#merrywitchermas

The half of it fell on the floor and she looked at the broken handle in her hand with a sigh, resigned. Her knuckles were white from gripping it too hard.

Behind her, a huff. “Yen.” It was always like that. Yen, Yen, and she would turn around and look at him and melt, and his voice was so gentle, so annoyingly attractive that she had to keep her head high, lest her heart ran ahead of her, and spoke in her voice.

She didn’t turn around. Not yet. “What is it?” and her voice sounded normal in her ears, but she knew it wasn’t. She knew he could understand. When, when had she let herself be so visible?

Geralt took a deep breath and walked away from the window after what felt like centuries. At least, she thought. At least she could make him stop complaining all the time. He approached her, stood behind her and met her eyes in the mirror. Softly, he rested his hands on her shoulders. “Listen,” he said, know-it-all, and she swallowed. “I know you don’t like family gatherings and that kind of stuff but…” Another sigh. When he was being dramatic, she loved him a little bit more. She hated him all the same. “I want you there, Yen. It’s not the same without you.”

She wanted to laugh. Of course, he knew, she didn’t like family gatherings, and that was the problem, of course. His hands on her shoulders were warm, firm in a way that made her shiver, made her crave these fingers over every inch of her skin. She huffed, humourless, and glared at him through the mirror. She hoped the glass would hide the weakness. “You want me there as what, Geralt?”

He frowned. Lowered his look, perhaps to avoid her. His voice came out almost confused, almost as though he didn’t want to understand. “As a friend.”

And then she stood up, abruptly, and faced him. “That’s nice,” she said and her voice was dangerously calm, dangerously piercing so as not to shake. “Is that your final decision? Lovely of you to inform me.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Yen…”

“Don’t!” Burning. She was burning whole and she didn’t know if it was rage or longing, she didn’t know anymore. “I’m not your backup plan, Geralt.” She shook her head. “And I won’t be here forever.”

She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted it, no matter how much she missed him every time she wasn’t looking at him. She wouldn’t always be brave.

Suddenly, she was tired.

Clenching her fists in a final attempt to keep the flood of helplessness from pulling her to the bottom of her longing, she turned to leave the room.

“Wait.” A hand was wrapped around her wrist, tightly, as though afraid, and she spinned at its tug, faced him again. And damn if his eyes didn’t make her knees weak, ready to give in. She wanted so badly to give in. Geralt smiled at her.

The music pierced her ears, covering the thumping of her heart beating to escape her chest.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she felt Geralt’s hand moving down to clasp hers, fingers entwined together like puzzle pieces fitting together. She swallowed, eyes fixed at him, at his stupid, hesitant smile. Then, a hand on her waist. A shiver. “What are you doing?”

“You’re right,” he muttered and it was so sudden, so unexpected. Of course she was right. As if on instinct, her hand moved on his shoulder and he grinned wider, and started swaying them around in a parody of a dance, just like their attempts to bond together. His voice was quiet now. “Dance with me for a bit.”

It was tight, his grip. Stable, and for the barest of seconds, she hoped, and danced. Idiot, idiot man. His face was close, so close that they breathed together and she didn’t dare move away, lest her breath was cut and she had no air to breathe in that he wouldn’t share. He didn’t stop staring at her, and it burned, seething fire, but she was never one to lower her eyes. Instead, she smirked. And as they twirled, she stepped on his foot.

“Ah, fuck.” He tripped, stumbled and almost fell on her as she laughed loudly and pulled him up before they both hit the ground. He squinted at her as he limped. “Alright, you got your point through,” and his voice was so light that she wasn’t able to stop smiling, so light that it fell upon her heart like a thin lace veil and wrapped it in the warmest embrace.

In just a few moments, he found his footing again. She raised an eyebrow. “Glad to hear it.”

Slow, the music was slow and she didn’t remember hearing this song ever before, but it was probably because she never listened closely. Slow, their limbs tangled and untangled and Geralt smiled at her and outstretched his hand, pushing her in a twirl. She wanted to giggle like a little child and for once, however silently, she did. It was nicer than she remembered, the world twirling around her and she always wanted to be in the centre of it, and in the way Geralt looked at her as though he lived under her sight alone she thought that maybe, maybe for once, she actually was the centre.

Nicer and enchanting, and she twirled again and in the mirror saw a little girl twirling along alone in her room, and getting dizzy and falling on the floor. The room turned around her like the fake snow of a glass snowball, and for the barest of seconds she lost her footing and fell.

Geralt caught her.

He was warm, and now he held her tighter, forever smiling at her. She didn’t fall often, not anymore. And if she did, she never showed it, rushed to get up. But now she realized she didn’t have to hide anymore. If she fell, he would be there to catch her.

Her voice came out breathless, his touch alone kicking the air out of her lungs. “When did you learn to dance?”

“You taught me,” and his eyes shined golden under the dim light and warm, so warm that she felt she would melt. She wanted to melt.

A huff, then. “You don’t mean…” She had taught him, yes. But they hadn’t worked it out then, and she never thought they would. “We were drunk then,” she said instead, because they were, but a timid voice inside her head whispered that it was not the only problem.

“Perhaps.” Tighter, tighter still he holds her, until her heart rests upon his and their bodies breathe into each other. “But we aren’t now.”

Yennefer didn’t answer. She only stared at him, as though deciding if she should be convinced, if she should hope. They wouldn’t lose their footing now, even if they tried. She decided, then. And slowly, as though her doubt was gripping at her hair, she let her head fall on his shoulder, and felt his arm creeping upon her back, keeping her close. And they danced.

It terrified her. “It won’t work,” she whispered and yet, and yet she wouldn’t even step on his foot, he wouldn’t even trip, and the music went on and on and it was like a dream, from the ones she had given up on having long ago. Traitorous, she thought, traitorous heart. And yet.

She heard Geralt chuckling silently, almost agreeing. Almost, because he knew, of course. For the first time she found that it didn’t bother her that much, being the one not to know. Being the one held. He chuckled and ever so softly, he kissed her hair. “We’ll make it work,” he said, honesty dripping like honey from his lips, and rested his cheek on her head, right above the spot where he had kissed her. To seal a promise.

Unwillingly, she smiled to herself. She knew he could see her. She smiled and, letting her guard down, she closed her eyes. Maybe, this time, maybe they would. Somehow, she wanted to try either way.

She wanted to try not being the friend anymore, but the partner, just to see the smile on Geralt’s lips when he would introduce her, just to feel her heart sing in her ears rather than wail. Just so she would lean to his ear during dinner to whisper I love you, only to see him choking, only to laugh. Just so she would love him. Just so she would be loved.

Too long they had spent dancing around each other, and her feet were starting to feel sore. Too long, and now it was comforting, having somewhere to rest her body, to share the weight of her shoulders. Now they danced, together, and like a bird finding its nest after searching for days, she settled in his arms, and belonged there, finally, even if he still tripped sometimes, just to make her laugh.

He started out of the grip and almost fell on his butt. The corpse that last ghoul had been sniffing at, it- he, an elf, stared at Eskel with one wide eye, his hand outstretched. Half of his face was a bloody, mutilated mess, with what seemed to be a spearhead stuck in the place of his other eye. How the fuck was he alive?!

His mouth moved but no sound came out besides gasps. Even still, he was reaching out to the witcher with the desperation of a dying man. Eskel wasn’t sure if he pleaded to be saved or to be put out of his misery-- he took a step toward him and the elf abruptly went slack, his eye rolling shut.

Eskel quickly kneeled beside him. He was still alive, his heart beating unsteadily, but beating nonetheless. His lips had lost color from all the blood loss, a red pond beneath his head, still seeping from the gruesome wound on his destroyed face. Despite all that, he was alive, for now. Alive, and pleading with possibly his last breath.

Now Eskel faced a choice. A very stupid choice in a very stupid place he would rather not be. The elf was Scoia’tael, if the tattoo on his neck was any indication. No human healer would take him, and even if Eskel managed to find a commando, he might be blamed and killed. That was if the elf even survived the trip.

His sense of reason -of which he was rather proud, that which made him keep his nose out of conflict and not bed sorceresses, among other things- told him to leave this alone. War endured and people died all the time. It would be a waste of time, and even dangerous to help a dying Scoia’tael.

But he had failed to help Geralt.

The comparison was stupid, yet Eskel blinked and he was carrying the elf in his arms to somewhere safe. It was the stupidest thing he had ever done.

But he had failed to help Geralt. If he could make a difference in someone else’s life now…

Gods damn it, Geralt, he thought, for it was easier to be mad at the dead. Gods fucking damn it.

*

He made camp in a nearby cave and lay his charge on his bedspread, close to the fire.

Once he grabbed the spearhead, the elf’s hand shot up to grab his arm. One wide green eye was again fixed upon his face.

“I have to pull it out.” The grip loosened but didn’t let go, and the elf shut his eye tight to brace.

The slick sound of flesh letting go of metal was drowned by a cry. A fresh wave of blood flowed from the wound which Eskel immediately pressed a rag onto. He held him down through the convulses while the elf held onto his arm with a vice like grip.

“I’m sorry I have nothing to give you for pain. My potions would poison you.” The Scoia’tael finally relaxed into the bedspread, panting, but still holding onto the witcher. Eskel wasn’t sure if he was even able to understand him in this state, but he kept talking nonetheless. “I’m no healer, but that hole in your face needs looked at.”

It took a moment, but shaky hands eventually fell-- to let him work or from losing consciousness, it was hard to tell. Eskel lifted the rag.

Gods… It was a wonder that he couldn’t see the inside of the elf’s head. The spear had to have broken on the skull, and it seemed like the stabbing had taken more than one try. Deep gashes marred the temple and cheek, all the way down to the upper lip. Eskel knew how that one felt, although the mouth wasn’t as damaged as his.

“Now you’re as pretty as me,” he muttered. The elf didn’t seem to hear him.

*

Eskel had to sew him up. The eye socket was especially tricky, but he had steady hands and patience. Vesemir would sometimes tell him that he had gifted hands; perhaps he didn’t have Lambert’s vigor or Geralt’s fame -fuck,Geralt- but he was the best at building, patching, skinning, and Signs.

He focused on his charge and pushed his mourning aside.

The elf shivered and groaned through gritted teeth, but managed to remain still enough. Once Eskel let up, he sagged, panting. His tight fists relaxed and Eskel noticed that he’d been holding onto the spearhead, blood trickling down between his fingers. The scent of iron and salt mixed into an agonized fog in the witcher’s senses.

Once the wound was cleaned and wrapped, Eskel grabbed his waterskin and gently wetted the elf’s lips. If he survived the night, he would live. Most likely. Hopefully.

He had failed to help Geralt.

As he settled down to meditate, Eskel found himself praying to Melitele to let a stranger live.

*

He opened his eyes to the elf’s whimpering.

It was dark outside. The campfire had sizzled to embers, making the cave chilly. The Scoia’tael was shaking heavily where he lay and letting out incoherent, pained little noises.

Eskel resuscitated the fire with an igni and covered the elf with an extra blanket, hushing in the meanwhile. He wet a cloth with his waterskin and dabbed the elf’s face and neck. “You’ll be alright,” he said quietly. “You’re Aen Seidhe, aren’t you? You’re strong.”

The elf’s eye suddenly opened and widened upon seeing Eskel’s face, though it wasn’t clear what exactly he could be seeing in his feverish haze. His mouth tried to form words. “Is-s… engrim…”

Then he shut his eye and shook his head slightly, as if in denial. A tear slid down his temple.

Eskel gently lifted his head and helped him drink from his waterskin. Then he tucked the blankets tighter around him and rubbed him down to warm him up. “Sleep,” he said softly.

One unfocused eye gazed at him, as if looking for something. Eskel wasn’t sure if he found it-- regardless, the eye rolled shut and the elf relaxed into the bed again, one fist still closed around the bloody spearhead.

*

The fever broke in the morning, and the elf slept for most of the following couple of days. Eskel watched over him, hunted for food and fended off the monsters that got too close to their refuge.

The Scoia’tael moaned and mumbled through the nights, but survived. Eskel was getting accustomed to the sound of his heartbeat, getting stronger and stronger.

The third morning, he entered the cave with a freshly killed hare and found the elf upright, clutching at his bandaged head. That single eye dragged up at him as he approached.

“Caed’mil,” he greeted as he deliberately slowed his movement, letting the dazed elf follow him. “Glad you’re awake.”

“Who are you?” The elf rasped.

“Name’s Eskel. I’m a witcher.” He sat down across from him and began to skin the hare, ignoring the elf’s scrutiny. “Found you three days ago,” he continued casually. “Right before you became necrophage meat. Your people weren’t around so I took you here. Did what I could.”

The elf touched the bandages gingerly, and sighed. “Who will you be handing me off to, then?”

Eskel halted, then looked up at the Scoia’tael. “No one. I’m not a bounty hunter.”

“Many of your kind are.”

“You met many of my kind?”

“I met enough.”

Eskel sighed and returned to his skinning. “Think what you will, elf, but I’ll be out of here once I see you walk properly. My contracts in the Pontar Valley are done, and none of them are for Scoia’tael.”

The elf was quiet for a while. Eskel skewered the hare and put it over the fire.

“Why did you help, then?”

His eyes met the elf’s. A bunch of thoughts he didn’t yet want to face came to the surface like hungry fish in a pond, pulled in by that sole green eye. He had failed to help Geralt. Geralt. Geralt.

“It felt right, I suppose,” he only said. The eye searched his face, and finally relented, looking down.

“Then I’m in your debt.”

Eskel waved a hand dismissively. “Just tell your friends not to shoot me from the trees… How are you feeling by the way?”

The elf snorted softly. “Like half my face was carved out.”

Eskel grinned, his scars pulling at his mouth. “That I can relate.” His next thought followed out his mouth before he could stop: “Unlike me though, you’re still pretty. Scars got nothing on you Aen Seidhe.”

The Scoia’tael went still, and Eskel expected some kind of outrage, but he only looked away, huffing. The wrapped side of his face hid the emotions on the bare side. Eskel, like a reprimanded child, stayed quiet after.

“Thank you for your help, vatt’ghern,” the elf eventually said. “My name-”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

The elf looked at him in surprise.

“Would probably be safer,” Eskel continued. “For both of us. I can tell you’re a bigshot, with all those emblems on your armor. I want nothing to do with local conflicts. If they ask, I know of no Squirrel’s name, no matter how infamous they are.”

He stared at Eskel for a moment, taken aback. Then he nodded. “Very well.”

1271

“I have a question actually,” Geralt of Rivia said quietly as he led Iorveth slowly through Flotsam, bound as a ruse for the second time. They ignored people’s heckling.

“Go on.”

“You’ve grown to trust me rather quickly. Asked me to bind you right after you met me, ruse or not. Now you’re letting me walk you through Flotsam, and none of your Scoia’tael are watching.”

“So what’s the question?”

“What if I actually gave you to Loredo? Letho betrayed you too. Why is sly old Iorveth so willing to trust witchers?”

Iorveth breathed deep, then let it out in a sigh. “You may have a point, Gwynbleidd. Perhaps I am getting old… Letho is another matter, he gave me a king’s head to convince me. He cares not for honor or integrity. You’re different.”

“How sure are you?”

“Are you saying I’m wrong about you?”

“No. Just curious.”

Iorveth took another deep breath. “You wear a wolf medallion. I know of one other who did, and he saved my life… I suppose that made me trust you easier.”

Geralt suddenly had a thousand questions, but they had arrived at the prison barge. He wouldn’t get to ask for a long time.

1272

Eskel heard a commotion from outside.

When he ran to the courtyard, he saw Geralt’s blue clad Temerian friends yelling at a group of elves that had come to help fight the Wild Hunt. Of course. One in particular, half his face covered in a bandana, seemed to provoke them, and the calmer he was, the more pissed off the Temerians seemed to get.

He saw Geralt walk over to deescalate the situation. Eskel too approached to help, but halted in place as the elf turned his head toward him.

The courtyard grew quiet. Even Vernon Roche shut up once he noticed the two staring at each other.

He heard Geralt hum. That particular tone indicated understanding.

“Caed’mil, vatt’ghern,” the elf called to Eskel, his eye glinting under the joyful sun. “Long time no see.”