Letho suddenly remarks, conversationally, like he’s discussing the fucking weather. 

“So you're not blind then,” Eskel counters sarcastically, taking a minute to catch his breath, “maybe that means you can see how much fucking wood we have to cut because of your cold-blooded ass.”

“At least I’m not as stubborn as the pussycat, who insists on paradin’ round the keep dressed as scantily as a Toussaint whore. I think you should be pickin’ a fight with him instead. My bets are still on him, though. He’ll snap you in half.” 

Eskel growls in response before picking up his axe and bringing it down with enough force to send splinters of wood flying in all directions. He ignores Letho’s derisive chuckle as he places another log of wood on the stump. Eskel finds that chopping wood comes much easier to him if he pretends that he’s decapitating Letho with his axe. 

“The point is we still have a lot of fucking wood to chop, so get to work. I’ve been demonstrating how it works for hours now, so you should know what you’re doing by now.” 

“ We is a lot of people. I think you mean you still have a lot of fucking wood to chop.” 

Eskel brings the axe down hard enough that it gets stuck in the stump. His jaws are clenched with the effort it takes not to snap at Letho and send him flying across the courtyard with a well-placed Aard. 

“We’re not doing this again,” Eskel hisses between clenched teeth, “either do your fucking job or get out of my way.”

“I am doin’ my job. How about you stop bitchin’ and  keep doing yours so we can head back before nightfall, there’s a good puppy.”

“What, you worried people are gonna start coming up with rumours?” Eskel taunts to hide the fact that he’s struggling to free the axe wedged in the stump. Letho smirks cruelly at him. 

“Sorry to disappoint, puppy, but porcelain dolls ain’t my type.” 

I’ll show you a porcelain doll, Eskel thinks to himself as he brings the axe down once again. 

__________

It's been a month since the merry band of witchers returned to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Normally, Eskel would have established a routine at this point; get up early, train, do chores, soak in the hot springs, get ready for dinner, get drunk with his brothers, crash in bed. Wash, wipe, repeat. 

Only this year is different because Eskel's routine has been thrown off-kilter. For example, he isn't really able to train with the others anymore for two reasons. One, Vesemir deems that Eskel isn't strong enough to hold his own against the others, and Vesemir respects Eskel enough not to make him practice on a training dummy. Two, Vesemir insists on Eskel and Letho doing chores together (though, admittedly, Eskel does most of the chores while Letho stands there watching him and finding new ways of insulting him), which takes up most of Eskel's free time anyway. The little sympathy Eskel developed for Letho on the Path has fizzled out. He wishes Vesemir never invited the Viper in the first place. 

Who cares what he thinks, anyway? He's expected to take it on the chin and accept all of Vesemir's decisions unquestioningly. Like his opinion doesn't matter, like none of Eskel's opinions ever mattered, whether they pertained to who he shares his winter den with, or to how he chooses to live own fucking life… 

Eskel wills these thoughts away in favour of getting ready for dinner. He grabs a fresh shirt from the pile of washed clothes, dark leather britches which have seen better days, underclothes and his trusted gambeson. Last year, Eskel would always spend far too much time looking in the mirror and inspecting his jutting ribs and protruding hip bones. Eskel used to spend far too much time agonising over the invisible fat around his middle, or how jiggly his arms were, or how he couldn't see a gap between his thighs. 

Now, he's able to get dressed fairly quickly without glancing at his reflection too much. He knows that his body is changing again without looking in the mirror. For one, his favourite red gambeson fits him again. Eskel remembers forgoing it last year because it was too large and heavy for him. Last week, he rediscovered the red gambeson in his wardrobe and decided to try it on again. The giddy feeling that washed over him when he realised that it fit again was a thrill unlike anything Eskel ever experienced before. That happy feeling quickly faded when Eskel's stomach sank as realisation dawned on him. The reason his favourite gambeson fit again was that he put on weight. He was close to his original, pre-diet size and weight. 

Eskel doesn't know how to feel about that. He should be happy. He knows he should be pleased that he's healthier …  or at least, that he's closer to what his brothers and Vesemir consider healthy. Nobody ever asked Eskel what he wanted. Nobody ever considered the possibility that Eskel doesn't wish to look the way Ves and his brothers think is ideal for a man of his size and build. Who are they to decide what's ideal for Eskel? Who are they to determine what's healthy or unhealthy, attractive or unattractive… 

Eskel forces these thoughts out of his mind. Ves and his brothers are trying to help him. Eskel reminds himself that he's sick, that his mind makes him believe he's healthy even though he's not, and that all the efforts he's made to battle this invisible illness over the past year wasn't in vain, nor was it a cruelly elaborate prank designed by Vesemir, Geralt and Lambert to make him miserable. Eskel is healthier this way. He knows this. Deep down, he knows this. 

The voices in his head telling him otherwise are particularly loud tonight. They taunt him, try to bring him down, diminish his confidence. Fighting these voices takes energy that Eskel doesn't have anymore. As he heads downstairs to the mess hall, the smell of Vesemir's hearty cooking fills his nostrils, and Eskel's stomach twists anxiously. He doesn't want to disappoint his family - or seem weak in Letho's eyes - but the voices in his head are too loud tonight… 

When Eskel steps into the mess hall, the only other person there is Letho. Eskel freezes in the doorway, his eyes darting left and right, seeking the reassuring presence of his brothers, or Vesemir, or even Aiden . Anyone who isn't fucking Letho of Gulet. As if reading his thoughts, Letho flashes Eskel a cocksure smirk. 

"Just you an' me, puppy." 

"I can see that. Where are the others?" Eskel asks in an artificially polite tone. 

"The Cat and his guard dog decided t' have a romantic evenin’ under the stars, Snow White's knee's actin' up and Papa Wolf was tired so he took his food upstairs."

"Yeah, old Wolf's got the right idea there," Eskel declares as he goes to help himself to some food with the firm intention to take it upstairs to his room. Anything is better than sharing a meal with Letho. The Viper leans back on the bench and crosses his arms over his chest. 

"Sit."

"Excuse me?" Eskel feels the familiar pull of his Chaos stirring inside him at Letho's commanding tone. Who is he to dictate Eskel's life? It's one thing for Vesemir, Geralt and Lambert to do that. They're the only family Eskel has left. Letho has no fucking right. Letho is a stranger . 

"I said sit. You're going to eat a full plate of food even if I have to force-feed you!"

"Bite me." 

Letho heaves a long-suffering sigh which only serves to fuel Eskel's anger. 

"Fine. You know what, I'm done tryin’ to help you. I'm throwin’ in the fuckin' towel. Vesemir's delusional if he thinks he can fix you." 

"Help me?" Eskel repeats incredulously, his eyes going wide in surprise. " Help me ? You've done nothing but be a fucking pain in the ass from the second you came into our lives, Kingslayer!" 

"I did what Vesemir called me here to do. I was doin’ my job."

"Yeah, so you keep saying, but I don't see you doing anything. You stand by and watch me do all the heavy-duty labour, while you lean against a nearby wall and snark. How the fuck is that helping me? You and I have very different definitions of work , you lazy piece of shit."

"Eskel-" 

"I'm not done!" Eskel snaps, his voice bordering on a shout. It's sudden enough that Letho's mouth snaps shut. Eskel throws his plate on the table and starts pacing up and down the mess hall. Letho's eyes follow his movements closely, but Eskel can't bring himself to care. "I'm not done. You don't fucking get to tell me what to do, Letho! You don't get to decide what I eat, how much I eat, or when I eat. Do you get that? This isn't your decision to make."

Eskel stops in the middle of his pacing to rub anxiously at his scars. He feels panic well inside him at the thought of being so exposed, his emotions bared for the world to see. Letho doesn't say a word, doesn't try to silence Eskel. He remains stoic as a statue, eyes focused on the wolf witcher, arms still crossed defensively over his chest, listening . When was the last time anyone listened to Eskel? 

"I know I'm sick. I don't need you belittling me to know that I'm messed up in the fucking head. In fact, if it was up to me, you'd be gone by now. But it's not up to me and I have to fucking deal with the fact that my opinions aren't worth shit in this place."

"Calm down, wolf. You're getting worked up over nothing." Letho's voice is uncharacteristically soft as he addresses Eskel, which somehow only serves to enrage Eskel further. 

"No! No, fuck you. Fuck you, Letho. You have no idea what I've gone through. You never even tried to put yourself in my shoes. You have no idea-" 

"Then explain it to me." Letho rises from his seat to his full height. "Tell me why you do this to yourself. Cause if ya think people will find you more attractive this way, I got another one coming for you. People will never see past the witcher, no matter how skinny or fat you are."

"Don't you see?" Eskel cries out, his tone just on this side of desperate. "It stopped being about that a long fucking time ago, genius! This isn't about my appearance, this is about control . I can't change who I am. I can't change what I am. I can't bring back all those who fell in the pogrom. I can't protect Geralt and Lambert forever. Hell, Vesemir is getting older and I can't stop that either! My appearance, my performance as a witcher… that I can control. I tried to control it, and I was denied that little bit of freedom I have left. I can't even make decisions about my own body anymore without feeling like I'm letting everyone down!"

Adrenaline, anger and frustration hotly rush through Eskel's veins, teasing his Chaos, threatening to make Eskel completely lose control over his own abilities. Like when he aarded Lambert across the kitchen a year ago, when his own twisted way of thinking about himself resulted in Lambert getting hurt. Eskel's eyes land on the plate of food on the table. His eyes narrow into a glare as if the stewed venison is personally responsible for all of Eskel's failures. In a fit of rage, Eskel grabs the plate and flings it across the room, spraying venison, potatoes and carrots everywhere before the plate collides with the wall and shatters under the sheer force of the impact. 

"Fuck you, Letho." Eskel's voice is dangerously close to breaking. He feels drained. So very drained. "Fuck you and your so-called help."

Without another word, Eskel leaves the mess hall and storms to his room. 

__________

Eskel is ashamed. He's ashamed for losing his temper, he's ashamed for making a scene, he's ashamed for wasting Vesemir's food, and he's ashamed for hiding in his room like a child. He could've handled Letho's taunts with more grace, he supposes, but why should he have to? For the past year, he's been treated like a child who can't be left to their own devices because they can't be trusted to make the right decisions. It's one thing for his family to act this way around him - after all, Vesemir raised him, Geralt grew up with him and became his brother in every capacity but biological, and Lambert is a bleeding heart despite his prickly exterior. They're allowed to worry and fuss over Eskel. Letho isn't. Letho needs to learn his fucking place. Letho has no fucking right to treat Eskel like a child. 

Besides, it felt good getting all these feelings off his chest. It's like a weight has been lifted off Eskel's shoulders. For the first time in over a year, Eskel finds it easier to breathe. 

A soft knock on the door interrupts Eskel's moping. "Kel? Can I come in?" Geralt. Who else would it be? Geralt and Eskel, never one without the other. Their friendships, the bond they share, is a rare luxury in the life of a witcher. The fact that they still have each other after over a century of friendship… of course Geralt would be the first one to reach out. 

"Come in, wolf."

The door clicks open and Geralt lets himself in. Eskel thinks he knows what to expect from Geralt at this point in their friendship. He steels himself for a lecture on how they're all just trying to help him, how Eskel should be grateful to have people who care enough to kick his ass back in line. Eskel should have known better than to underestimate his oldest friend. Instead of the familiar frown of worry, Eskel is met with a cheeky grin from Geralt. 

"You really gave that snake a run for his money." 

It takes Eskel a hot minute to wrap his head around what's happening. Geralt isn't yelling at him. He's not lecturing him, he doesn't seem disappointed in Eskel's behaviour or even annoyed about his temper tantrum. Geralt looks almost proud . A pleasant warmth spreads in Eskel's chest at the thought. 

"So you heard, huh?" 

The question pulls an amused snort from the usually stoic white wolf. 

"Brother, I think Jaskier heard you all the way in Novigrad. I can't remember the last time you yelled at anyone like that. In fact, I can't remember ever seeing you so angry." 

Eskel flinches at those words. He's not an angry person. Never has been. He doesn't think that anger is ever the solution. If anything, it tends to make matters worse. It riles people up, it gives them another reason to underpay him and to hate him. Eskel doesn't want to give anyone that kind of leverage. 

"It felt good," he admits after a heartbeat, "I've been sitting on that rant for a while."

Geralt hums, the sound so familiar that it washes over Eskel in comforting waves. It's ridiculous how a simple 'hm' can elicit that kind of reaction, but Eskel's always felt safest by Geralt's side. 

"Can I join you?"

"You don't have to ask, wolf," Eskel assures him. Geralt shrugs. 

"Wouldn't want you to throw a plate of food at me."

"Ass!" Eskel laughs, the sound echoing against the walls of his room. "Maybe if I threw more food at you in the past you wouldn't have turned into a brat."

"Guess we'll never know." Geralt takes a seat next to Eskel on the bed and brings one leg up to his chest. They sit in silence for a moment, simply enjoying each other's presence. When Geralt frowns, Eskel knows there's something on his brother's mind. "You know I'm proud of you, right?" 

"So you keep saying."

"I am ," Geralt insists, darting a glance at Eskel and nudging him gently with his elbow, "I… I am proud of you. I'm grateful for everything you've done for us in the past. I'm lucky to have a brother like you who worries about my safety and looks forward to seeing me every year."

"Careful," Eskel warns, tone playful, "you're drifting into sappy territory."

"Now who's the ass?" 

Eskel smiles fondly at Geralt. He shifts around until he's able to wrap his arm around his brother's shoulders, pulling him close and briefly bumping foreheads with him affectionately. 

"I know all these things, but it's still good to hear you say them."

"Hm. I'll keep reminding you. Promise." Geralt pauses there, sharp teeth worrying his lip in the way he usually does when he's agonising over something. Eskel patiently waits until Geralt is ready to speak his mind. "You know what you told Letho… something about being in control?" 

"What about it?" 

Geralt heaves a sigh and pulls away from Eskel's embrace so he can face his brother properly. 

"I never realised it was part of the problem. I thought… I thought you just did it for the aesthetics. I thought…" Geralt exhales loudly through his nose, a sign of frustration. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry. For assuming. For not noticing. For not listening."

Eskel feels his throat tighten with all the emotions that are left unvoiced between him and his brother. How long has he been waiting for anyone to say these words to him? To apologise to him for not considering his point of view? Eskel’s been beating himself up for over a year now, making this issue he’s facing his fault and his fault alone, convincing himself that he’s a failure and that he doesn’t deserve his family’s love and consideration. Hearing Geralt apologising to him for not taking the time to listen gives Eskel a whole new perspective on his own existence. 

He doesn’t have to do this on his own. 

“Thanks.”

“Also, uh… I get it, you know?” Geralt looks away from Eskel then, flinching away from being known. “I get that you want to take back control over your own body. Remember when I dyed my hair after the second set of trials?” 

Eskel remembers it like it was yesterday. In fact, it’s one of his fondest memories, so much so that Eskel allows an amused chuckle to tumble past his lips. 

“Yeah… you used master Rennes’ green ink. He made you spend all evening washing it out.” 

A small smirk tugs at Geralt’s lips. “And Vesemir tried so hard not to laugh that he had to excuse himself and pretend to check on the younger boys in the dormitories. It wasn’t even night time.” 

“Master Varin turned thirty shades of red. I was worried his head would explode from anger,” Eskel recalls, his smile widening even more, “though I must say green isn’t your colour. Made you look like a grave hag.”

“Maybe that’s the look I was going for,” Geralt says in mock offence, “don’t name and shame.” 

“Whatever you say, brother.” 

Geralt shoves Eskel playfully. “Ass. I’m trying to have a moment, alright? Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I dyed my hair because I hated what the trials did to it in the first place. White… like an old man, at fucking fifteen. While I was at it, I decided to dye it the most garish colour possible to really piss the mages and instructors off. I chose to dye it, and even after Rennes made me wash it all out I felt more in control than ever. So I get it, Kel.”

Geralt takes a deep composing breath as he scrambles to find the right words. Eskel gives him space, knowing how difficult it is for Geralt to express these thoughts out loud. 

“You know what Rennes told me after? He asked me why I did and when I told him, he laughed and said ‘this isn’t you taking control, boy, this is you losing it.’ I don’t agree with Rennes often, but he had a point. Your fixation with your diet… it’s as much about taking back control as it is about losing it. You're constantly walking this fine line between order and chaos. One slip and you're in dangerous territory. That's when you need to trust that we want to bring you back to safer shores.”

“That’s not your resp-”

“Have you learned nothing over the past year, Kel? This isn’t about responsibility or a misplaced sense of duty. We want to help you because we love you. You’re our brother. You always will be.”

As Eskel goes to answer, both he and Geralt hear creaking on the other side of the door. Eskel tenses, every sense on high alert as he tries to determine the origin of the threat… only to break into a fond smile when he realises what’s going on. 

“Come in, Lambert. I know you’re lurking.” 

Seconds later, the door to his room opens again to reveal a sheepish Lambert flashing Eskel and Geralt a tense smile. His cheeks are slightly flushed from embarrassment at being caught, but Eskel can’t bring himself to be upset with the youngest wolf. He knows how much Lambert worries, even if he would never admit it himself. Eskel wordlessly invites Lambert to join them by tapping the other side of the bed with his free hand. Lambert doesn’t have to be told twice. He saunters over to the bed and takes a seat next to his older brother so that their arms and legs are pressed together. 

“Didn’t they ever teach you that eavesdropping is rude?” Geralt teases, and Lambert shows him with a finger exactly what he thinks of the white wolf’s bedside manner. 

“Leave him alone,” Eskel jumps to Lambert’s defence, “I’ve shouted enough for one night. Should probably apologise to Letho at some point.” 

“Why?” Lambert asks rhetorically, “he’s fine. If you hurt his feelings, good. Might teach him not to mess with the Dragon of Kaer Morhen.” 

“He was just trying to help… supposedly.”

“He was, in his own way,” Geralt tells him, sounding bashful, “uh, well… Vesemir told me that the reason he invited Letho over was so he could train you.”

Eskel and Lambert both stare owlishly at Geralt as they try to make sense of his admission. 

“Huh?” 

“What are you talking about, wolf?” 

“Well...” Geralt massages the back of his neck, “you know, Letho is this big massive guy and… well, he’s not a bad witcher or else he wouldn’t have survived so long, so… Vesemir thought that if you got it in your head that weight and size don’t impact on your abilities to be a good witcher that you might change your habits…”

Huh. It makes sense now why Letho did what he did, Eskel realises. All the heavy-duty chores that Letho watched Eskel perform without lifting a finger to help, the way he monitored Eskel’s eating, the taunts… all meant to egg Eskel to change his lifestyle, even if only out of spite for Letho. Eskel highly underestimated the Viper’s intelligence. 

“Now I really owe him an apology.” 

“It can wait,” Lambert announces firmly, “how about I go get you a platter of cheese and cold meats, some ale, and we can get shitfaced in your room together? For old time’s sake…”

Eskel’s stomach growls at the promise of food, and he realises that he could definitely go for some cheese and cold meats to tie him over until breakfast. 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

For the first in over a year, Eskel feels hopeful. 

Chapter Text

A grin crosses over Eskel’s face as he studies his opponent’s movements carefully. He watches Lambert’s feet slide over the ground, never lifting fully from the dirt. An unusual sense of pride blooms in his chest at the sight, though Eskel can’t quite explain why. For as much as Eskel looks at Lambert as a baby brother, Lambert is still an accomplished witcher, a fact that is proven when Lambert strikes first. He moves with a speed normal humans can’t quite see, but Eskel’s enhanced vision follows each fluid movement, granting him enough time to react. Eskel raises his sword, parrying and returning with a counter-thrust. His endeavour is met with a bright laugh, and the sweet scent of happiness floods his senses as Lambert spins away.

Eskel turns his head to face his brother, who has a blinding smile on his face. “You keep hopping around like a damn spider monkey. Can’t you just stay still?”

“Sorry! No can do, brother,” Lambert chirps, flipping his sword in his hand as he readies himself for Eskel’s next attack. “I’m not that easy.”

Aiden scoffs from where he spars with Geralt, flashing over a quick, cheeky grin. “Yes, you are!”

“Not in my keep!” Vesemir bellows, crossing his arms and glaring at them as he supervises their training.

Lambert flashes Eskel a wink. “Little does he know, we already did it in his keep,” he whispers loudly, and judging by the way Vesemir’s face contorts into equal parts disgusted and resigned, the old wolf heard him.

“Incorrigible,” Eskel snorts, trying his best to hide his laughter and failing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert snickers. “Now cut it with the fancy words and hit me already. I’m growing grey hairs.”

“Bold of you to say you’re growing grey hairs when your hairline is receding.”

Lambert launches at Eskel again for that comment, not waiting for the older wolf to strike first. Eskel chuckles, his blade meeting Lambert’s once more. Lambert presses the brunt of his weight into his attack, and Eskel bears it easily. He pushes his brother back, allowing for more room to strike as he advances towards Lambert. The two of them exchange blows, the screeching of metal lost to the sounds of their laughter and light banter. Eskel doesn’t remember the last time he had this much fun sparring, but Lambert gives as good as he gets, even managing to surprise Eskel with a few moves that he must’ve learned from his Cat.

“You hit like an old man!”

“Aw, hell, Lamb. Don’t hurt my feelings!”

Eskel barely has sweat dripping down his face when he finally kicks Lambert’s feet from underneath him, his sword coming to rest an inch away from Lambert’s neck. His younger brother stares up at him wide-eyed for a moment, but a smile crosses his face immediately after, something fond twinkling in his eyes. A warmth spreads in Eskel’s chest as he recognizes an emotion akin to pride cross over Lambert’s face, but it gets clouded over by a cocky grin almost immediately after.

“Ya mind lettin’ me up?” Lambert asks, raising an eyebrow. “Not for nothing, brother, but I could do without looking at your ugly mug.”

“My ugly mug, huh?” Eskel repeats, nodding his head slowly.

Lambert doesn’t look the slightest bit remorseful when he continues, “Yeah, your ugly mug. You know, your face? Let me up.”

“Sure, sure…” Eskel hums, dropping his sword to the snow. He hears Vesemir yell at him for the mistreatment of his weapon, but for once, he ignores his mentor in favour of glaring at his brother. “Well, if my face is so terrible, then maybe my ass will look better.”

Lambert’s eyes widen at that. “What does that mean? What are you saying? Eskel, don’t you dare-!”

Eskel pretends he can’t hear a word Lambert says, but that assumes he cared in the first place. In lieu of his sword, Eskel picks Lambert up, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Lambert yelps, but he doesn’t wriggle out of Eskel’s grasp, going stock-still. Eskel can hear Geralt and Aiden stop their training, but he pays no mind, carrying Lambert back into the keep. At some point, Lambert gathers his wits about him and starts hitting Eskel’s back, yet Eskel continues walking, unfazed.

“Eskel! You son of a bitch! Let me down!” Lambert yells indignantly, but a hint of laughter peeks through, and Eskel knows his brother isn’t actually mad. 

Eskel hums loudly to himself, attempting to drown out Lambert’s calls. That only makes Lambert yell louder, and if Vesemir was inside rather than outside, they would have gotten scolded by now. Eskel would take Lambert a bit more seriously, but his stomach started to growl midway during training. At this point, he feels borderline ravenous, and he knows Lambert’s good at cooking, so teasing his brother and getting good food out of it? Sounds like the best kind of deal to Eskel.

Finally taking mercy on the youngest wolf pup, Eskel deposits Lambert on a chair located in the kitchen and steps back to see the scowl on Lambert’s face. He can’t help the snort of laughter, a smirk growing at the petulance radiating off of the other witcher. Evidently, Lambert doesn’t find it nearly as funny as Eskel does because he crosses his arms and pouts. 

“Get that smug look off your face, asshat,” Lambert snarls, but Eskel only grins wider at the sound of it, “or I'll wipe the floor with your stupid mug."

"Promises, promises," Eskel teases, sending a cheeky wink. 

"Fuck you."

Eskel holds his hands up placatingly, but a smirk still resides on his lips. "Alright, alright. No need to get all prickly, cactus."

Fists clenching, Lambert growls, "Don't fucking call me a cactus-"

"Since we're here," Eskel interrupts, sitting at the table and propping his head up in his hand, "why don't you make yourself useful? Get supper started, why don't you?"

Lambert pauses at that, all fight leaving him as he takes in Eskel's words. A certain light comes to his eyes, a sort of happiness Eskel only gets to see in moments where Lambert lets his guard down, cuddling into Aiden’s side while joking with his brothers and stealing Vesemir’s vodka. Eskel can’t help a smile of his own when the corners of Lambert’s mouth quirk up, a small laugh escaping the youngest witcher without meaning to.

“Uh, shit, yeah...yeah, it’s about time for dinner, right? Fuck-” Lambert turns around without argument, rambling on as he tosses open cupboards and food chests randomly. In his excitement, Lambert has apparently all but forgotten how to navigate the kitchen, and Eskel watches amusedly as his brother tosses pots and pans aside hastily, flinging vegetables and meat onto the counter after brief but careful consideration.

“You like venison, right?” Lambert asks, though the question is clearly rhetorical. “Roast venison, to be specific, because you might have everyone else fooled, but I know you’re a very particular and fancy son of a bitch.”

Eskel snorts but doesn’t interrupt, eyes following his brother and wondering if he should step in. Vesemir will likely throw a fit once he sees the state the kitchen is in, but Lambert looks far too enthusiastic for Eskel to reprimand him. Lambert, as it turns out, is a messy cook. Eskel stares bemusedly at the way his brother moves around the kitchen like he owns the place - peeling and chopping vegetables at one end of the table, tenderising the venison meat and cutting it up into more manageable chunks at the other end. Lambert doesn't clean up after himself like Geralt tends to do, a fact that, Eskel knows, would have Vesemir frothing at the mouth if he was to witness the chaotic whirlwind that is Lambert in the kitchen. 

Lambert starts humming to himself as he tosses the vegetables and meat into the now boiling water. He adds herbs to the mix, almost arbitrarily and without rhyme nor reason. The smell that soon fills the kitchen has Eskel's mouth watering with anticipation, which tells him that Lambert clearly knows what he's doing and isn't just throwing random weeds into the pot. Eskel's stomach gurgles eagerly when his nose picks up the strong aroma of thyme and rosemary. Lambert picks up on the sound, too, judging by the small smile gracing his lips, but he pointedly does not draw any attention to it. 

Eskel is glad for that fact.

For as much progress as Eskel has made over the past year, he still feels like he has a long way to go before he's back to his former self. Even though he is better with food now than he used to be, Eskel still struggles with big portions and certain foods that weigh too heavily on his stomach. Even though he's not starved himself in a long time, he finds himself skipping a few meals or eating less than a witcher his size ought to, but he is doing much better.

And that's partly thanks to his brothers and Vesemir, for helping him through this and for reminding him to eat even when Eskel doesn't feel hungry. However, Eskel has started to realise that he also has himself and his own determination to thank for the progress he's made over the past few months. The hardest part about this affliction is silencing the voices in his head, and it's a daily battle against his own mind to stay healthy and on the right track. But if this past year has taught Eskel anything at all, it's that he's stronger than he realised. 

"Smells good, Lamb," Eskel tells his younger brother, relishing in the proud smirk gracing Lambert's lips, visibly preening at the praise. 

"What can I say, I'm a domestic goddess."

Eskel snorts, shaking his head and choosing not to respond to that. He could rile Lambert up, and while that would be the utmost form of entertainment, he prefers his food spit-free, thanks very much. Lambert flutters about the kitchen, snatching utensils and bowls from the cabinets while their meal cooks over the stove. He places rather sizable ones in front of everyone’s respective seats and hands Eskel a smaller one made for the trainees they used to have in the keep. It’s not quite the portion for a witcher, but it’s manageable for now, and Eskel has come to learn that managing is much better than doing nothing at all. 

As Lambert removes the pot from the stove, the others start to drift into the dining hall, the aroma of Lambert’s warm cooking having reached them from outside. Vesemir casts a glance into the kitchen, and Eskel catches him sending up a quick prayer to Melitele in request to grant him patience. Eskel meets Geralt’s eyes, and the two of them snicker knowingly. Letho seems unamused by their antics, plopping himself in his seat at the end of the table and dutifully waiting for dinner to be served. 

Lambert serves him last for no other reason besides being an asshole. 

Eskel prods at his youngest brother, levelling him with a look. He knows Lambert hasn’t let go of how Letho treated Eskel at the beginning of the season, no matter the explanation behind it, but Eskel moved on a while ago. Upon learning Letho’s reasons, Eskel shoved down his pride the next day and apologized to Letho for his words. The Viper had simply huffed, rolling his eyes as he said,

“It was ‘bout time you said somethin’. Ever heard of ‘mini-explosions,’ wolf? You oughta try them. Might stop you from blowin’ up like that again.”

Turns out, “mini-explosions” have gotten Eskel through most of the season. Instead of bottling it up like he normally does, Eskel takes the time out of his day to find his brothers or Vesemir and unload on them when they’re ready for it. He tells them his fears and worries, tells them his anxieties and stresses. In turn, they alleviate his burden with reassurances and helpful advice. It’s much better than harbouring it for decades and letting it all burst out in one unfiltered moment. 

Lambert ignores Eskel’s look, glaring over his brother’s head and in Letho’s direction as he fills Eskel’s bowl. He doesn’t fill it to the top, keeping it about three-quarters of the way. They’ve come to learn that it’s best for Eskel to eat at his own pace. If he wants more, he’ll take it, but if what he has is enough, then they won’t force him. Too many nights of holding Eskel through his bouts of sickness have proven that Eskel has learned his limits well. 

Geralt sits beside Eskel, Lambert across from them with Aiden, Vesemir at the head of the table. He nudges Eskel’s shoulder, sending him a little smile. It takes too long for Eskel to figure out why Geralt suddenly looks so proud of him, but it eventually clicks in his mind that there is no particular reason. Geralt just is, and the thought of it has a smile crossing Eskel’s face, too. He thought Geralt would start teasing Lambert for what happened during training, but no one brings it up. 

They all tuck into their food, offering up small compliments to the chef. Lambert tries to hide his pride at the words of praise, but they know Lambert too well to miss the slight redness of his skin and small grin. Aiden shakes his head fondly, planting a kiss on his lover’s cheek. Lambert definitely goes red then.

Eskel works through his food slowly. Though he might not have as much as others, he still takes his time, unwilling to irritate his stomach over a small portion. His body has more or less adjusted to his new portion sizes, but on occasion, nausea plagues him if he eats too fast. While the others are reaching for seconds, Eskel reaches halfway down the bowl, yet no one mentions it. He takes the silent encouragement and trust for what it is, the sensations of it almost overwhelming, and he polishes off the remnants of his bowl. He wonders if he should reach for seconds, but he feels... comfortably full. Remembering his limits, Eskel taps Geralt’s thigh underneath the table.

Geralt glances over at his bowl, and when he spots the empty dish, that gentle smile returns. He hums quietly, another spoonful of roast venison shovelled into his mouth, and Eskel is no better than Lambert when he preens at the nonverbal praise. Lambert meets his eyes and slips Eskel a wink. Eskel grabs his bowl and stands, heading back over to the kitchen. As he passes Vesemir, the eldest wolf makes sure to nudge Eskel’s hip. Eskel doesn’t falter or linger, continuing his stride to the washbasin, but the happiness in his chest doesn’t dwindle either. 

They’re proud of him, and Eskel is, too.

When he returns to the table, a conversation has started up now that everyone isn’t ravenous and too preoccupied with eating. He sits down in his seat and listens as Geralt opens his mouth to speak.

“The skies are going to be clear tomorrow,” he mentions, and Eskel instantly knows what he’s hinting at. Lambert must know, too, because the youngest wolf snorts a laugh.

“Still fixated on your sunrises?” Lambert asks, raising an eyebrow. “Gonna wax poetry about the dawn of a new day?” Aiden whacks Lambert in the chest for that comment.

Before Geralt can snarl a comeback that likely would have started an argument, Vesemir clears his throat. “Watching it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

Letho huffs from his end of the table. “Count me out. Anyone who willingly rises that early musta lost their mind.”

Rolling his eyes, Lambert retorts, “Don’t be a hypocrite, snake. You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Aiden shrugs. “Gonna have to agree with Letho. I’m not waking up that early,” he admits, ignoring his lover’s betrayed look. 

“I trusted you,” Lambert whispers in mock hurt.

“Your mistake.”

“Bitch-!”

Eskel cuts Lambert off, interjecting with his own, “I’ll be up. Lamb?” He sends Lambert a stern look, daring the pup to start another argument.

Lambert pouts, but he grumbles, “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

“Then that’s settled,” Vesemir muses, but a grin sits on his lips. Eskel watches the old wolf look around the table, and when Vesemir’s eyes land on him, the smile doesn’t fade. Instead, it’s almost like it grows. It does a funny thing to Eskel’s chest, and he’s sure the emotion would have shown on his face if he hadn’t turned to look at his hands on the table. Geralt nudges him slightly, but Eskel doesn’t glance back up. 

“We’ll meet at the roof before dawn. I’ll be sure to wake you if you’re not up already,” Vesemir claims, but the words aren’t as innocent as they seem. A hidden threat lies in that promise, a threat the wolves know all too well. More than once as kids have Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt been tossed out of their beds if they slept in too long. It’s an unspoken agreement that none of them will be sleeping in tomorrow morning, lest they want to deal with bruises and a headache for the next day or so. 

The table carries on with their conversations. Lambert and Geralt make plans for who is bringing what to the rooftop tomorrow. Aiden and Letho, surprisingly, carry on with their own discussion, something about a certain contract in Velen. As far as Lambert told them, Aiden has stopped taking human contracts years ago, but this doesn’t seem like that kind of talk. In fact, they sound much more like they’re mocking a potential contractor. Eskel decides not to interrupt.

No, he’s more focused on the events of today. He feels good, better than he has in over a year. The smiles he received throughout the day never seemed derogatory, only hints of pride and joy. To think that he could bring that kind of happiness to his friends and family after so long of bringing them misery and pain...it’s almost inconceivable. 

Eskel looks up to see Vesemir eyeing him carefully. He offers his mentor a slight smile, and he gets a brighter one in response. Vesemir looks younger with a smile, more carefree and unburdened. Eskel put that happiness on Vesemir’s face. It’s not fear or worry or pain or dread...it’s happiness and pride and...and Eskel did that. The feeling he gets in his chest - this warmth mixed with the sensation of butterflies - feels better than he could have ever imagined.

You’re doing good, Eskel, he reminds himself. You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re gonna be healthier.

Lambert cooked me my favourite meal today: roast venison stew with vegetables and a side of homemade bread. I didn’t even have to ask, not really. He just knew what I wanted, knew what was my favourite thing to eat. Maybe he remembers it from before, when I was struggling more, but either way, it feels good not having to ask. It was nice.

Anyway, I ate the whole bowl he gave me, no questions asked, no bartering. I think I’m proud of myself for that. I should be. I don’t feel as sick as I used to. There’s a bit of nausea, and my stomach feels a bit uncomfortable when it’s this full, but I think I’m getting used to the feeling. 

I also managed to lift Lambert today. The training with Letho must be paying off, but he says it’s the meals, too. Something about me having more meat on my bones to turn to muscle. That’s not...exactly how it works, but he has a point. Either way, the others looked stunned, and Lambert enjoyed it, I think. He put up a fight, but if he really wanted to get down, he would have done more than yell. 

I feel good for some reason. I still have this urge to feel disgusted and horrified by what I ate today, but I don’t. It feels nice to accomplish something I’ve worked hard for. I have more energy now, too. I’m not as tired and I can keep up. Vesemir seems to be proud, too, and I think that was my favourite part: to see him smile and nod like I had done something worth praising. Lambert and Geralt do it, too. It’s odd to see them so emotional, but I won’t complain. Tomorrow, I’m going to try for a midday snack, too, but that’s depending on how I feel. They tell me all the time not to push myself. They don’t want me to get sick, which is...sweet of them to worry about. But I want to try for me, not them. 

I’m only human. I’m trying. Change isn’t easy. I’m doing better. This is the right thing to do.

Eskel sighs heavily, dotting the end of his last sentence and reading over his journal entry. A slight grin creeps onto his face. There’s something about seeing his accomplishments on paper, to see his progress laid out as if it’s worth memorializing. Maybe it is. Just months ago, Eskel thought that he would never be able to escape this reality he crafted for himself, especially since he didn’t want to. And yet, here he is, nearly back to his original weight and steadily gaining back his previous strength. 

He hasn’t done it alone, though. Between strength training with Letho and eating every meal his family pushes at him, Aiden has helped, too. The Cat spends every other day teaching Eskel how to use his weight flexibly in battle. Seeing Aiden with his winter weight mesmerized Eskel. Cats are known for their agility, and the fact that Aiden can do that with extra weight distributed around his body helps Eskel learn that his size does not negate his skill.

Of course, Geralt, Lambert, and Vesemir have been by his side. They always were, even when he drove them to tears with worry last winter. Never once have they parted from him or given up. Their smiles keep Eskel going, and he wants to make up for all the panic he caused. It chokes Eskel up some days, seeing the proof of how much they care for him. The Wolves aren’t known for being the most touchy-feely witchers on the Continent, but there are worse out there and they’re doing better. Eskel rises out of bed in the morning with a feeling of contentment now, knowing that he’ll be greeted by people who love him rather than a reflection that demeans him for everything he is. 

Eskel might not suit everybody’s tastes, but he’s learning that he doesn’t have to.

A knock comes from Eskel’s door. Setting aside his journal onto his nightstand, Eskel calls, “Come in!”

The door opens, revealing Geralt in the doorway. Though Geralt doesn’t smile, Eskel can see the relief in his shoulders as he looks Eskel over. Eskel grins at him while Geralt kicks the door shut, scooching over enough on his bed for Geralt to slide onto the mattress beside him. He feels Geralt lean his head on Eskel’s shoulder, a soft hum coming from him but no words follow. Eskel gives him a moment, letting Geralt collect his thoughts. He doesn’t mind the silence now that it isn’t plagued with so many thoughts of...well, the bad things he used to think. Some of them slip through every now and again, but for the most part, Eskel can get away without putting himself down.

“Comfortable,” Geralt murmurs, and Eskel snorts.

“Excuse me?” Eskel asks, no small amount of amusement in his voice. He glances down at Geralt, who doesn’t so much as look at Eskel’s face, choosing to stare ahead.

Geralt shrugs as best as he can while pressed this close to Eskel. “Comfy. You’re...softer again. Not just skin and bones.”

Eskel chuckles, clicking his tongue lightly. “And to think you liked me better that way, wolf.”

That gets Geralt to glance up, and the look of alarm he gets in return is still enough to floor Eskel. He’d meant it as a joke, but apparently, Geralt doesn’t appreciate Eskel’s morbid sense of humour. It’s not a surprise. He hated it last winter, and he hates it when Lambert jokes about his trauma, too. To each their own coping mechanism, Eskel supposes.

“It was a joke, Geralt,” Eskel clarifies in a soft tone. “I know you didn’t.”

Geralt settles a bit at that, but he continues to seem a bit agitated. For a moment, Eskel starts to think he did something very wrong, but then Geralt opens his mouth and mutters,

“I haven’t told you yet how proud I am of you.”

Eskel pauses at that. He never thought much of it. The smiles and small nudges had been more than enough. Eskel knows words never come easy to Geralt, and for the longest time, neither of them ever needed verbal communication to understand one another. Lambert often gets annoyed with the silent conversations Geralt and Eskel have, snapping at them to speak like normal people, but to them, the conversation was loud and clear. So why would Geralt need to talk now?

“You don’t have to,” Eskel assures gently. “I know.”

“Doesn’t matter if you know,” Geralt sighs. His hand reaching out, lacing his fingers with Eskel’s. Eskel gives a careful squeeze, and Geralt returns it. “Sometimes, it’s good to hear it anyway.”

Eskel adds the last container of food to his pack, making sure that it is stacked flatly on top of the other ones to avoid spillage. Eskel told the others to get a head start while he makes sure he has breakfast - it was the perfect ruse because by now, the wolves know that sometimes Eskel wants to eat alone so he can take as much time as he needs to overcome his inner struggles without the added pressure of three pairs of eyes on him. As the others left the keep, Eskel could hear his family making arrangements to have breakfast when they returned to Kaer Morhen. 

Eskel's plan, however, is to surprise the wolves with breakfast while they all enjoy the sunrise together, for the first time in a very long time. Preparing breakfast for his family - one container for each of them, filled with cold meats, fresh cheese, fruits, and warm bread - is not simply a matter of filling their stomachs and avoiding the kind of grumpiness brought about by lack of food. No, this is much more than that. This is Eskel showing them that he is doing better, so much better, in fact, that he is now able to prepare meals for his family and himself without rationing his own portions or refraining from eating at all. 

Eskel adds his container of food on top of the others', smiling proudly to himself as he ties his pack shut and throws it over his shoulder. Without wasting any more time, Eskel heads to the stables, where he finds Scorpion tacked up and ready to go. Geralt must have taken the time to get Eskel's stallion ready, he realises fondly. Eskel attaches the pack of food to Scorpion's saddlebags and gently pats his mount's flank, earning himself a friendly nicker in greeting.

"Morning to you, too, boy. Early rise for you, too, I bet." Eskel sneaks the stallion a juicy apple, which Scorpion greedily snatches from him. "C'mon then. We'll miss sunrise if we don't hurry."

And with these words, Eskel mounts Scorpion in one fluid movement and gently nudges the horse's flanks with his heels, spurting Scorpion onwards.

Eskel rides Scorpion far out into the woods, heading for the elven ruins hidden in the trees. There's no doubt that his family would be there by now, likely setting up with a thick blanket underneath them and each swaddled in furs to shelter them from the early morning chill. Eskel can feel the wind biting into him, too, but it's not as bad as it used to be when there's was little fat to keep him warm. He almost doesn't shiver, and he revels in the thought that his progress grants him more benefit than proud smiles.

The elven ruins pop into view, and Eskel spots his family's horses tethered to a crumbling support beam nearby. He dismounts from Scorpion, leading him by the reins to the same column. After tying Scorpion to the stone, he gives his stallion a quick pet over the nose. He grants the other horses pets, too, even fishing out a couple of carrots he stashed away from them. Horses adequately tended to for now, Eskel grabs the pack from Scorpion's saddlebags and wanders over to the edge of the ruins. 

He spots the others huddled close together. Lambert, of course, has placed himself in the middle between Geralt and Vesemir, too sensitive to the cold to sit on the outside. They each have a fur - or two, in Lambert's case - wrapped around them as they bicker loudly over something or another. Eskel chuckles to himself, and the sound causes the others to turn their heads. They light up at the sight of him, but then their eyes flicker down to the pack in his hands. 

"The fuck is that?" Lambert asks so eloquently.

"Use your goddess-given nose and find out," Eskel retorts, plopping himself next to Geralt and placing the pack in front of them.

Geralt lifts the fur around him, allowing Eskel to curl in closer and close the fur around the both of them. Lambert, on the other hand, reaches over to open the pack. He watches in amusement as their eyes widen, lingering over the packed containers of food. Lambert takes out each one, handing them off to Vesemir and Geralt before finally taking out his own and Eskel's.

"Pup," Vesemir starts, his voice hardly above a whisper, "you did this?"

Eskel clears his throat. He hadn't thought much of what he would do when they asked, but now, as he's greeted with their surprise, he can't help but feel a bit flustered. "Uh, yeah. I thought...I thought I'd cook for us and..." He shyly offers up his container to the others for them to see. "I tried to pack my own food, too."

Eskel averts his eyes, half-expecting his family to mock him for his efforts, but instead of jibes, Eskel is met with deafening silence. There is a tension in the air that he can't quite place, and when Eskel finally gathers the courage to look up, he realises that his brothers and Vesemir are staring at him with wide eyes and slack jaws. Eskel feels a blush colouring his cheeks at the sight.

"What?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "I thought you guys would be hungry. You don't have to eat it straight away if you're-"

"You packed your own food?" Vesemir interrupts, his voice laden with all the emotions he doesn't bring himself to voice. "Can I see what you got?"

"Same as you all," Eskel admits with a shrug as he opens the container and shows his family the contents, proving the veracity of his words. "I might not eat it all, but it looks appetising."

"Does it really?" Lambert asks, incredulity lacing his tone, and Eskel understands that his brother doesn't question the tastiness of the food Eskel prepared for them, but rather Eskel's conviction that the food looks good enough to eat. Fuck, how long has it been since Eskel openly admitted being tempted by food?

"Yes," Eskel offers with a small smile, "it does." 

As if to back up his own claim, Eskel picks up a slice of ham and some cheese, which he places on the still warmish bread in a makeshift sandwich. He takes a bite, enjoying the freshness of the cheese against the crispiness of the bread, his eyes fluttering shut as he chews his food with gusto. It does taste nice, admittedly. Eskel is surprised at how well the bread turned out.

The others eventually realise that they are staring and snap out of their shocked trance. They all eat in silence for a while, none of them willing to break the peace that settles over them, like they worry that by talking they will break whatever spell has taken hold of them. For the first time in a while, Eskel feels genuinely content.  

In the distance, the sun finally rises past the snowy peaks, illuminating the valley and its surrounding mountains in a warm, red-orange glow which reflects brightly against the Gwenllech below, making the stream shimmer in the early morning sun. The wind is cold and biting, but the four wolves can't bring themselves to care as their eyes take in the wondrous sight. There is something about the view that tugs at something old and tired in all their chests, forcing them into a near reverent silence as they admire the beauty of Morhen valley. 

Eskel doesn't finish his food, but he manages more than usual. Pride swells in his chest at the thought. He is proud of himself, proud of how far he's come, proud that he is still here despite everything. 

And as he glances around at his family - Geralt, who is cuddled against Eskel and sharing his warmth, Lambert, who indulges Eskel with one of his rare smiles, and Vesemir, who looks like he's about to burst with pride himself - Eskel figures that there is no place on the Continent he would rather be.