It had felt like eons since Eskel had spoken, and the bitter silence was nearly driving you out of your mind with madness. Every so often he would grunt hoarsely, reaching down to focus instead on tying yet another loop of bandage around your abdomen. The scowl on his face told you he was upset - but you knew it wasn’t with you. No, you knew your Witcher too well to miss the sorrow that dipped the corners of his eyes as he wiped the last splashes of Wyvern blood away from your throat. How gentle his strokes were despite the action, how tender his fingers were against your pulse as he tipped you back to look at him.

‘Eskel-’

‘I’m not angry.’ He frowned, quickly and unsightly, but not with malice. More to let you know that he was ashamed of himself for giving away his feelings so easily. For making certain now, that you would worry over him when it was you all the realm’s focus should be on. 

You raise an eyebrow, trying to raise a grin through the pain. Once he finishes wiping away the last drops and drops the rag back down onto his satchel, you sigh in relief at the feeling of Eskel’s warm, broad palm just holding your chin within their safe grasp. Despite the strength of his fingers splayed against the bottom of your jaw, he knows that you’ve noticed how much they’re shaking.

‘I know you too well to know that you’re angry’, you begin to drawl, reaching out with your unbruised hand to brush the back of your fingers against the twisted knot lying on his lip. ‘I also know, that you’re blaming yourself for this. Which is complete poppycock, Eskel.’ He flinches at your touch, still so vulnerable. His golden eyes gaze steadily into your own, though, even through the tears that begin to muddy their sombrely scrunched depths. ‘And I won’t stand for it.’

‘But it was my fault. Y/n.’ He grabs your hand, drawing it away from where it was tenderly and familiarly beginning to trace down the outline of his scar. He instead raises it to his lips, kissing the back and curling it within his own. He rests it against his cheek as he opens up his other arm, offering himself up to you.

You gladly accept, scooting down from your perch and instead resting clumsily on his lap, settling against his racing heartbeat. His hands tighten around your waist, dropping your still intertwined hand onto your thigh. He’s so gentle, so careful not to move you to much as he positions himself back against the tree trunk so you’re resting properly upright. So delicate, as he shifts you against his leather trousers, that it nearly breaks your heart. ‘It was my fault that you were here. I knew I should have left you safe within the inn, instead of allowing you to follow me into the wilds. I was - I was careless.’

You can feel his chin shake against the top of your head as he continues. ‘I....’ he swallows thickly, before taking in a drawn out breath. ‘I could have lost you. And then I would have lost all the best parts of myself. Not even a Witcher can survive when they’re left with just a husk, Y/n. And I was stupid enough to think I was smart enough - I was skilled enough to never let it happen. How foolish I am, and I... I’m so sorry.’

‘Eskel, if I hear you apologise one more time I swear I’m going to Lil’ Bleater loose on you once we get back to Kaer Morhen.’ He laughed at that, hands wringing tighter around your midriff. But he still laughed, and the sound was the most divine noise the path could have ever brought you. 

‘You know, I’m more afraid of Lambert’s reaction if he finds that little devil loose in his room again than I am of the two of you put together.’

‘I don’t doubt it. His swearing rant was enough even to make Vesemir run out of the keep’, you giggle, simultaneously lighting your heart in relief at the soothing tone the grumble of his voice has taken once again. For a moment he’s silent, until you realise the pressure you feel against your back is no longer solely the feel of his armour’s spikes, but the press of his large ear against the dip of your spine. 

He’s listening to your heartbeat, breath evening out in time in a way that makes you believe he’s trying to match his own to yours. He does this often, although he’s too embarrassed to admit it. He likes to slow his rate, mixing the sound with your own until it feels as though one march. One joined parade of lovers, one sole beat, one indication that he could ever live the life of a normal man. Eventually, he will straighten himself back up. He’ll press a kiss against the back of your neck, a lingering one full of compassion and hope and diligence, before resting his forehead back against your hair.

He’ll say his usual musings when he becomes lost. ‘Perhaps’, he’ll whisper into the swift jasmine mist of the night, ‘I will keep you here forever. We can live among the sunflower stalks, and make pomegranate wine and look up at the stars.’

‘And be happy forever?’, you’ll finish, biting your bottom lip. 

‘Hmm’, he’ll reply, sounding far too much like Geralt to make you believe this dream could ever come true. That he could ever escape his fate, and that you wouldn’t become entangled within its clutches. ‘Yes, happy and in love forever, my sweet dove.’ 

His nose will brush against your pulse point as you lean back to kiss him. ‘Sounds like a fortunate life to me, my dear Witcher.’ There will be no more tears today - no heartache, no loss, no foraging for coin and shelter and kindness, no hiding. Just pure adoration, rolling out like basking sunlight from the radiant Witcher wrapped around your back, grasping onto you as if terrified that life will suddenly tear you away.