They Call Me Caffymunch

Link to Masterlist here Summary: Eskel encounters a foglet in the swamps of Velen Word Count:  ~4k Tags/T.W's: Eskel doing Witcher Stuff. Reader's PTSD if you squint. Mentions of bare knuckle brawling. Running from creepy men. Claustrophobia. Being stuck in a "closet" with Eskel. Close proximity.

Chapter 19: Inn at the Crossroads

Eskel keeps his internal compass pointed North.

In the beginning, you rode on the back of Wraith, opting to keep your head on a swivel, arms tentatively circling his middle, not touching him any more than what was strictly necessary. Eventually, you’d grow weary, cheek pressed against his armoured back, letting him bear the burden of your weight. That is, until you started to slide in your slumber, fingers lax and slipping, your body listing to the left as you began your slow descent off the back of the horse.

Of course, Eskel righted you, twisting in the saddle to keep you from spilling to the ground below. You jolted awake, breathing hard. The Witcher commanded Wraith to a halt before helping you down. A quick change of places, and Eskel was sat firmly behind you, his arms caging you against the horn – a safety net, in case you fell asleep again. Gratefully, you leaned, too tired for decorum, and promptly closed your eyes.

Through the Velen lowlands the two of you traversed. Reeded marshes sprang up from the earth, swallowing the trees whole. Eskel could pinpoint where the salted sea met the fresh water, marked by the swirling, muddied tide and the dead fall, the salination choking the life from the soil. A damp, cloying breeze wafted up from the bogs, the air heavy and warm against his skin. Even Wraith seemed uneasy, tail swishing, ears turning in every direction, always on the lookout for potential danger.

For days there was nothing ahead but more swamp, more mossy stones, more winding merchant roads. At night, Eskel would lead Wraith off the beaten path, to a decently secluded patch of clover-carpeted clearing and assist you in pitching your tent. Logs on the fire, a simmering pot of simple stew – if you were lucky – but more often than not, begrudging bites of your pemmican and a handful of wild berries. Under the cover of darkness, you’d retire to your bedroll, and Eskel would resume a meditative position by the hearth. In the pale morning light, the two of you would break down camp, pack up Wraith, and hit the road again.

A traveller’s routine, if there was ever one.

During the long hours on horseback, there was little to do besides chat. Murmured conversations, carried on the wind, threads followed dutifully back to their origins. Eskel didn’t deny himself the simple pleasure of your voice – soft, breathy, feminine – a melodic sound that soothed his frayed nerves, a numbing balm to the annoyance that was this entirely too slow trek to Kaer Morhen and your decidedly human tendencies. The hunger. The breaks. The rest. The crick in your neck and your saddle-sore thighs. How you’d bite your tongue not to complain, but the wince between your brows and the chapped skin of your lips giving away the hardships of the wilderness, try as you might to hide it.

He wishes there was a way to ease your burdens. A portal to carry you through, to deposit you safely, boots on the stone floor of the Keep, so that you no longer had to endure. No such thing was at his disposal – so he did what he could with what was available. His company, though sorely lacking by most respectable metrics, seemed to provide you a measure of comfort. So, he kept close, kept near, and desperately tried not to flatter himself every time you’d shyly grin his way.

This misty morning you are quiet, though notably alert. Your heart picks up its pace, a delicate pitter patter in his ear, your wide green eyes staring into the billowing fog lining the tree-dense ditches as if waiting for ghostly figures to appear. Though he would’ve heard anything suspicious ages ago, for your sake, he tunes outward, enhanced vision cutting through the precipitation to scan the deep wood and dark marshes. Nothing to report, save for preening waterfowl and a scavenging mongoose.

“All clear,” he tells you softly, so as not to startle you.

“Something feels,” you hesitate, apprehension clear in your tone, “off”.

Eskel’s charmed medallion is stone silent, weighted, and inanimate around his neck.

“Hmm,” he hums, though dismissing your intuition.

“That fog seems awfully thick,” you point out, a tapered finger pointing towards the pale banks. Tendrils of milky mist reach out onto the path, trailing appendages eagerly gripping, dragging itself forward, closer to the two of you.

The Witcher slows Wraith to a crawl with the press of his calves, the gelding’s hooves obediently digging deep into the damp earth. He inhales deeply, catching traces of rich soil and decay in the air – nothing out of the ordinary for a swamp. Eyebrows knit together with concentration, he takes in another lungful, sifting through the flashes of familiarity lighting up his minds eye. There. The faintest traces.

Magic.

“Let’s keep going,” he tells you, keeping his voice level and calm. He clicks at Wraith, heels tapping, and the horse sets off again. The fog eclipses the road ahead. Molars grinding, Eskel forces his steed into a gallop, clods of dirt kicking up behind him. You’re tense, muscles taut, but you don’t protest as you grip the horn for balance, leaning forward slightly to keep yourself from knocking into his chest.

Blindly, Wraith rounds a bend, snorting with exertion as the Witcher pushes him hard, unrelenting. In his periphery, he catches glimpses of glinting light, winks of it, so quick and distant they could be mistaken for the glare of the sun – but there are no such rays to be found in these dark marshes.

The only way out is through, Eskel reminds himself, jaw ticking as he sorts through the minutiae around him, every splash and whisker twitch catalogued. He makes a mental list, compares what he’s found versus what he needs to confirm what lurks in the fog. An unprepared Witcher is a dead Witcher.

Only this time, he has more to think about than just himself.

As the gelding huffs along the path, hooves thundering, you crane your neck, staring in the direction of the soft, glowing light. This merchant road is the sole route through the swamps on horseback. Safe passage was never a guarantee. Yet Eskel bites back a rush of shame, realizing what a fool’s errand it was to try and cross the wetlands with such precious cargo. It would have taken exponentially longer to reach the Northern territories, but he should have secured a boat and taken you by river.

These thoughts are halted by a piercing, guttural shriek in the distance, echoing across the deadfall and still waters.

“Eskel?” you whisper, voice wavering with fear.

“I heard it,” he confirms, answering your silent question.

Shapes move in the mist, shadowy limbs trailing behind a dancing, ethereal light, emanating from within the dense precipitation. Beneath him, Wraith trembles, resisting his master’s attempts to keep him at a steady pace. Eskel half-wishes the horse would bolt. At least then they would almost have a chance of making it through the fog.

His medallion hums with renewed vigor, seemingly making up for lost time.

“When I tell you to go, I need you to listen,” he instructs, eyes drifting closed for a moment as a wave of heavy, dark magic washes over him. Necrophages.

“What?” you stammer, reflexively trying to turn in the saddle to read his expression.

“Keep riding north. Wraith will lead your way. Don’t stop until you see lanterns”.

“Without you?”.

“I’ll catch up,” he promises lowly.

“Eskel, no,” you insist, your shoulders beginning to rise and fall too quickly, your breath coming too short.

“There’s a traveller’s haven ahead. Inn at the Crossroads,” he tells you, “wait for me there”.

Your argument dies in your throat as another splitting roar from the fog erupts, much closer this time. The lights move, fanning, surrounding. Time is running out.

The Witcher is quick, looping the reins around your wrists, a loose bind, before gracefully dismounting, boots soundless on the ground. You twist, lips parted, a pleading look in your eyes. Wraith slows, his confusion palpable, but Eskel doesn’t give him the time to stop and consider, a gloved hand slapping his flank in parting.

“Go”.

Not a moment later, the foglet materializes. Face split open wide with needlepoint teeth, spine hunched, razor-talons dripping with musty swamp water. Eskel unsheathes Daybreaker, his free hand raised, fingers tracing the familiar pattern of Yrden. Around him, a violet circle glows, inviting the foglet to step inside. The mist continues to drift by, obscuring even the closest tree trunks from sight.

As he listens to the fading thump of Wraith’s hoofbeats on the road, carrying you further away with each passing second, the tightness in his chest lessens.

The foglet steps closer, growling, beady eyes levelled at the Witcher, a hunger rolling in waves off its sickly grey body. Eskel tips the sword towards the necrophage, lips peeling back in a soundless snarl.

It leaps towards him.

Night has fallen over Velen, dark clouds obscuring the stars from sight. An unseasonably warm breeze blows in from the marshes, balmy and damp. The kind of moisture that curls deep in the lungs, presses against the chest, makes it difficult to take a full breath. The tall grasses shimmer in the low light, undulating fields of vegetation in the pockets of clearing on the outskirts of the swamp. The ground gives way to firmer, rockier soil. Out of the woods, so to speak.

Eskel stands beneath the swaying lantern lights, the faintest strains of music caressing his eardrums. Behind him, a trail of blood.

One foot in front of the other, he keeps himself steady, vision tunneled. Ahead, a creaking sign proudly proclaims he’s reached his destination.

Inn at the Crossroads, it reads.

Onward he pushes, a hand going to his thigh idly, fingertips coming back slick. He pays it no mind, pushing the pain to the far corners of his mind, expression schooled into an indifferent mask. In the blackness, the sizeable, log-walled inn looms. He spies an attached stable, where the horses of merchants and travellers alike are tucked in for the night. The large, thatched roof rises into the black sky, promising dry rooms and warmth, at the very least. Behind the small glass windows, comforting orange light glows – beckoning him closer.

Hands heavy on the doorframe, Eskel pushes open the entrance to the lively tavern, following the upbeat melody of a well-played flute.

A few heads turn at his arrival. He ignores the pointed stares and murmured words of awe and disgust, solely focused on scanning the sparse crowd for your telltale head of flaming red locks. The walls are decorated with vibrant chalk drawings of spring flowers, the customary garlands of dried petals looped through the rafters. The wooden floors are swept bare, the rough plank tables pockmarked but relatively clutter free. Fieldhands and mercenaries’ hunch over their tankards of mead, ripping off hunks of dry break with dirt-streaked fingers. A few barmaids mill around, gossiping with one another before flitting off to refill empty cups. The innkeeper stands behind the bar, organizing several tinctures recently offloaded from the amiable merchant still chatting his ear off.

Eskel moves deeper within the tavern, skirting past the tables and ogling patrons, somewhat conscientious of the small pools of blood he’s leaving in his wake. Candles flicker as he passes, stirred by his presence. The innkeeper regards the Witcher with ill-concealed apprehension and thinly veiled suspicion.

There, in the very back, face practically pressed to the windowpane, you sit. Your fingers are twisted into knots on your lap. Your right foot jitters, tapping along tunelessly. It’s clear you’re not listening to the entertainment. Cutting through the woodsmoke and charred meat, your scent reaches him clear and undiluted. Fresh rain and rosebuds, delicate and summery – soothing him instantly.

At the same moment, you catch sight of him, perhaps a smudge of crimson, a flash of his reflection in the glass. You turn, a soft gasp of surprise on your lips. In an instant, relief floods your gaze, rimming your eyes red, glittering tears collecting in the corners. You’re on your feet, launching yourself towards him before he has the opportunity to take a single step forward.

You embrace him, arms flung over his shoulders, carefully avoiding the spikes, cheek pressed to his chest. He hesitates before returning the gesture, holding you tightly to him, cradling the back of your head tenderly. Heat creeps up his neck, scars itching fiercely at the sudden influx of liquid warmth. He is hyper-aware of the staring now, the popped open mouths, blinking with disbelief at the young woman that flung herself willingly into the arms of the bloodstained Witcher.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur, pulling away fractionally, hands gripping his forearms. Not letting go. Eskel’s gaze flicks downwards, towards his hastily wrapped thigh, the linen bandage already soaked through, as if noticing the gashes for the first time. “Claws,” he half-shrugs, a smirk pulling on the unmarred corner of his mouth. You do not find him particularly amusing, if your frown is to be believed.

“Let me tend to them,” you insist, tugging gently, as if you intend to guide him. The Witcher is an unmovable force, stoically silent and towering above you. You huff, chin jutting in the direction of the table you procured. “It’s wrapped,” he insists tiredly. “That’s good enough for now”. You pout but thankfully decide to let it go. “It’s a flesh wound,” he promises, a hand going to your lower spine to usher you towards your seat. You raise a dubious eyebrow at him. “I wouldn’t have been able to walk all the way here if it wasn’t,” he counters your silent accusation. Little did you know, he would have crawled back to you on his hands and knees if it were required, skin flayed open and intestines trailing behind him.

“If you insist,” you sigh, unconvinced, before sitting and folding your hands neatly on the scarred tabletop. Eskel doesn’t join you.

“I need a few things from the innkeeper,” he explains.

“Will we stay here tonight?” you wonder, trying – and failing – to keep the hopeful lilt from your tone.

“If you’d like”.

“I would”.

“As you wish,” he flourishes with a mock-bow, already turning, concealing a wince from your shrewd gaze as he does.

Stepping towards the densely populated counter, near the roaring hearth and the stone-faced innkeeper, Eskel slides onto one of the worn and deeply grooved stools, heels hooking on the support slats. “Cherry cordial,” he begins, “do you carry it?”.

The innkeeper slowly sets down the carved mug he was polishing. “Aye,” he nods. “A few bottles”.

The Witcher reaches into the small leather pouch at his side, the bruises blooming on his ribs protesting loudly. “I’ll take your stock”.

The innkeeper regards the gold crowns tossed to the countertop warily. Eskel wonders if he’s going to bite one, test their authenticity. Instead, he simply shrugs after brushing the coins into the folds of his apron for safekeeping, reaching behind the counter and producing four black vials. He sets them down carefully in front of the stranger.

“You’re a long way from Kaer Morhen, Master Witcher”.

“I go where I’m needed,” Eskel tells him, noting the vague threat in the man’s remark. Behind him, the patrons stir. Chittering like insects. Hushed conversations about the blades strapped to his back, gleaming wickedly in the firelight. Two men, Redanian mercenaries judging by their accent, murmur about you.

“What do you reckon? A lass travelling with the likes of that brute?” a man in a tin helmet wonders, before taking a messy swallow of mead, numb fingers struggling to hold the tankard to his lips. “I heard tell of … experimentation. In that Witcher’s keep in the mountains,” his companion hiccups. “Bet he’s gonna cut her open and see what’s inside”.

Eskel blinks slowly, jaw aching with the force of his teeth gnashing together, golden eyes flicking over his shoulder to watch the mercs speculate over a plate of stale bread.

“Someone ought to do somethin’” Tin Hat slurs, with an air of indignation. “First the children, now the lasses. It ain’t right”.

This declaration is followed by the scrape of a chair being pushed backwards and the clank of cheap armour. The men rise to their full stature, pulling on their red tunics to straighten them. Trouble, the Witcher suspects. To his surprise, they do not approach him – but saunter over to your table instead.

In an instant, Eskel is on his feet, the innkeeper and his furtive glances forgotten.

At the sight mercenaries approaching, you freeze, fingers locked around the mulled wine you had been nursing. Your cheeks pale, eyes wide, as panic eclipses your features.

“Leave her be,” Eskel commands, voice booming, unable to stand the fearful expression on your face a second longer.

“We was just going to ask the lass if she’s alright,” Tin Hat protests, his palm laying to rest on the pommel of his sword. A warning. “She looks afraid, don’t she?” his companion adds, tone belligerent as he points a fat finger in your direction. You are speechless, watching the exchange with thinly pressed lips, gaze bouncing between the men.

Eskel steps closer, arms crossing as he does.

“Walk away,” he suggests, head tilting, letting them each get a healthy eyeful of the brutal scars winding down his right side. The drunken men are undiscouraged, too deep in their self-righteous stupor to be persuaded. “Snatching women, we can’t stand for it,” Tin Hat insists, shaking his head with disgust.

“This here is the civilized world, Witcher. No room for your barbarianism,” his companion agrees, working the saliva in his mouth like he intends to spit. You have begun to tremble in your seat, your position still locked in place, small ripples forming in the wine where your grip quavers. Eskel weighs the pros and cons of cutting the men down.

His decision is made for him when Tin Hat reaches forward, intent on grabbing your arm – presumably to pull you to safety. The misguided heroism of the mercenaries was irksome at first. Now it has become dangerous. A small yelp leaves your lips as Eskel’s fist connects with Tin Hat’s jaw in the same instant, sending the large man careening into a nearby table. A cacophony of sound erupts as drinkware and platters are knocked to the floor. The innkeeper yells, moving behind the counter in a hurry. The Witcher quickly dispatches the other man with a well-placed elbow. He too falls in a loose heap on the floor. Blood flows earnestly from his broken nose. He probes the flattened cartilage with a choked grunt of pain.

Eskel doesn’t need to say a word. Your hand is already gripping his as the two of you tear through the tavern, running towards the entrance. A few other mercenaries stand, lumbering and slowed by the mead, but intending to block the way, nonetheless. You’re agile, Eskel’s bulk acting as an unconscious deterrent for engagement. With a dropped shoulder, he spills through the doorway and out into the cool night air. You’re right behind him, clinging to his arm like a lifeline.

“Wraith?” he questions, still pulling you along.

“The stable,” you reply, breathless, the spongey spring mud clinging to the soles of your shoes, sucking you down.

The barn doors are propped open, letting the breeze waft into the crowded stalls. Refusing to slow, Eskel practically drags you through the threshold, eyes quickly adjusting to the dark. Wraith is near the middle; a soft whinny of greeting offered towards his master. Eskel doesn’t have time to acknowledge it, the heavy footfall of at least four sets of boots thundering towards the stable growing considerably more urgent – the mercenaries’ compatriots, seeking revenge.

Eskel looks for a spot to hide you. There is a rickety staircase, leading up to the hayloft. You’d never get up the ladder in time for them not to spy you. A thin strip of canvas hangs from the steps, concealing a makeshift storage area under the stairs. He leads you to it, holding back the cloth and herding you inside. It’s narrow, hardly enough room for a single person, let alone two, but you grip him by the lapels regardless and tug him in with you.

Before he can extricate himself, one of the mercenaries steps inside the barn.

Eskel places a palm to your mouth. Among the empty crates and bags of feed, your back is flush against the rough barn wall. To balance himself and keep from crushing you entirely, his fingers are splayed near your head, holding himself in somewhat upright position. Your heart thunders in your chest, the pulse in your neck throbbing visibly. This close, he can feel your warmth, radiating beneath your clothes, and detect the sheen of sweat gathering at your temples. It smells sweet. You stare at him, the whites of your eyes clearly visible. Your breathing is laboured, a ragged rise and fall of your chest, soft friction against his own while pressed this tightly together.

The mercenary moves methodically, searching all the stalls for any sign of the Witcher or his companion. The others have spread out, scouring the fields and the grain silos.

Carefully, Eskel removes his palm. Your lips are swollen, flushed red. He watches you swallow, your gaze fixed on his mouth, the soft, delicate flesh of your throat exposed to him. “Shh,” he whispers, a thumb swiping your chin comfortingly. The mercenary’s footsteps lead back towards the door with a long exhale of annoyance. Close enough that his shadow passes over the canvas. The Witcher detects a disturbance in the air around the man, the telltale swish of swinging steel. He’s got a sword in his hand.

Eskel practically watches the whimper develop in your vocal cords, catching behind your teeth, his index pressed to your lips before he can pause and consider the wisdom of it. The mercenary steps out of the barn, calling for his companions. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, you’re still staring. At his mouth.

Softly, he says your name, hoping it will snap you out of whatever trance you’ve fallen into. He must chalk it up to relief at seeing him again after the foglet encounter, simple appreciation for stepping in when the mercenaries approached, or the delirium of fear at being stuck in the claustrophobic space with him. It must be. What he cannot afford to believe is the slight arch in your spine, pressing you closer to him than polite society would allow, or the telltale parting of your lips, the dark fringe of your lashes, blinking up at him slowly. He’s reading you wrong. It cannot be.

“Eskel,” you say. Pleading. Soft. In that way that he is incapable of refusing. A secret path to his heart that only you traverse. Thorns and spiked fences be damned.

You cannot be offering yourself up to him this way, back bowed and neck exposed, a lamb to the slaughter, pupils blown in a way that can only spell desire. A foreign look, a forgotten emotion, a sacrifice too great – a price too high. You want what you do not know, an insatiable curiosity reserved for the youthful and the naïve, of which you are both. He is only a man, self-discipline hanging by a thread, the reserves of his morality scraped to the very bottom, the last dregs of decency hauled up from the depths for you. Whatever goodness he has left, he clings to it now. For you.

“I can’t”.

Cream - White Room/Those Were The Days (1968)