#dadskel

When they had foreclosed on the house and he had to move what remained of his small family into a dingy council flat, he had promised himself they would keep something. Anything to remind them that they were still living, not just surviving. But when the bills had started piling up, and Angie had started needing school uniform after kicking about in the playground with the boys, and Ciri had needed new bras and…

Ten pounds.

A lump formed in Eskel’s throat. One part shame, two parts misery. Shame that he couldn’t provide his daughters with the life they deserved, and the misery? Knowing that a year and a half ago he wouldn’t have even thought twice about twenty-five pounds worth of groceries in fucking Aldi. And now he was standing at the front of a puffing, wrist-tapping queue trying to work out how he was going to feed two teenage girls on ten quid, while still having the energy to work his two jobs, only to cash the cheque at Cash Converters and lose ten per cent of it straight away.

Eskel looked at the contents of the trolley and then dragged his gaze up to Ciri. Her eyes glistened even as she rolled her lips into her mouth. It wasn’t the going without that upset her—no, Ciri was too good for that, too mature, well beyond her years—it wasn't the fact that she couldn't have the latest Stephen King novel or the branded crisps in her lunchbox, it was watching the father she loved struggle in the middle of a crowded budget supermarket, knowing there was nothing she could do to help. Fuck, she shouldn’t have to even think about it, she…

“Excuse me,” called her a mellifluous voice from behind a stocky builder in a yellow high-viz, “will you just—yes, thank you, god, have a shower, yes, excuse me, ma’am!”

A startling figure emerged from the mire of grim faces watching Eskel’s predicament with morbid fascination. It was the too-tight skinny jeans and designer that caught Eskel’s attention first. It was such a stark contrast to the washed-out, austere poverty of their surroundings, not to mention Eskel’s faded jeans and red checked jacket.

“Here,” the new arrival proffered a card at the cashier, whose eyebrows had lept towards her neatly permed hairline. “It’s on me. All of it.”

Eskel swallowed, fingers clenching around the edges of his phone. The screen went dim and he felt his eyes burn again. A lesser man might have tried to decline out of some ill-placed pride, but the thought didn’t even occur to Eskel. He waited for the man to change his mind, to glance at the contents of their shopping and decide to whisk the offer back. In fact, Eskel waited so long in his disbelief that his saviour offered a wry smirk. “You know, usually, this is where you start packing manically before she lobs them off the end of the belt.”

“Oh, uh.” Eskel blinked back into focus and shuffled around the end of the counter so that Ciri could move the trolley. The stranger helped them pack and Eskel noted the can of deodorant, travel toothbrush and box of Weetabix that followed.

By the time they were outside, Eskel had gathered some of his wits back. He wasn’t usually one to shock easily, but no stranger had ever extended such kindness in his direction and acted as if it were nothing. Eskel left Ciri to lift the bags into the boot of the car and jog-walked to the stranger as he climbed into an old Peugeot. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” the man paused long enough to dump his three items on the passenger seat before standing up, forearms propped on the top of the open door, “get everything you need?”

“Yeah, I… look, thank you, I’m… I’m grateful.”

“Don’t sweat it,” the man shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be there with just me, let alone with a kid as well.”

“Kids.”

“Kids, hmm. Okay.”

Eskel reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “I get paid in a week. Can pay you back, for all of it.”

“There’s no need. It’s… what? Twenty quid?”

Eskel pressed his lips together and tried not to let the flippant comment cut too deep. It was well-intentioned from a man who had just allowed him to feed his daughters for one more week. “Please,” Eskel swiped through to his contacts and pulled up a new entry, “I insist. Gimme your number or an email. Can always PayPal it across.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?” Eskel looked up and was met with another of those mischievous smiles.

“My name. And you are?”

“Eskel,” he said and got the distinct feeling he was being appraised as Jaskier’s head tilted to the side.

“I’d prefer to meet in person if that’s okay?” Jaskier plucked his phone from his back pocket, thumbs fluttering over the screen with learned precision.

“Yeah, sure.”

“How about at that new place in town on Saturday? Zoltan’s.”

“The craft beer place?” Eskel figured it was plenty public and, judging by his current apparel, Jaskier probably had a prior arrangement there. He could pop out, grab the cash from Eskel, and his friends would be none the wiser. “Uh, sure.”

“Okay, number?”

Eskel read his own out and received a text message barely three seconds after finishing. A winking smiley face. Eskel saved it under ‘Jaskier, Aldi, £25.00’ to remind himself of what he owed and tucked his phone away. “Thanks again.”

“A bargain as far as I’m concerned. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

Before Eskel could ask what the hell that meant, Ciri called him away. Jaskier ducked into his car and soon the non-descript silver Peugeot was passing them by on its way to the exit. Eskel dropped into the driver’s seat and inhaled a deep breath through his nose. The tightness that had seized his chest in the supermarket had finally loosened; the fear of having his children go hungry because he wasn’t a good enough father dispersed.

“Did you give that man your number?” Ciri asked innocently.

“Mhm,” Eskel buckled into the driving seat as he shifted the car into reverse and tucked his hand behind her headrest. “Gonna pay him back after I get paid on Saturday.”

“He’s quite good looking.”

“He’s too old for you,” Eskel replied without missing a beat.

Ciri glowered and then rolled her eyes. “I meant for you, dumb arse.”

Eskel cast her a sideways glance as he pulled out of the car park, thumbs tapping on the steering wheel. He may be tired, but he wasn’t blind. Jaskier had been exceptionally good looking, but a glance in the rearview mirror quickly blunted Eskel's hope. The gym membership had been one of the first casualties, and Eskel could count on one hand the number of times he’d eaten in the last week. He went hungry quite willingly so that Ciri and Angouleme could eat. So, gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes (and that was before a discerning eye reached the pitted wreckage of his face), Eskel wasn’t exactly ready for the dating scene.

“Yeah, I’m outta his league.”

“Hmm,” Ciri sank back into the seat, elbow braced on the door, jaw against her knuckles. “Whatever you say, smooth operator.”

Eskel puffed. “Oh, yeah. That was - somethin’. Girls are,” he paused, “women are - tough.” 

“Worth it, though.”

“Absolutely.” 

They rode through the high gates of Beauclair, dismounting as they entered more crowded streets. As they drew closer to the orphanage, Eskel spoke again. “I don’t care,” he murmured, “that is… I… whoever fits, you know?”

Whoever doesn’t run from us in fear. Geralt could hear the real reason beneath Eskel’s hesitance. There was every possibility that the children would flee from them in terror. They had already agreed they would only accept a child that came with them willingly; history wouldn’t repeat itself on their watch. 

They tethered their horses to a nearby hitching post. Roach was moody enough to ward off any light fingers and Scorpion was liable to stare blankly at anyone who issued him a command outside Eskel; he didn’t even listen to Geralt half the time. 

The noise of the street faded behind them as they stepped into the building, replaced with young, high-pitched voices filtering down through the rafters. Small feet ran over creaking floorboards, fleeing from another set in hot pursuit. The matron was expecting them. Geralt had written ahead. Even after Dandelion’s hard work and his own exploits, witchers were still an unwelcome shadow in anyone’s doorway.

“Ahh, Master Rivia,” said a clipped voice and stern frown as it arrived from a backroom. The matron was a dour-looking woman, her black hair scraped back into a tight bun, emphasising the sharpness of her grey eyes. “I’ve gathered some of our youngest in the room on your left."

“Thank you.” Geralt nodded and steered Eskel towards the closed door. He had given an age range in his letter and the reasons why. Neither of them was equipped to deal with a babe, but a child that was too old would have already absorbed a lot of prejudice. They needed a middle ground.

Eskel instinctively tilted his face away as they ducked into the room, and Geralt took his chin gently, tilting his head up. “Can’t hide,” he said softly. “Give them a chance.” Children were more forgiving - and trusting - than adults. They would look at Eskel and see a huge teddy bear that had once needed his face stitched back together, Geralt was certain.

There were about fifteen children in the room of varying ages. Toddlers still wearing linens waddled around on little legs, clutching wooden blocks and tattered toys, while older children huddled quietly in the corners. Predictably, a handful of them recoiled in terror when Eskel and Geralt appeared. Perhaps not just because they were witchers, but because they were men.

 Eskel’s heart ached for all of them. “Geralt…”

“I know,” Geralt grunted, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Just… why don’t we - ?”

“Play with them.” The matron stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “Children learn everything through play.” 

“Right,” Eskel nodded and turned back. They had never played as children. Ragdoll knights, wooden blocks and stuffed bears were replaced with mushroom broths, steel swords and broken bones. Geralt crouched down by a toy chest, and Eskel wandered between the tiny beings that waddled and ran around his feet.  

He kicked a block accidentally and flinched. When he bent down to pick it up, a small hand beat his to it. It belonged to a small girl. She could be no older than three. Her hair fell about a round-cheeked face in loose ringlets, and she peered at him with inquisitive green eyes. “Uh,” Eskel swallowed. “Hello.”

She stared. He tried again. “Good morning?”

“Oh, there’s no point,” the matron sighed. “She’s deaf and mute. The most she knows is a few signs with her hand. Asks for food, for the toilet. Good girl though. No trouble.” 

“Ah.” Eskel nodded and lifted his hand to wave his fingers at her. She beamed and swept an open palm in a semi-circle before her face. 

“That’s hello.” 

“Yeah, I… I got that.” Eskel cleared his throat, unsure where to go from the initial greeting, but he needn’t have worried; the little girl thrust a few more blocks into his hand, grabbed his other one and led him towards her small collection. She was busy building a tower but had reached the limit of her own height. She pointed. Eskel was to continue her work.  

Geralt took a seat on the windowsill and watched. Ten minutes turned into thirty, thirty minutes turned into an hour. The little girl pulled Eskel around the room to different activities, scowled at a young boy who screeched at the sight of Eskel’s face and then they sat down with two stuffed bears in the far corner. 

The matron called the meeting to an end after two hours. “Well?”

“We’ll need a few more visits,” Geralt said, although he was certain Eskel had made his choice. “So she can get to know us more.”

“Of course,” the matron sighed. “What’s one more mouth to feed, hm?”

“Here.” Eskel snatched his coin purse from his belt and pushed it into her hands. “Some meat for them tonight. No gin, you hear?” 

She scoffed. “Please.”  

They returned home with a spring in their step. Barnabas pulled some Beauclair White from the cellar to celebrate and Geralt basked in the warm light that lit Eskel’s amber eyes.

On their second visit, they learned their young lady’s name. Sophie. She was native to Sodden, had fled south with her family and then lost her parents shortly after that. While the others gave Eskel and Geralt a wide berth, she was thrilled to see them and grabbed her new favourite person; Eskel, obviously, it was always Eskel. 

She tugged insistently at his elbow until he sat on the threadbare rug and then thrust a book into his hands. Eskel looked up sharply and the matron shrugged her shoulders. When the witcher turned back, Sophie was retrieving her stuffed bear. “You… want me to read this to you?”

She stared at him for a moment longer, and then climbed into his lap, her ear pressed to his chest. Realisation dawned and Eskel drew in a stuttering sigh of adoration. She may not be able to hear his words, but she could feel the deep rumbles of his voice in his chest. Perhaps even in the air between them when he spoke to her. Eskel opened the book and started reading. Sophie hugged her bear tight and smiled serenely.

They visited a few more times. Just to be sure. They didn’t want to frighten her or take her away if she wasn’t sure, but each time she saw Eskel and Geralt in the doorway, her little face broke into a beaming grin.

On their fifth visit, they made arrangements to collect Sophie the following week.

Eskel spent every hour of every day preparing. He built her a bed with his bare hands, carving flowers and fairies into the headboard; sewed her sheets and sent Barnabas into town with a long list of items. Thankfully, the majordomo was able to fill in the gaps. The young lady would need dresses for occasions, hose for running around the estate, fine shoes and boots… “Leave it with me, Geralt,” Barnabas said, with a fond smile.

 “Do… do you think she’ll want a pet?” Eskel asked Geralt as they drank wine on the veranda the night before they were due to collect her. “You know, a—uh, a puppy.”

“She’s already got you better trained than any puppy,” Geralt smirked and Eskel just beamed right back. “I’ll think about it. Maybe a terrier—for the rats.”

“Hm.”

Eskel hurried through his chores the following morning and stood ready with Roach gone noon as they had agreed. She was small enough to fit on the saddle in front of Eskel, and the matron had assured them she had very few belongings to speak of. A favourite bear, the book that Eskel had read to her the previous visit and one more set of clothes. Geralt and Eskel would ensure she never wanted for anything ever again.

They left the horses in their usual spot and entered the orphanage. The matron looked a little more flustered than their previous two visits. “Yes, good, finally. She’s ready. Take her.”

 “Has she had time to say goodbye to - ?” Eskel gestured vaguely at the rest of the building.

“Yes.”

Sophie clutched her teddy and book close to her chest, gazing up at Eskel with sad, confused eyes. A few of their field workers had taught Eskel some rudimentary signs, and he crouched in front of her. He curled the fingers of his right fist, extended his smallest finger and pushed it out from his shoulder, mouthing ‘what’s wrong?’ She placed her thumb to her forehead, her forefinger extended. 

“Geralt, I… uh, I don’t know that one.” Eskel looked at the matron, who pretended not to see.

 Just as Geralt opened his mouth to push the issue, a door flew open on the floor above, smashing against the wall. Something fierce sprinted down the corridor and then thundered down the stairs. “No!” It was a boy. He could be no older than eight, with the same dark hair and green eyes as Sophie. Eskel fell back as the boy threw himself in front of Sophie and brandished a sharpened wooden stake at his chest, face twisted in an angry snarl.

“You feral little beast,” the matron cawed. “How dare you! Selfish! Despicable!”

“They’re not taking her! They’re not!”

 “This is her chance at a good life. You’ll ruin it again. Away, now. I’ll have the cook take the belt to you, you little wretch.”

Eskel stood slowly. The boy’s shoulders were no bigger than the width of his spread hand, his limbs thin and gangly, his cheeks hollow. There were grazes on his knuckles and knees and a split in his lip; he’d been fighting recently. “Who is this?” Eskel asked, amber eyes turning to the matron. She cowed immediately.

“No one, he—.”

“Don’t lie to us,” Geralt chimed in, adding his own ire to the mix. “Truth, now.”

“This little urchin is her brother. He’s ruined a perfectly good adoption already. You don’t have to take him. I’ll call the cook, or you could use your sorcery, or—.”

Eskel had stopped listening. He was gazing down at this small boy who faced him, a creature that could wipe him from the face of the earth with no more than a flick of the wrist, his eyes brimming with fear, hurt and anger. There had been another young boy many decades ago. Just as angry. Just as alone. Shivering in a narrow cot in the dormitory, his knobbly knees clutched close to his chest. Eskel couldn’t save him from his fate and now they both wore the same medallion. “We’ll take him, too.” 

“What?” the matron snapped, and then gathered herself. “You… you can’t bring them back. Once they leave here, they’re your problem. The brat is wild. We were going to hand him to the military as soon as he was tall enough.”

Geralt’s face hardened. He reached into his pocket for the coin purse and handed over the adoption fee wordlessly. Eskel crouched before the boy again; the stake quivered before his face. “You know what we are.”

“Witchers,” the boy grated, his lower lip rolling between his teeth. “You’re not taking her. Not turning her into one.”

“No, we won’t do that.”

“You all lie. All of you.”

“Give us a chance. Just one.”

Sophie tugged her brother’s elbow insistently, and he turned to her with a furrowed brow. She placed her precious cargo of bear and book on the floor, and then proceeded to make a series of hand gestures. The boy kept the stake primed at Eskel and watched her intently. “But they—,” he whispered, tone urgent, but she repeated the same gesture three more times. Insistent. A thumb up, followed by a tap to her chest.

The boy lowered the stake, turning a baleful stare back to Eskel. “You have one chance.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“And if you betray us, I’ll kill you. I will, I don’t care what you are, I’ll slit your throat—I’ll—I’ve done it before.”

“Of course,” Eskel nodded, accepting the bear and the book that Sophie placed in his arms. This wasn’t the place to address the boy’s past or his trauma, but it would need to be done. Gently, safely. At home. “Do you have a name?”

“Alex,” the boy swallowed.

“Eskel,” he swivelled and pointed up. “This is Geralt.”

Alex glanced between the two witchers, his forehead still creased, his lips turned into a deep frown. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t want to go with them. Eskel could see all that in his glare. But Sophie did, and Alex had spent so long living to defend his sister he had no other option but to follow her. “I’ll get my shoes.”

“And the rest of your things?”

 “I only have shoes.”

They left when Alex returned with a set of scrappy boots. He flinched away from the hand Geralt offered when mounting Roach, and then sat rigidly in the saddle, expecting an attack from every angle. Eskel gathered Sophie close to him, tucking the bear safely inside his cloak with her, and made both his children a quiet promise. They would never have to fight to survive. They would never have to go hungry. They would never have to fear the shadows around the corner or sharpen a chair leg into a weapon.

Marlene ran outside to the coop in a whirlwind of skirts only to find Sophie knelt just inside the door. She was cuddling one of the chickens, stroking a little hand down her feathers, with the neck resting on her shoulder. The hen didn’t seem alarmed; it cooed and clucked happily in her arms. Eskel arrived moments later, drawn by Marlene’s alarmed shouts, and found a dead chick in the nest. Sophie was comforting the hen.

They buried the chick in the vineyard following a short ceremony; Eskel lit a small candle and helped Sophie hold it, while Alex helped Geralt with the small grave. After that, the hen followed Sophie around the courtyard most mornings, along with the gaggle of geese that she played with every evening, a local cat and a single mallard duck. If it had feathers or fur, she seemed to have an affinity with it.

Alex was more difficult to pry away. He preferred to sit nearby and keep watch. It didn’t matter how many times Eskel and Geralt assured him that the estate was safe (there were two witchers between him and harm), he continued to flinch at every sound and meet every encounter as a challenge. Workmen, visiting riders, all were met with a wary eye and clenched fists.

One morning, Geralt called him to help in the orchard. Marlene had asked for some apples: crumble, preserve and sauces. She was unstoppable when the Apple Fervour took hold.

They ended up sitting beneath one sprawling tree, legs crossed, baskets half full at their sides. Geralt asked Alex to teach him some more signs. “This is family,” Alex said, placing the first two fingers of one hand over the first two of the other before him, before moving his hands in what he believed to be a small circle. “Now you.”

“Like this?”

“Smaller, like… yeah, like that,” he paused, brow creased, “then this is I don’t understand.” Two fists loosely clenched before his shoulders, and then he extended his forefingers backwards past his ears. He watched Geralt imitate the movements and growled when he got it wrong. “No, looser fists, look… let me,” he took one of Geralt’s big hands and loosened his grip, “there, like that. Try again.”

Geralt did. Alex grunted his approval. Green eyes flickered back towards the house and he plucked at the tufts of grass beneath him; he had been away from Sophie for an hour, which was about the limit of his tolerance. Geralt drew his attention back by tapping his knee. “Alex, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Showing me how to talk to Sophie. Showing us both. It means the world to Eskel, and to me.”

Alex shrugged, shoulders hunching and then straightening as he fought the natural urge to hide. “Yeah, well… people think she’s dumb because she can’t talk like they can, but really they’re dumb because they can’t talk like she does.”

“People are stupid. They reject what they don’t understand.”

Alex grunted again. 

“She’s lucky to have you.” 

“Yeah, well… she doesn’t… need me anymore, does she?”

“What do you mean?”

“She has you and Eskel to look after her now. She doesn’t need me.”

“That upsets you.”

“It doesn’t.” The crack in his voice said otherwise.

“She’ll always need you, Alex,” Geralt said, keeping his eyes trained on Alex’s face in hope that he might look up and meet them. “She needs you as her brother. To love her for who she is. And we need you too.”

“Wouldn’t understand her without me.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Geralt conceded. He allowed the conversation to peter out. It was one that could quite easily go around in circles; Alex wouldn’t believe that their lives would now be incomplete without him. Eskel adored the boy, wanted desperately to hug him and make him laugh; he had talked about getting some school books in, and maybe some paintbrushes. There had to be some way to rekindle the light in Alex’s eyes. He had so much to offer.

“How do you say ‘I love you’? Eskel says it a lot, but it would be useful if we could say it in her language too,” asked Geralt.

“Oh, that one’s easy.” Alex lifted his hands up; one tapped his chest, and then they overlapped to pat over his heart, before pointing straight at Geralt. The witcher imitated it. Alex glanced up and then nodded his approval. “Yeah, that’s right. She’ll like that.”

“No, Alex,” Geralt reached forward and tapped beneath his chin. When the boy was looking up, Geralt performed the gesture again. He followed it with another; extended fingers moving away from his mouth. ‘Thank you’. 

Alex studied him closely for a long minute, green eyes glittering. It wasn’t something he would accept easily. He didn’t want kisses or hugs, whereas Sophie thrived on them. He didn’t accept gifts and Geralt knew he hoarded food despite open access to the larder (much to Marlene’s irritation). Alex had a long way to go. Adults had hurt him in so many ways, he couldn’t trust them easily. 

He grabbed his basket and stood. “C’mon, Marlene said she needs these before lunch…”

“Yeah,” Geralt nodded, unfolding to his feet. “Be hell to pay if we’re late.”

When Eskel wasn’t traipsing, bare-footed, around the estate in search of something to fix and tend to, he spent time with the locals. His amber eyes and scarred face caused consternation at first—he was used to it—but their workforce quickly came to associate his battered visage with a kindly smile and hearty laugh. The children were particularly taken with him. They took it in turns to hitch rides on his broad shoulders, stretching up to reach the ripest apples high in the trees or clamber up into the hayloft during hide and seek, and pestered him for stories. He was the best weaver of tales that Geralt knew, and often he found himself sitting cross-legged with the children around the fire as Eskel recounted one of his contracts with wide sweeping arms, monster noises and a hushed, conspiratorial tone.

Geralt wondered what could have been had it gone differently with Deidre. Eskel never got the chance and bore the scars of his loss for everyone to see. He’d never had someone call him ‘father’, or run to him after nightmares, or rely on him in the way a child did. Uncle Eskel, yes. Ciri loved him. Perhaps as much as a father, but it wasn’t quite the full thing. Not really.

One evening they sat on the veranda, bare feet propped up on the railings with a large bottle of wine on the table between them. The sun had long set and Barnabas had lit some special candles to ward off the insects, despite their protest that it really didn’t matter, they were—“Witchers, yes, I know, Master Eskel, but if it’s all the same, I’ll light the candles,” he said, with a good-natured eyeroll.

Eskel had been brooding. It wasn’t the tense, dark brood that Geralt used to conduct in his youth, but a pensive, thoughtful brood that sometimes broke out into a small smile. A few hours passed in companionable silence; Geralt would occasionally reach over and touch Eskel’s hand, or vice versa, just enjoying the fact that they could. It was summer and he was right there. Not at the other side of the Continent, not dead, not leaving, never again.

“Geralt,” Eskel said, finally. “I want a baby.”

Regrettably, Geralt was halfway through a hearty mouthful of wine and proceeded to snort it out his nose. Eskel raised an eyebrow with an impatient twist of the lips but waited. Geralt coughed and then, eyes watering, looked over at that expectant face. “Just like that, huh?”

“No, not just like that,” Eskel placed his goblet down and folded his arms across his chest; one hand leapt up almost immediately to dab at the scars on his face. “I’ve been thinking and… I want to… I want to see what it’s like, and… I think I’d be a good father; we’ve got all this wealth and nothing to spend it on, not really. I…” 

“Eskel,” Geralt grinned, stroking the backs of his fingers down a bare forearm until the very same pondering hand dropped into his. “I get it. I was joking. C’mon, I know you’d be an amazing father.”

“And you,” Eskel said abruptly, and then looked surprised at himself. “I mean, would you—uh…? Could the baby be… ours?”

The silence was so heavy even the overactive crickets in the field below fell still. Eskel had just said the Witcher equivalent ‘I want to have your babies’ and both were mute for different reasons. Eskel from mortification and fear of rejection; Geralt from sheer, overwhelming joy and… well, just plain shock. 

“Yes,” Geralt squeezed Eskel’s hand and watched his shoulders deflate, releasing the coil of tension that had gathered the moment he spoke. “Ours. I’d… yeah, I’d like that.” 

Eskel grinned—broad and beautiful, like the sun had settled there for the night rather than below the horizon—and he leaned across the table to place the softest kiss upon Geralt’s lips before slumping back contentedly into his chair. Tomorrow they’d head into town and visit the orphanage to see the matron there.