#witcher s2

The second time, he couldn’t write off as easily.

It had been his turn to cook supper and while cutting up the vegetables he suddenly began coughing up a storm. His knife fell from his hands, clattering onto the ground. Blood pooled into his hands. At first, Eskel had assumed it was from a cut to the palm but when he went to wipe the red away with a cloth, he found his skin intact.

The petals came away onto the rag. Tiny little clusters of petals so small he had to use the tip of his finger to pull them apart from each other.

When he finally accepted the flowers for what they were, the floral scent was overwhelming.

The sound of his heart pounding in his head was overpowering.

The disease was an ancient one. There were books written about it from even before Vesemir’s time. Flowers that grew in the lungs, vines that strangled the heart. There was some poetic name for it written in the romance novels Eskel always read.

His brothers called it Cuck’s Bloom because the object of one’s affection was usually already fucking someone else.

Despite how harmless these flowers seemed now, they would slowly suffocate him unless he confessed his feelings and have them returned. Simple, really.

It was funny, in truth.

Lambert’s presence filled every room he entered. He was a firecracker, loud bangs and smoke and gunpowder. He was bright and colorful and the sight of him alone took one’s breath away, flowers be damned. Lambert was sight itself; he was light.

Eskel couldn’t help but laugh out loud when he thought about it. The manifestation of a witcher like Lambert was just these little flowers that he mistook for a smudge of blood, an injury, a sickness. So tiny he could barely contain them. Or hold them close for that matter.

Because of course Eskel wanted to keep them.

He could not have Lambert. It was like trying to bottle lightning or control a storm. There was no restricting a force of nature. It was inhumane to even consider it.

Eskel knew he could never tie Lambert to him. He couldn’t even bring himself to even think about it. Lambert was fire. Lambert was a blaze. Lambert did what he wanted, when he wanted. Lambert burned. The witcher moved through life freely and openly. He loved in just the same way. Lambert was wind. Lambert was the very air itself. Lambert filled Eskel’s lungs and he wanted, with every fiber of his being, to breathe him in.

No. Eskel could never bring himself to take away Lambert’s liberty in such a way.

But this. These soft, little petals no larger than his iris. This he would allow himself to have.

Like the gentle heroines in his romance novels, Eskel kept a silk handkerchief. It was just the size of his hand with little goat horns stitched into the corners.

No one knew about the handkerchief. About how he had bought it in Oxenfurt from an old tailor with gray eyes who did not judge him. About how he had embroidered it himself, the needle slipping from his thick fingers again and again. Or about how he dreamed of giving it away as a favor of his affection just like in his novels. Of having it folded into a small square fitting into the palm of his hand. Imagining the moment Lambert would open it up and see all the love that Eskel had to give. Something gentle. Something made with his hands. Something straight from his beating heart.

Only now, in the present, away from his dreams, Eskel collected the petals from the dirty kitchen rag. He gathered the flowers with extra care so as to not lose a single one.

He couldn’t have Lambert but he could let himself have this. These baby’s breath blooms on his silk handkerchief. The one he kept over his heart.

After that the petals kept coming, increasing in intensity and occurrence. The coughing fits turned into full blown battles to stay upright. The minimal petals soon become small blooms and then whole clusters of the flowers fit for a bouquet.

And so more and more flowers were collected onto his handkerchief.

Eskel tried to hide it at first, but it was really no use. Vesemir could smell the floral and blood on his skin. It was faint at this stage but the old witcher had been around for a long, long time.

When he discovered Eskel’s secret, the look Vesemir gave him was haunting.

“How long?”

The old witcher tried to hide the look of decades long despair painted upon his face but he failed. He knew he was going to lose another son and there was nothing he could do about it. There were not many folks who could love witchers and those who did, those who were not witchers themselves, could hardly stomach looking at Eskel.

“I…I don’t know,” Eskel told him honestly. “It doesn’t hurt,” he offered as assurance. For himself or for Vesemir, he was not sure.

Vesemir seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment before deciding against it. “Is there—can I do anything for you, boy?”

Solemnly, Eskel shook his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve made your peace with it then?”

Eskel nodded.

“Can I try to talk you out of this?”

“We both know it'll only kill me faster. I don’t want my blood on anyone’s hands but my own. I—I can’t do that to him.”

Eskel could count the times he’s seen Vesemir cry on one hand and still have fingers left over. Tears fell from the old witcher’s eyes as he pulled Eskel into an embrace so tight he thought he might have already died.

“I’m sorry.”

Vesemir pulled away from him with hesitation. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, boy. Just let me make these last days comfortable for you. Please. It’s the least I can do.

He was taken off the chores roster and given a warmer room. Despite the growing flowery smell surrounding him and the growing collection of petals, Lambert and Geralt were none the wiser. They just assumed it was another one of his romantic antics.

It wasn’t until they were out in the courtyard again that things began to change.

Each were practicing on their own. Lambert and Geralt weren’t even close to him. One moment he was going through moves with a straw dummy, the next he was sprawled out on the ground clutching at his chest. The flowers came in waves, each violent cough bringing with it more and more delicate, bleeding petals.

The two other witchers came running at the sight. Their senses were telling them one thing but their hearts wanted to believe another.

Once Eskel stopped coughing, all he could do was collect the baby’s breath onto his silk. His fingers were trembling as he laid the flora onto the smooth fabric. He could feel their eyes on him but there was nothing he could do. He could not have what his heart wanted but he could have this. He needed to have this.

This. This desperate collection was his. His flowers on silk.

To no one’s surprise, Lambert did not take the information well.

“How could you be so stupid, huh? Is some pretty skirt worth this? This?! Does she even know the pain she’s putting you through!? Does she even fucking know you?”

“Lambert.”

“I won’t let you die like a sick animal, Eskel. Not—not like this. I’ll go kill the bitch myself.”

“Lambert.”

“What do you expect me to fucking do?! Just sit around and watch as he throws up roses till his bloody lungs fall out? You want me to watch it happen!?”

“Lambert, enough.”

Eskel clutched at the bundle, willing himself not to hack up anymore, lest he gives himself away. “It doesn’t hurt. I promise.”

“Horseshit! Absolute. Bloody. Horseshit.”

“I’m alright. Really.” Eskel was pale. He didn’t have to look at himself to know he was as white as freshly falling snow. “The blood is…well it’s just—“

“Y-you can’t even come up with a good fucking excuse, can you?”

Lambert’s anger Eskel could handle. It was a familiar feeling. But his sadness? His heartbreak? His defeat?

Eskel didn’t know what to do with that.

He looked up at Lambert. Really looked at the younger witcher. For a moment, just a selfish, idiotic moment, Eskel considered telling him everything. Pouring out all his love and affection for the firecracker. Giving him all he had to offer.

Then a breath. A heart beat later. A moment passed and he realized that if he were to do such a foolish thing, Lambert would run. He would be overwhelmed by all of Eskel’s silly, useless emotions and disappear. Eskel would never see him again. Perhaps none of them would. Eskel couldn’t allow Vesemir to lose two sons.

He would rather die than see the day.

He slipped the handkerchief back into the pocket over his heart and smiled up at Lambert, his scars twisting and misshapening his face. “When has a little bit of blood done me any harm?”

Things only got worse from there.

As Eskel became weaker and weaker, Lambert grew angrier and angrier.

After a while Eskel was bedridden. He was too winded by movement and was forced to spend the rest of his days in his room. His skin grew cold and regardless of the fires always burning in the hearth, he shivered all throughout the day.

His end was nearing, that much he knew.

Vesemir had already made his peace with it and Geralt was coming along. Lambert of course wouldn’t hear any of it.

To be frank, Lambert refused to be in the same room as Eskel.

So in the afternoons after all the chores were tended to, Vesemir sat with Eskel. He placed himself on the edge of the bed, facing his boy. Despite the decades that had passed, Eskel still seemed so small. It was as though the boy had only been brought by the Law of Surprise that morning. His hair may have been different and the scars on his face may have tried to age him, but to Vesemir, Eskel was just a pup.

“You won’t get to see the flowers blooming this year,” Vesemir told Eskel. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Eskel smiled up at him. “I got all the flowers I need right here.”

“Do you know what kind they are? Don’t they usually have meanings?”

Eskel nodded, the smile still on his pale face. “Baby’s breath. They’re planted for devotion, arranged in bouquets for hope and love.”

Vesemir chuckled at that. “Such small little buggers. Annoying, I bet.” He looked at the handkerchief that Eskel had by his bed. The white fabric was now stained a permanent red. He’ll burn it with Eskel when the time came. “Why keep them around?”

“It’s the only piece of him I can have.” Eskel reached for them now despite the strain. He just wanted to hold them. There were so many of them now that he couldn’t fold the square up anymore. They just collected in the center, weighed down by their own abundance. “Will you allow me to take them with me?”

Vesemir nodded. The thought had just passed his mind. To hear it spoken out loud brought a lump to his throat. His eyes felt heavy with a wetness he did not want to acknowledge. “Of course. Anything for you, my boy.”

Eskel chuckled at that. The sound was more wheezing than a proper laugh but neither mentioned the distinction. “Any more of this and I might become spoiled.”

“You?” Vesemir smiled. “You came to me spoiled.”

*****

Sometimes, Geralt would sit with him. These visits were fewer and farther between, but Geralt was better at coming around to these sorts of things.

He would not sit on the bed with Eskel, instead electing to pull up a chair next to him. They would settle in the silence together. Listened to each other’s breaths. Geralt watched Eskel in similar fashion to Vesemir, though his brother was worse at hiding his judgement.

“Why prolong it?” Geralt inquired of him.

“I like the flowers.”

“Of course you would. How dare I expect anything else of you?”

“You ought to know me better than that,” Eskel agreed.

“You know, I once had a bout of Cuck’s Bloom.”

“You’ve never told me.”

“I’ve never told anyone.” Geralt smiled even though Eskel could not see. The other witcher had his eyes closed, the labor to keep them open for long too taxing on him these days. “Well, of course, except for Jaskier.”

“It’s easy to love him. He loves so freely.”

Geralt nodded at that. “But there was also fear. I was in such a similar state as yourself. Held my tongue. He actually came to my bed and begged for me to tell him who I had fallen for. Believed he could convince them I was to be loved.”

“Impressive.”

“He desperately wanted for me to live. Was willing to make a fool of himself in his pleas. And so…waiting until the last possible moment, between lungful of flowers even, I told him.”

“It’s easy to love you, Geralt. You love so wholly. It’s holy even.” Eskel smiled at his own jest.

“It’s easy to love you too. You make it as simple as breathing.”

“What a charmer. I see what the bard sees in you. Atlas, my heart belongs to another. Apologies, Geralt.”

“No need to plead for my forgiveness. No offense has been committed.” Geralt laughed. “I only mean to say, don’t wait until the last moment. Coughing up the last of the full grown ones was a pain and a hassle. They become wilted too, once severed from the lung. They die in your place but they’re still there.”

“I thank you for the advice, but I’m afraid I can’t take heed.”

Geralt frowned. “Please?”

“There’s nothing to it. I like the flowers, Geralt.”

*****

“What must I do? What do I have to promise you?”

Eskel could not sit up. He could not turn his head. He could not open his eyes. All he could do was concentrate on the breaths that left his lips.

“I’ll swear off the gunpowder, the White Gull. I’ll become Eskel’s little virtuous wolf. Is that what you want?”

Eskel could listen though. He could hear Lambert’s voice. The brass of it. The lithe to his words. He wanted to commit it to memory.

“I swear to be nice to her, your little bitch. I won’t call her bitch for one. And I’ll lay off her. She won’t even know me. How about that?”

If Eskel could bring himself to laugh, he would. So this was the desperate, foolish pleading that Geralt spoke of. It was a lot more humorous than Geralt had let on. More creative too.

“I-I’ll let you love her. I won’t be a bother, I prom—” A cough rang out into the room and for once it wasn’t from Eskel.

What?

“Fuck—” Lambert scrambled for words. “I’m sorry, y-you weren't supposed to—that wasn’t—” He erupted into another cough, this one turning into a proper fit. “I’m-I’m sorry. Fucking hell.”

Eskel was familiar with the scent of his baby’s breath, but this was another scent entirely. It was earthier. Fuller. Like sunflowers in the summer.

“Doesn’t hurt, my ass. These fucking suck—” Another cough which pulled at the throat. Then, the distinct metallic scent of blood in the air.

Eskel could hear a struggle.

Lambert pulled at his shirt, clutching at his own chest. He fell to his knees with a thud which shook the Eskel’s bedframe. The petals were coming out in large clusters. The deepest shade of yellow edged with his bile and blood fell from his tongue.

“L-Lambert?” Eskel whispered to the other because that was all he could manage.

“I’m sorry, okay!?” Lambert retched up more petals and soon seedlings followed. He could only speak in between spitting out sunflower stems. “I love you damnit. I love you. And I’m going to die admitting it.”

For the first time, Eskel inhaled a full breath.

It was the crispest, sweetest air he had ever tasted. His lungs expanded fully with the intake and fell with ease in the outtake. The weight of the baby’s breath was still within his lungs but they were no longer rooted there. With each clean inhale, he could feel strength returning to his body. It was enough so that he could turn himself over.

“Oh, Lamb,” Eskel croaked to the witcher on the floor. There was a whole field of flowers surrounding Lambert on the ground. Blooms which had erupted in full in only a matter of moments. “I love you with all my heart. With all that I am. With everything that I have. I love you so much I thought it would’ve been too much.” Eskel fell from his bedside and landed sprawled out in front of Lambert. He clutched at the witcher in front of him with what little strength he had, hand going to soothe his back as Lambert expelled his lungs of the blooms.

“You bitch!” Lambert coughed until there was no more cough left in him. Eskel followed suit, cleaning out what had remained in his own chest. “You fucking bitch.”

“I know. I know.” Eskel held Lambert tightly, wiping the blood from his mouth. They leaned against the side of the bed on the ground, just holding onto each other. They were adrift in a sea of pearly white and shining yellow. There were so many flowers it engulfed the room. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why wait until your fucking deathbed, you piece of shit?” Lambert asked into Eskel’s chest.

“Because you said it first.”

“Did not,” Lambert denied.

“The moment it left your tongue, the flowers left my lungs.” Eskel wrapped his arms around Lambert tighter. He wanted to feel the weight of Lambert against his chest. That was the only kind of weight he would ever want for.

“So dramatic.” Lambert rolled his eyes, but there was no heat in it. He curled up into Eskel’s neck, finding a gentle place there.

“I’m known for it, unfortunately.”

“You could’ve just not been a coward.”

“I’m known for that as well.”

Lambert chortled at that. “A dramatic coward? Yeah, that fits you.”

Eskel couldn’t help the fondness that blossomed from him if he tried. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Lambert’s head and stroked his back, never once letting go of him. Eventually, they would have to pick themselves up off the ground and clean up the mess they had made. And what a mess it was. Already, the blood was drying the clusters of petals together. The smell would stain the room if they did not tend to it soon. But until then, there was one last thing that Eskel needed to tell Lambert.

He reached up to his night table and found his silken handkerchief. The baby’s breath there had long dried out. The flowers were white, pink, and red. “Do you know why I kept these?”

“Cause you’re a sick bastard that doesn’t know how to use his words?”

“Coming from you, I’m a little offended.”

“Why, Eskel? Oh, why did you keep your fucking cuck blooms?”

“I was so afraid that I would lose you if I had told you why the flowers grew from my chest. I’ve known you for a lifetime. I’ve loved you in many ways during those years. If I were to lose you over something like this, if Geralt and Vesemir were to lose you over it, I would never forgive myself.” Eskel set the handkerchief down amongst the flowers around them. “But this was something of you that I could keep. It reminded me that this was Lambert. The love I had for him was so strong it grew out of my very chest.” Eskel looked at the witcher now. Really got a chance to take him in. His own coughing fit had brought a paleness to his skin that was slowly fading the longer he breathed freely. “I may not be able to hold him, but I could hold him nonetheless.”

“Still fucking disgusting.”

“Yeah? Bit much, isn’t it?” Eskel admitted, cradling Lambert’s head in the palm of his hand.

Lambert nodded into Eskel, feeling the heat there. He peered up into the eyes he had not seen in days. They were the softest shade of yellow, even softer than the flowers in his lap. “You’re holding me now, you sappy bastard. Have your fill.”

“Never. I’ll never be full from it. Have to hold you for the rest of my days.”

“Fine by me.”