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kueble · 1 year

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Wild Mint

This is not what I planned on doing tonight, but @justhereforeskel deserves something soft.

Teen. Warnings: Chronic injury. 1,300 words.

Eskel/Geralt

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The stairs never used to be this steep. Geralt is sure of it. Any other night he would have been fine, but Vesemir had pushed them all so much earlier. Hell, he skipped a warm dinner to haul his ass down to the hot springs, and even soaking alone for hours hasn’t dulled the pain in his knee.

With a grunt, he leans on the railing and pulls himself up the stairs, doing his best to ignore how fucking useless he feels. His body shouldn’t be fighting him like this. He was a finely-honed killing machine - according to every human he’s ever met - and he shouldn’t be hobbling up the gods-damned stairs like this. But it’s hard to win a battle against his own body, especially when it’s this angry at him.

Thankfully Eskel isn’t here to watch him suffer.

By the grace of some long-forgotten god, Geralt makes it to his room without running into anyone. Everyone is probably deep in their cups at this point, and as much as he’d love to be down in the main hall with them, the throbbing in his knee says what a horrible idea that is. He’s tried to drown the pain away many nights like this and yet the pain lingers come morning.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, throwing open the door to his room while he tries not to judge himself. No sense in being maudlin at this point. He’s an old bastard, and his body just finally caught up with his age.

“Language, Wolf,” Eskel calls out, and Geralt nearly trips over himself trying not to look shocked. How bad does his pain have to be for him to not notice the second heartbeat in their room. He runs a hand over his face and tries to think of an excuse to be alone, to not show his faults.

“Just tired is all,” he whispers, and one look at Eskel lets him know his lover isn’t buying it.

“Please, I know you,” Eskel scuffs. “Could tell how much damage that last tumble did the second you rolled on your bad knee. Let me take care of it.”

“No need,” Geralt says gruffly, because he’s not some spoiled maiden. He’s a fucking witcher, and that should matter. His body should listen to him, damnit.

“Let me rephrase that,” Eskel says softly, “let me take care of you. You’re allowed to have a bad day, especially with a knee like yours.”

“No, I’m not,” Geralt argues, his tone harsher than he likes. “Witchers don’t get bad days. Fuck, I shouldn’t even have a bad knee. Things like that get you killed. Probably should have died from this fucking injury in the first place. Wouldn’t be in so much pain if I had.”

“Shut your stupid mouth and listen to me,” Eskel growls at him, stomping over the room to stand in front of him. “You want me to be dead? Because it’s hard for any creature to live without its heart beating in its chest. And that’s you. You’re my heart, asshole, so let me take care of you and we’ll both feel better for it come morning.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Geralt whispers, but he’s smirking as Eskel takes him by the shoulders and guides him over to the bed.

“Not what you told me last night,” he says, chuckling as he starts to undo Geralt’s laces. “No funny business tonight, though. You’re going to let me massage your bad leg, coat it in that horrible mint salve that will have us both tingling for days, and then I’m going to make sure you don’t move for the rest of the night. You can fuck me once you can kneel on the bed without cringing,” he says, laughing as Geralt shakes his head and gives in.

He should have known there was no hiding this, not from Eskel. They’ve been living in each other’s pockets since they were kids, and there’s never been a secret between them. Well, not since that awkward first year on the path full of missed connections and ridiculous pining. No, they’re on even ground nowadays, and life’s better for it.

He wants to say something sappy, something his bard would put in a flowery song, something that would stick to his tongue and sound honey-sweet, but that’s not how they work. They don’t need pretty words to know how they feel. He can hear it in the slow beat of Eskel’s heart, in the warm heat of his gaze as they lock eyes. They both know how much love is there.

So instead, he lets Eskel strip him down and help him into a soft pair of nightclothes. He sits on the edge of the bed like a good boy while Eskel gets himself ready, slurping up the still-warm bowl of stew Eskel shoves at him with a pointed look. Got it. No more skipping meals. By the time his bowl is empty, Eskel is dressed and the fire has been properly stoked. He sets the bowl on their bedside table to become tomorrow’s problem and sprawls back against their pillows.

“Isn’t it much easier when you let me boss you around?” Eskel asks, grinning as he crawls onto the bed and sits by Geralt’s thighs. He uncaps the jar of salve and the stinging scent of wild mint fills the air.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Geralt snorts, but he offers a wide smile and gestures down at his injured knee. “Do your worst.”

“How about I do my best instead?” Eskel whispers, and Geralt has to turn to look at the fire because his chest suddenly feels too tight. Emotions are always closer to the surface - just waiting to bubble up and flow out of him - when he hurts like this.

Eskel works in silence, but it’s a comfortable one. Eventually Geralt turns to watch him work, his body going limp under Eskel’s strong hands. His tanned skin looks so harsh against Geralt’s milky complexion, but they fit together so well. He loses himself in the warm movements, letting Eskel drain the pain from him. He knows it will never really go away, but he’s able to ignore it once Eskel finishes.

“Thank you,” he whispers, barely a sound at all, and Eskel just smiles at him. His scar pulls at his lip, his tooth poking out, and anyone else would find it offputting, but it just looks like home to him. Eskel nods before getting off the bed to put the salve away and wash up in the basin by the fire. Geralt feels so relaxed he could fall asleep any second, but he forces himself to stay awake until Eskel comes back.

“Too lazy to get under the covers?” Eskel teases him, rolling Geralt so he can tug the furs out from under him.

“What can I say? You’ve got good hands.”

“Good mouth, too,” Eskel tells him, and Geralt rolls his eyes in response.

But then he’s moving, leaning in to capture Eskel’s mouth in a gentle kiss. There’s no heat behind it, but his body lights up just the same. Even after all these years, every time they touch sparks something deep inside of him. Shoving that down, Geralt turns his face and presses a softer kiss to Eskel’s scarred cheek.

“Love you, too,” he mumbles before rolling over onto his side. As expected, Eskel follows him, curling up against his beck and throwing a heavy arm over his hips. The last thing he feels is Eskel’s breath against the back of his neck.

---

SFW Tags: @halerune @mayastormborn @dani-dandelino @jaskierswolf @littoraly-art @tothedesert @dapandapod @theweirdlynx @tedrakitty @sharinalein @theamazingdevilgivesmehope @iamaqt314 @silvermintnightprincess @rockysstupidity @live-long-and-trek-on @hayleynzlive @holymotherwolf @thesynysterunknown @rebard-main @larawrmonster @gryffinqueen-blog @lovelyscot @fangirleaconmigo @mothmanismyuncle @fontegagrilledcheese @thestarkwinter @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @allthequeenshorses13 @221birl1823 @strippiluolamies @concussed-dragon @aurelia-which-means-sunrise @clarebear66 @feral-jaskier @j-u-s-tmyself @hayleynzlive @thisislisa @firefly-party @officerjennie @theshapeofcool @flawney @viking1919

If you’d like to be added/removed, let me know. Thank you!

#my fic #eskralt #geskel #geralt x eskel #eskel x geralt #the witcher #tw3

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hbfengxi · 2 years

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and you’ll save all your dirtiest jokes for me // and at every table, i’ll save you a seat // lover

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher netflix #eskel #gereskel #geskel #i had them for literally two minutes #kaer morhen #eskel the witcher #i miss them so bad #geralt the witcher #geralt x eskel #witcher 3

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aramblingjay · 2 years

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I’m what’s left when children go to war Geraskier, Geralt & Eskel & Jaskier, h/c (5K)

Geralt has only let slip a few snippets here and there about the pain and horror of the Trials, always followed by a growled don’t you dare put that in a song (as if Jaskier ever would, as if he doesn’t tuck away the softest and sharpest parts of Geralt deep into the folds of his own heart for no one else to see). What he’s heard is enough to paint the picture of a brutal, often-fatal nightmare. To go through something like that twice— “Only him? No one else had to do it twice?” “No one else who did survived,” Eskel says gravely. Or: Jaskier meets Eskel, and some truths come to light.

read on ao3

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geskel #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #*fic #*writing

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tschulijulesjulie · 1 year

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i know im not that active in the witcher fandom anymore (and a lot of you aren't either) but i recently went through my ao3 history and reread some of the fics thatt made me fall in love with this fandom.

one of them was Lost/Found by @/xxenjoy on ao3 (that's @witcher-and-his-bard here on tumblr, i believe - formerly @witcher-and-his-bard-archive)

and it was great and just as amazing as i remembered - just, once i had finished it and it didn't end like i thought it would, i realised i had mixed it up in my mind with another, quite similar fic, in my memory.

so i went looking for it. i spent hours looking through my ao3 subscriptions. i spent hours looking through my tumblr follows. i cannot find it.

heres what i remember:

it was a very similar setup to Lost/Found: after the mountain Jaskier runs into Eskel and starts traveling with him. Eskel is kind and they fall in love. eventually they run into Geralt who apologizes. they end up in a throuple.

whats different to L/F is, that it switched POVs i think - i do remember some of it being from Eskels perspective. he was quite self-conscious and afraid of losing Jask when they met Geralt.

i also thi k they didn't visit KM like in L/F

i think it was rated E but i might be wrong

also i have literally no idea how long it actually was - i think it was multi-chaptered, but i also might be wrong

if anyone has an idea which fic that might be - pleeeeease tell me. i feel like im losing my mind, i feel like my brain just made the memory of this fanfic up.

#the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3 #jaskel #geraskier #geskel #geraskel #jaskier x eskel #jaskier x eskel x geralt #pls help

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dapandapod · 11 months

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For Mermay :)

Eskel and Geralt? Hmmm a word...

Glittering!

No pressure and i hope this inspires you 💕😊

It does, thank you and thank you for indulging me <3 writing spree activated, I'm sorry for so many posts in a day, but aaah, words! Also since it was not specified, I also didn't specify if it is a ship fic or not. I hope you enjoy! <3

Send me a pairing and a word and I will make you some words? ❤️

On Ao3 here

When the sun goes down, the world glows brighter. Anemones and shrimps and little fish and the gentle light of the moon above lighting up the rocks and the kelp and the sea grass.

Geralt only knows it is called moon because of the songs of the humans. Some of the people beyond the reef call it the Silver Sun.

Her pale light doesn’t dive as deep as her brother, but every ebb and flow is at her mercy.

From below, you can’t see her children. For that, you have to reach the surface. It is something that is to be avoided as much as possible, Vesemir instructed them in their youth. Above the surface they hunt you, or you get stranded, or far worse.

Geralt hasn't seen his mother since she went to the surface. All he remembers of her are her colorful fins and auburn hair, her clawed finger gently thumbing the crease of his smile.

Now that Geralt is the age she was when she disappeared, Geralt wants to see the children of the moon. The stars, he heard the humans call them.

It is a calm night, and the skies are clear. Geralt floats, his chest and face and arm just above the surface. Leaving his back unattended, turned to the world below feels weird, his hair floating around him, the same color as the Silver Sun.

He should be fine, though, fins and tail sleek like a shark keep most predators a safe distance from him, recognizing what he is. More than fine, seeing Eskel is there with him, floating just inches from where he is.

The ocean sounds different from here. Sharper, but quieter. If he lets his head sink, he can hear the underwater life sing. Above, it is Silent. Peaceful.

“They look like little jellyfish. Or mareel.” Eskel mumbles. His voice too is different up here, and the water trembles around his chest as he speaks.

Geralt doesn’t respond. He only keeps looking, the far away lights glittering like gems, or scales in the sun.

“Do you think she is up there?” Geralt can’t help but ask eventually. The water around him vibrates, lapping at his skin like little kisses.

“You think she just kept swimming?” Eskel turns his head to look at Geralt, and he can see it so clearly in his mind.

How his mother just kept swimming up, up, up, until she joined them far above in the inky darkness, just like in the stories of their childhood.

“More likely they hunted her.” Geralt says, frowning at the memory of being left behind.

Eskel reaches for him, their fingers tangling together when Eskel grabs his hand, so much bigger than his own.

Eskel always was bigger, stronger. He comes from the north, his body the black and white of the orcas. Even now, Eskel still mourns the loss of his family, and Geralt has sworn never to leave his side.

The stars wink at them, an echo of what is below. Geralt wonders if you could trip and fall into it, a sky of upside down sea.

Eskel’s hand in his is grounding, their hips and fins touch as they float closer together.

“Ready to go home?” Eskel asks eventually.

Geralt turns his head and gives a smile, pulling them even closer and knocking their foreheads together.

“With you, I’m always home.”

But they dive down, leaving the empty quiet above, to the singing depths they know.

#mermay #eskel and geralt #geskel #but only i you want #the witcher #mermay 2023 #dapanda writes #eskel #geralt of rivia #stars #soft and sad #they love each other your honor #in the ways that matter

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julek · 1 year

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Julek, hi! #59 on the kissing prompts for Gerskel, if it takes your fancy.

#59. kissing your lover's wounds after having bandaged them up read on ao3

The sun is dipping low, melting into the hills that shimmer gold against the pale pink sky. The vineyard stretches across the fields like a soft blanket, embroidered in dark greens and rich browns, covering the earth with ease. A gentle breeze rolls in, a sign of the impending autumn days that will follow, ruffling the old willow and its leaves, fighting to hold on a little longer.

Geralt watches it all from his chair on the porch, much like he does every afternoon.

There's something about life in the countryside that makes him feel grounded; waking up with the sun every day and going on about his routine feels different than it did when he walked the Path, somehow. There's no sense of extreme urgency, no feeling of dread as he reaches the larger cities, not a shadow of doubt or question as to whether he'll find refuge before winter swallows the roads, winding and tiresome as they grow. None of that, no — here he feels safe, knowing there'll be food on his table every morning and a warm bed every evening, there to greet him, to feed him, to shelter him. He feels connected, both to the earth and to himself, his own life, his own body. His very soul, if Dandelion was right about any of that.

He wonders if it's what he was supposed to feel like, all those years; if, by chance, retirement meant reaching what his mentors had taught him would only ever be found in the throes of duty.

The irony of it makes him smile.

"Deep in thought, Wolf?"

Geralt turns, even though he heard him coming from a mile away. Eskel stands at his side with a small smile, all broad lines and soft features, and Geralt allows himself to take him in for a little while.

Eskel makes him feel grounded, too. Standing there in his work clothes (so different from his armor, which he hung up some time ago, and only comes out every few months), worn and well-loved, his brow shining with sweat. His hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at Geralt, because he'll never let go of his juvenile hairstyle, no matter how much Geralt teases him for it. His skin glowing golden brown in the dying sunlight, tanned from weeks of working the fields, sunrise to sundown. His scars, glowing light pink like ridges drawn on the land right after the harvest, healed and forgiven.

"I am," Geralt replies, leaning down to grab the small wooden box where they keep their healing supplies. "Come here and show me your arm."

Eskel clicks his tongue in protest but goes anyway, pulling a chair next to him. He injured himself working on the fields a day before, a too-sharp sickle and a thoughtless movement resulting in a big gash on his forearm, which Geralt lovingly and long-sufferingly stitched up and bandaged, after, of course, lecturing his lover on his carelessness.

“It’s fine,” he says, even as he extends his arm so Geralt can unwrap the bandage, dirty and damp with sweat. “It’s healing normal.”

“Hmm.”

The wound is, as Eskel put it, healing correctly. After all, Geralt would be embarrassed to call his needlework sloppy, and Eskel, being the Witcher that he is, withstood the stitching with calm and grace. There’s a little blood dotting the cut, and Geralt dabs it away gently with a cloth, cleaning the wound thoroughly.

Part of him knows he’s, perhaps, overreacting. It is a small wound, after all, clean-cut and simple, and Eskel could care for it on his own. But there’s no need for it, now, he thinks as he dips the cloth in antiseptic. He can be gentle, can wash away the pain with his hands now, can bring relief and comfort to the one he loves.

Even if there are no more gaping wounds from a kikimora, no more deep gashes from a griffin’s talons, no more arachas bites to be endured.

Even if it is just a scratch to the skin, he wants to tend to it.

He can take his time.

Eskel is quiet beside him as he works. He must know, indulging Geralt like this. Perhaps he has the same thoughts, every once in a while. Perhaps he, too, thinks life is precious every time he holds it in his hands.

Geralt lets the injured arm rest on his lap for a moment, reaching down to grab some spare bandages and a small pair of scissors. Slowly, he starts wrapping Eskel’s forearm with the clean linen, making sure it’s not too tight nor too loose, covering the wound until no red skin can peek out and risk an infection.

He looks up at Eskel when he’s done, and without a word, brings his hand to his lips, pressing a small kiss into his skin.

“All done,” he murmurs, Eskel’s eyes warm like honey on his. “You may return to your tomfoolery now, old man.”

“Thank you kindly.” A grin, toothy and wide. “However could I repay you?”

The sun is almost gone all the way now, the last of sunlight flickering through the trees.

Geralt looks at their joined hands, and squeezes.

“Sit with me a while.”

And it’s easy, like nothing’s ever been. Like he believed nothing should ever be.

“That,” Eskel says, moving his chair a little closer with an old-man groan Geralt will tease him about later, “I can do.”

It's easy.

#mywriting #thank you so much for the prompt and your patience! i really hope you like what i came up with <3 #geralt x eskel #geskel #gereskel #gerskel #so many ship names #geskel fanfic #fluff #injury mention #blood mention #answered #on-a-lucky-tide

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llorithaine · 1 year

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geskel being cozy i drew back in march for @justhereforeskel

#geskel #geralt of rivia #eskel the witcher #the witcher #tw3 #the witcher 3 #myart #digital art #fanart #q

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witch-and-her-witcher · 2 years

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geskel + 6 + 33 + 68

bodyguards + feelings denial + misunderstandings | T | knight!geralt

Sir Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, White Wolf, and Right Hand of Queen Meve of Lyria and Rivia is seeing red as he storms from the throne room. He has just been informed that the Witcher Eskel has been hired to "better service the Queen."

"Geralt."

The steady, disinterested tone registers and in the next breath Geralt has whipped back around on his boot heels, court appropriate cape snapping with his movements.

"It's Sir Geralt to you, Witcher," he grounds out from a clenched jaw, prideful anger spearing him forward until he has the Witcher backed against the darkened hall's wall. "I don't know how you managed to weasel your way into court and the Queen's graces, but if you intend to black mail me -"

"It's a curse threatening Queen Meve," Eskel cuts him off. His expression is no longer disinterested, but it isn't fear that lights those amber eyes as they drift down to assess the lack of space between them and then back up to Geralt's face. "I pieced it together after you left the inn."

Geralt searches the Witcher's face for dishonesty, a hint of a lie. His brows knit together, unwilling to accept he jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Why didn't you come directly to me with that information then?"

"I wasn't given a choice when I arrived, some courtier or whoever brought me to the Queen right away." Now, Eskel's eyes dart to the side, his low voice quieter than before. "Besides, I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me after ..."

After Geralt drunkenly spilled his frustrations with the current threat to his lord's life he couldn't get a handle on to the kind eyed Witcher at the inn. After he then let Eskel fuck him into the early morning hours, but parted with threat to his life never to breathe a word of what had happened once sobriety and the weight of Geralt's indiscretions had hit in the morning light.

The facade of the White Wolf returns, blood cooling in the face of his own mismanagement of the situation, past and present. Eskel's kind eyes from that night return to meet his gaze as Geralt steps back. Internally, his mind is ablaze with how to dig himself out of the hole he continues to shovel deeper, but his tongue knows the proper response suited of the Right Hand.

"I apologize, I was too hasty in my conclusions. Your expertise cannot be dismissed because of my own ... Follies. If the Queen has deemed your service necessary, you must have produced ample evidence." The intensity of Eskel's gaze is stirring something in the pit of his stomach Geralt doesn't want to face. "Let us reconvene once you've had time to part take in whatever hospitality you require."

"Geralt -"

"I must take my leave, I will send a squire for you when I'm ready." Geralt spins on his heels once more and carries himself as quickly down the hall as manageable in a professional capacity.

Yes, he'll send a squire for Eskel once he's had time to retreat to his chambers and - relieve himself, of the complicated entanglements coursing through his veins and pooling in an indiscrete location. Geralt will not, cannot, allow himself to make the same missteps again.

---

Ah, I'm in love with this concept and want to write so much more of it. 😍 Thank you, Maureen, for the prompt!

Feel free to request more from the trope writing machine meme ~

#trope machine writing meme #geskel #geralt x eskel #knight AU #witcher fan fic #my writing #geralt of rivia #eskel #something-more #gereskel

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inexplicifics · 1 year

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Geralt comes home to Kaer Morhen and the comfort which awaits him there.

#My writing #geskel

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kueble · 2 years

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Geskel, first love

Everyone says first loves never last, but honestly, fuck everyone.

The keep is dark when Geralt stumbles in, probably the last one up the mountain again. He can feel Eskel, though, the other half of him, always reaching out. He makes it to their room in record time, dumping his bags by the door.

Eskel mumbles, barely awake but somehow managing to lift up the furs for him. Grinning, Geralt kicks off his boots and slides into bed. He presses a kiss against the back of Eskel’s neck and curls around him.

Sometimes first loves are all you ever need.

#geskel #the witcher #eskel #geralt #my fic #drabbles #drabble prompts

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hbfengxi · 2 years

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i understand why gereskel is considered a rarepair but at the same time i dont because. thats. they’re the Best Friends to Lovers. they’re the Childhood Friends to Lovers. they’re the We Clung To Each Other to Survive The Hardships We Didn’t Choose To Go Through to Lovers.

“they dont interact much” WHO CARES. WHEN HAS ANYONE EVER CARED!!

we know they’ve gone through the horrors of kaer morhen together, we know they grew up together, we know they’re still physically affectionate with one another AFTER DECADES OF BEING ON THIS LONELY DEATH-RIDDLED PATH and god no one NO ONE will understand Geralt’s soul the way Eskel does. so yeah.

Eskel has a grand total of maybe 16 lines in the books and 3 minutes in the show so i understand but not quite. not really.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #eskel #gereskel #geskel #i dont have a twitter account for the witcher so i’m ranting on tumblr #i started watching the netflix show a week ago and i latched onto the two minutes of gereskel i could get #im on the first book #the witcher netflix #geralt x eskel #witcher 3 #geralt the witcher #eskel the witcher

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aramblingjay · 2 years

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We were gods (we were kids) Geralt/Eskel, established relationship, hurt/comfort (4K) CW: Implied/referenced child abuse (Witcher training)

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

ao3

Geralt always comes back last. Eskel knows this, but it doesn’t make waiting for him any easier.

“He’ll come,” Vesemir says quietly, stepping up beside him to look out at the valley. The first dusting of snow has already coated the mountaintops white in the distance—Geralt doesn’t have long. “He always does.”

None of them have missed a winter in over a decade. They used to, back when the keep was bustling with Witchers and the absence of one or two hardly made a difference. No longer. Now, missing a winter means only one thing.

“I know,” Eskel says, because to think anything else is a one-way path to self-destruction. “Another day, maybe two, before the trail snows over. He has time.”

Vesemir sighs. He knows as well as Eskel that the trail could snow over as early as tonight. The window of safety ends when the mountaintops turn white, that’s always been the rule. “Come. It’s time for dinner.”

Eskel squints into the distance for a few seconds more, desperately searching for an approaching shock of white hair amidst the gloom, before turning away and following Vesemir back inside the keep.

Dinner is quiet. Geralt doesn’t normally contribute all that much noise when he’s here—even Vesemir speaks more than Geralt, usually—but his absence seems to suck every spark of energy from the room.

Even Lambert barely gets halfway through a crude tale from the Path before falling silent, huffing with a shake of his head and shoveling more food into his mouth to disguise the sudden pause.

“It’s strange without Geralt here,” Lambert says eventually, giving voice to the elephant in the room. Or not in the room, as it were. He’s still chewing so it comes out sounding more like a collection of m’s and f’s smashed together, but Eskel understands him just fine.

“He’ll be here,” Eskel says, because there is no alternative he will accept. “He’ll be here, I know it.”

Witchers don’t do pity, and neither Lambert nor Vesemir give him any now. Lambert just nudges the potatoes in his direction, an autumn-time luxury they rarely indulge in after the winter settles in fully, and Eskel scoops out a bowlful to make the most of it while he can.

Geralt loves potatoes, and he’s always devouring as many spoonfuls as he can his first few weeks in the keep. They fight over them, usually, stealing bites off each other’s plates—and one memorable time, straight from each other’s lips, prompting Lambert to make exaggerated gagging noises and Vesemir to frown reproachfully (but Geralt smiled like the sun itself, and Eskel has never tasted a sweeter potato before nor since).

Today, the potato crumbles like ash in his mouth, and he leaves most of his bowl untouched. Perhaps, if Geralt makes it back tonight, they can finish it together.

It’s a wistful thought, but there is no place for wishes in Kaer Morhen.

He goes to bed early with a murmured good night, and the unfinished potato grows cold on the table.

Eskel half-rouses in the middle of the night, and instinctively reaches to the left for Geralt’s warmth. When his fingers brush against nothing but cold air, he wakes faster than a young trainee roused from bed by an icy pitcher of water, heart racing as much as it can for a Witcher.

His body knows the feel of this bed, these furs, that gentle heat coming from the fireplace. This is Kaer Morhen, which means Geralt should be—

Then he remembers. Witchers don’t cry, not really, but there’s a foreign pressure behind his eyelids and a tightness in his throat that’s familiar from years ago, when he stood over Gweld’s mangled body and realized there were only four Wolves left in the world.

Maybe only three, his traitorous mind supplies before he cuts off that particular vein of thought.

Geralt’s armor from last winter is still in the room, draped over the chair by the fireplace. Eskel remembers how they left in a rush, spring thawing the frost and opening the mountain trail a few days earlier than expected. I’ll put it away next year, Geralt said with a little quirk of his lips, as sure as a sturdy oak in a breeze that he would return.

Eskel is sure, too. He is. But it’s harder to believe in the dead of night, surrounded by the empty chill of being the only occupant in a bed made for two.

He glances over at the window. A sliver of moonlight illuminates the falling snow outside, and the flakes are beautiful, small and soft and gentle the way the first real snow of the season always is.

Each one is like a blade straight to his heart.

Eskel doesn’t cry, but only because he can’t remember how.

Something changes in the air the next morning, and he barely nods a greeting to Lambert in the main hall before dashing out the front gates, eyes scanning the horizon back and forth.

A thick layer of snow covers the ground like a fluffy white blanket, gleaming enough to be almost painfully bright under the sunlight. Picking Geralt out should be easy enough, the man has never worn a color other than black for nearly as long as Eskel has known him. Since the Trials, his mind offers helpfully, as if he needs those images flashing before his eyes again.

But there is no black blob moving amidst the white. Only a brown one, larger than a man, and faster than one too—even a man as enhanced as Geralt.

Roach.

Eskel starts toward her in a dead run, barely noticing the way his feet sink several inches into the snow with each step. “Lambert!” he calls, not bothering to shout, knowing Lambert will hear him anyway. “Lambert, it’s Roach!”

Roach, and not Geralt. The possibilities tumble through his head, each one worse than the last. Geralt, dead on the Path, somewhere Eskel can’t reach until after the spring thaw. Geralt, tossed off the side of the mountain on his way up the Killer, every bone in his body broken in a different direction. Geralt, paler than ever, lying in a pool of his own blood in some stinking tavern while the humans laugh around his corpse.

He’s moving so fast he nearly collides into Roach when he reaches her, just barely managing to grab her reins to steady himself. She still has her reins, at least. He can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

“Hey, girl.” Roach sniffs at him, whinnying and bucking his hand when he tries to stroke her head. “I know. I know I’m not Geralt.” It helps, knowing she’ll sense his stress if he reveals any, helps keep his voice calm and his heart steady when all be wants to do is rage and break something. “Where is he, hmm?”

Her ears flick at the hmm, before she whinnies again, clearly used to it coming from a very different voice. Geralt’s deep baritone is Eskel’s favorite sound in the world, and clearly Roach has a fondness for it as well.

“Shh, I know,” he says again, hearing Lambert’s frantic footfalls approaching behind them. “Where is he, Roach? Where is he?”

“Eskel, what the fuck,” Lambert hisses, clearly having arrived at the same conclusion he has. “Geralt would never be separated from her, not by choice.”

“Maybe he sent her ahead,” Eskel tries, only half believing it himself. Geralt wouldn’t abandon his horse without reason, as surely as he wouldn’t abandon Kaer Morhen herself.

“If you really believe that, you’ve got more shit for brains than I thought,” Lambert all but growls. “We’re going looking for him, right?”

Eskel stays silent. He doesn’t want to damn them yet.

Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on his surroundings, tuning out the sound of Lambert coaxing Roach toward the stables, the howl of the wind, the feel of the snow beneath his feet, every bit of useless sensory information he doesn’t need. He feels like a baby Witcher again, newly mutated and barely able to control his new abilities, desperately seeking an anchor point against the relentless stimulation.

His anchor point was always Geralt. Nothing ever felt more natural.

He uses that now, searches for even the faintest tingle to suggest Geralt is somewhere in the vicinity.

Eskel opens his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Nothing.

Well.

“Search around the keep, and tell Vesemir what’s going on,” Eskel says, coming to a decision. Not that it was any kind of choice at all. He’d rather get caught in the next snowstorm and slowly lose each of his limbs to frostbite than sit warm in the castle knowing Geralt might be out there somewhere. “He can’t be far.”

Lambert scoffs. “I’m not some child you have to protect. If you’re heading down the Killer, I’m coming with you.”

“Don’t be stupid, it’s a suicide mission.”

“He’d do the same for me. What kind of shitty brother would I be if I didn’t—”

“Lamb, listen to me. Vesemir can’t lose all three of us on the same day, okay?” Eskel lets the raw desperation bleed through his voice, and Lambert relents, nodding. His scowl doesn’t waver, however. If anything, it sharpens.

“You bring him back,” he says, in a tone that they both know to mean dead or alive, by any means necessary.

Eskel nods. “If I’m not back by nightfall, don’t come looking for me.”

Then he runs toward the Killer, ignoring Lambert screaming, “What kind of last words are those, you stupid fuck!” behind him.

It’s late evening, about half a day’s walk down the Killer, when he sees something. A drop of blood on a leaf, dark and inky against the white-speckled green. He’s far enough down that the snow hasn’t fallen quite as heavily here, and it makes spotting a blood trail harder.

But he isn’t a Witcher for nothing, and he uses every sense he has, every bit of tracking he had beaten into him in training, to follow the blood speckles through the undergrowth. This part of the Killer has a little clearing off to the side, he remembers, and it’s usually a good place to rest before undertaking the last leg of the journey. Maybe…

He hardly dares to let himself hope. He hopes all the same.

The blood trail leads him straight to that very clearing, and there, passed out against a gnarled stump, is Geralt.

He nearly shouts for him, but the sound dies in his throat when he sees the pool of blood surrounding his lover, turning the dirt beneath him midnight black.

To use one of Geralt’s words—fuck.

Time passes in strange leaps for the next several hours, stretching and shrinking from one minute to the next. He remembers falling to his knees beside Geralt, patting him down to find the source of the bleeding. He remembers the stench of Geralt’s blood, how it roils his stomach in a way that the copper-tang smell hasn’t for the better part of several decades. He remembers seeing the gaping wound in Geralt’s side, visible through a similar-size tear in his armor, remembers the dawning horror of his realization that only a human blade could have made a cut with such clean, deadly precision.

He remembers very little after that. Just the weight of Geralt on his shoulders. An endless babbling litany of words streaming from his mouth, begging and pleading and praying to gods he can barely even name. And pain, sharp and aching in every muscle and bone, with each step he takes.

The thought of stopping never occurs to him. The sun slips down over the horizon, its last few rays painting the sky brilliant purple, and he pauses just for a second to marvel at the beauty of it before soldiering on.

Step. Step. Step. Another step. Another step. Step. Step. Another step.

This is just another Trial.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

It’s just another Trial.

Another step.

One more step. Step. Step. Step.

One more Trial. Then he can finally be a Witcher—

He collapses at the foot of a gate. Is Vesemir here? Vesemir might let him sneak down to the hot springs for a quick soak. He passed this one, he thinks. He can’t wait to tell Geralt.

Eskel wakes to Lambert’s face staring down at him. It’s a fine face, one of three he wouldn’t punch on sight, but two inches from his nose is a little too close for comfort.

“Lambert, what the hell!”

Lambert grins, leering even closer for a moment before finally stepping back. “Eskel! Took you long enough, you bastard.”

He sits up and tries to put together a timeline from the fuzzy bits and pieces floating in his head, but everything feels disconnected. One piece towers above the rest. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, remembering the clearing, the blood. There’s very little after that, but the faint heartbeat thudding in his ears tells him everything he needs to know. It’s Geralt’s—he knows it the way he knows the warmth of the sun, and no injury in the world will keep him away.

Lambert eyes him warily. “You remember who you are? Where you are?”

What kind of question is that? “Yes. Where is he—infirmary?” He tries to brace his weight on his arms in preparation for getting out of the bed, but a firm hand to his chest stops him, pushes him back down. Eskel feels like a chastened puppy—but also, normally he’d have more than enough strength to shake Lambert off.

“And when you are?”

“The hell do you mean? How long was I out?” It occurs to him that days or even weeks could have passed since he found Geralt in the clearing.

“Just a few hours. But you were all sorts of shit about the Trials muttering when we found you at the gates. Thought we had another amnesia situation on our hands.”

The mention of Geralt’s amnesia still sends tendrils of panic down his spine. “I’m fine, Lambert, but you won’t be if you don’t let me up right now.”

Lambert, the master of empty threats himself, rolls his eyes but complies, taking his hand away and moving several steps back for good measure. Eskel wobbles for a moment before the strength comes back to his legs and he finds his footing.

“Good?” Lambert asks, stepping away. There’s a shadow in his eyes that Eskel doesn’t like.

“I’m fine. Come on.”

Lambert leads him across the keep, and Eskel realizes after the first few turns through winding hallways and staircases that they are indeed heading toward the closest thing Kaer Morhen has to an infirmary. Every step pulls at something in his feet that tells him he’s not done healing yet, but Geralt’s heartbeat gets louder the closer they come, and that’s all it takes to keep him moving.

“Vesemir’s with him,” Lambert says once they’re outside the room. When Eskel hesitates at the entrance, Lambert laughs, sharp but amused. “Don’t be an idiot. Pretty boy woke up just before you did, and the first word out of his mouth was your name. Barely even cared I was there.” Lambert sounds as put-upon and fond as he’s capable of, which is to say not at all, but Eskel understands.

“Thanks, Lamb,” he says quietly.

Lambert just pushes him in the back toward the door. “Go.”

He goes, opening the door with his breath held fast in his chest.

Geralt is sitting up on the cot surrounded by a pile of Kaer Morhen’s thickest furs, hair askew around his face, paler than the moon in the dead of night, torso wrapped with bandages that must have once been white and now are pink. But his heartbeat is strong in Eskel’s ears and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are that familiar brilliant yellow, and fuck, it’s so good to see him. So good to see him alive.

“You shouldn’t be walking around yet,” Vesemir tuts from a corner, but Eskel has eyes for one Witcher alone.

“Wolf,” he says, the word torn from his throat, and surges forward to the cot.

“Good to see you, Esk,” Geralt rasps, like smooth water over cobblestones, and oh, how Eskel has missed the sound of that growly, gravelly voice.

Geralt leans forward just a little as Eskel approaches, as much as his bandages will probably allow, and Eskel meets him the rest of the way, dropping to his knees beside the bed and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. The bitter bark smell of sickness and healing hangs around Geralt like a cloud, but underneath that is still the same musk that Eskel has known his whole life, and it settles him like nothing else can.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Vesemir says. They don’t pull away from each other, but Eskel tracks Vesemir’s movements out of the room by the scrape of his chair as he stands and the rattle of the door as he closes it behind them.

“Shouldn’t have come down the Killer for me like that,” Geralt says once they’re alone.

Eskel does pull away at that, to give Geralt his most scathing and unimpressed look. There are a million things he could say, a million lectures Geralt needs to hear about taking care of himself and self-sacrifice and being a right idiot, but they have a whole winter ahead of them to worry about that, so he keeps it simple. “Shouldn’t have gotten yourself stabbed then.”

A shadow passes over Geralt’s face. Eskel recognizes the look—and hates it even more on Geralt than he did on Lambert.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Geralt shakes his head, and Eskel takes it to mean we’ll talk about it later let’s just have this moment together, because he’ll pry it out of Geralt eventually. There are no secrets between them.

Right now, however, there are more pressing things to deal with.

“Will it hurt you if I—” He doesn’t even get through the sentence before Geralt is lifting the corner of his furs in invitation.

There’s barely enough space on the cot for one full-grown Witcher (he knows why, knows who these cots were used for all those years ago, though the reminder hurts all the same), but that’s never stopped them before. He settles beside Geralt with his head on Geralt’s shoulder and sucks a kiss into the side of his neck.

Geralt’s whole body softens in response, just as he knew it would, and Eskel takes the opportunity to press himself even closer, melds them together like two halves of the same whole. They were never meant to be separated.

(Perhaps one of these years, one of these decades, he will find the words to ask if Geralt feels the same)

A red-purple spot blooms over Geralt’s skin, and the sight of it stirs the coil of heat in his stomach. Witcher healing means it won’t last long, will likely have faded before the sun comes up again, but it isn’t the mark that matters, only the claim. Mine.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what happened,” Eskel says, because the image of Geralt bleeding against that tree will never leave his mind for as long as he lives. “We are going to talk about it.”

“Hmm.”

The little sound nestles deep in his chest, and Eskel can’t help that his irritated huff comes out mostly fond. “Yeah, alright. In the morning.”

“Hmm.” Geralt snakes an arm along his back until his hand reaches Eskel’s hip. Eskel feels those familiar fingers curve around his hipbone, jutting out from the skin like it always does after a lean year on the Path. He curls in toward Geralt, draping his own arm across the most uninjured expanse of Geralt’s torso he can find, and sinks into him, trusting Geralt to hold his weight like he can trust no one else.

All the breath in his lungs rushes out at once, and he closes his eyes. They’re home.

Morning dawns gray and dreary, snow falling in thick sheets outside. Eskel wakes in the arms of his beloved, their limbs tangled together like cubs in a wolf pile, and feels nothing but joy.

Let the snow fall. It matters not, now, when all his family is safe in the keep.

“Awake?” Eskel asks, though he can tell by the rate of Geralt’s breathing that he is.

Geralt makes a quiet noise of assent, the very beginnings of a purr. Sleeping together does wonders for them both.

“You should rest more. You’ll heal faster.”

“I’m healing just fine. Besides, you’re beautiful in the morning.”

I wanted to watch you wake up, is what he knows Geralt means, and Eskel huffs. “I’m still filthy from carrying your hide up the trail.” He’s well aware that the beauty Geralt speaks of runs far deeper than skin, but even now, even with Geralt, sometimes it’s easier to lighten the mood than to bask in being loved so wholly by another.

“We can always—”

“Not yet,” Eskel interrupts, knowing exactly where that’s headed. There were winters he was certain Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen solely to use the hot springs. “Not yet, you know that.” The sit still and rest gene is lacking in all of them, but Geralt more than anyone.

“I’ve trained with worse injuries than this,” Geralt whines, petulant. Eskel can recall any of a dozen times he saw Geralt forced to train until he collapsed when they were children, ashen and limping from half-healed wounds but nevertheless expected to stand his ground, and knows it’s true. “A quick soak is nothing compared to that.”

“You have never had a quick soak a day in your life. Besides, we don’t do that anymore.” There’s a dark bitterness in his voice that Eskel doesn’t bother to hide. With only four Wolves left, brutality has finally given way to caution—but Geralt knows full well his thoughts on the death and loss that came first.

“Some people say baths are healing, Esk,” Geralt murmurs, but it’s soft, a complaint more because this is the only place he can voice one (warm in the belly of Kaer Morhen, tight in Eskel’s arms) than because he actually minds.

Eskel wants to say something funny, like stop taking medical advice from your bard, but instead what comes out is a half-broken sound low in his throat.

Geralt’s arm tightens around him.

“Say it again?” Eskel asks, begs. There is no shame between them, not anymore, and it’s been a year since he heard the diminutive, a year since he’s been called anything other than Witcher at all.

The steady rise and fall of Geralt’s chest never stutters, but Eskel can sense the shift in his mood all the same. He waits for Geralt’s words, however, knows it takes longer to find them when he’s still armored in the nonverbal shell he uses for the Path. The wait is usually worth it—Geralt is unbelievably eloquent when he chooses to be.

Eskel counts four, five, six Witcher-slow beats of his heart, before Geralt speaks.

“I am yours.” The simplicity of the statement, delivered not like a love declaration but like some fundamental fact that future generations of Witchers might find scrawled in a journal of universal truths, takes his breath away. “And you are mine.”

“Wolf—”

“Shh, my turn,” Geralt huffs, nosing along the shell of his ear, and Eskel lets out a half-strangled groan when Geralt nibbles a little on the earlobe. It’s been entirely too long.

“Esk,” Geralt says right into his ear, so soft it’s more air than sound.

“Esk,” Geralt says by his cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his eye.

“Esk,” Geralt says over his collarbone, sucking a bruise into the skin like Eskel did for him.

“Esk,” Geralt says to the tip of his nose, the corner of his jaw, the hollow at the base of his throat.

“Esk,” Geralt breathes over the bow of his lip, before finally, finally, leaning in for a kiss.

For the second time in as many days, Eskel finds a heavy pressure behind his eyelids. But this one feels like honey and starlight, sweet and warm and bright, and he knows for certain he would be crying from pure joy if he could.

He is more than aware he can’t, another in a long list of things the mages took from them, so he pours everything he has into the kiss instead, hopes Geralt can feel the tears on his teeth, on his tongue, even if they will never drip down his cheeks.

“My wolf,” he whispers, pulling away just enough to form the words, and kisses Geralt’s smile right off his lips.

Nowhere else in the world are they allowed to be soft like this, and he tries to make the most of it every winter. Once, they were nothing more than little boys in love, too young to even understand the meaning of the word but no less certain of each other for it. Sometimes, on long nights on the Path when he goes to bed hungry and cold, if he goes to bed at all, that innocent child feels far away enough to have been from another lifetime altogether.

In this moment, as he tucks a strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear just to see him smile again, that little boy in love feels close enough to touch.

#the witcher #geskel #geralt x eskel #*writing #*fic #written mostly for me and perhaps the two other people on here into this ship 😅

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fangirleaconmigo · 2 years

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Oh my god, I’d read and loved both of those fics but somehow never connected the dots and realized you were the author! Soft geskel taking care of each other and being vulnerable with each other in a way they can’t with anyone else is literally my absolute kryptonite, so thank you for reminding me to re-read both of those soon!

I’ve got my tissues and ice cream ready, hit with me with the dark and heartbreaking geskel trials era headcanons 💔

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. You are so sweet for saying that, thank you.

My Eskel, Geralt, and the Witcher Trials Headcanons

I am actually thrilled that you have asked this. I have spent so many hours over the past year and a half (!) lovingly crafting these headcanons, but have never quite had the guts to share them.

Sometimes one little push is all it takes. XD

I actually have a whole ass epic Geralt/Eskel fic, from kids to old witchers inside me. So these headcanons are essentially that longfic, some of which I have written out already in fic form on the ol gdrive. (so it is a long post)

So here are my never-shared-before but lovingly-crafted-during-extended-daydreams witcher trial headcanons for Geralt x Eskel.

CW: The inherent horrors of the witcher trials, but also some healing from trauma.

Arriving at Kaer Morhen

When Eskel first shows up at Kaer Morhen as a kid, the kids tease him for being barefoot, for not being literate, and about the common stereotype of mountain folks and incest. (Here is my post with my Eskel characterizations to explain all that)

Geralt grew up in Kaer Morhen from a baby (using the book canon here) so he already has a handle on things. He defends Eskel, and from that day on, Eskel just quietly and shyly follows him around with hearts in his eyes.

It makes Geralt feel amazing. He sees that helping people can make you valuable and important. It kicks off his desire to be a knight. (Of course he has value even when he isn’t serving people, but he doesn’t understand that yet)

Eskel is the single person who has seen him that way from the beginning. And of course, Eskel is genuine and sweet and straightforward, so Geralt is just as besotted with him.

Geralt takes him under his wing. He teaches him how to read. He is gutsy enough to make dry sarcastic comments to their instructors in Eskel’s defense if they come down on him for being behind.

I think about how when you’re a kid, if you are in a difficult/abusive/unhappy household, the sweet feeling of having crushes at school really do bring you happiness you can look forward to every day. It’s like a shining bright spot in your existence. So that is the way it is for them.

They choose desks that let them see the other. They try to get chosen for exercises that will put them together. They just drift towards each other in every way they can, like sunflowers turning towards the sun.

Preparing for the Trials

The trials are coming. Someone tells them that the trials will dim their emotional responses.

Geralt is looking forward to that. He has latched onto being a witcher as something he can use to save people. To have value. To be somebody. It is the only meager crumb of a dream he has, and it allows him to have hope that he can be worthy someday.

Eskel full on panics. Like panic attacks. If he loses his emotions, he will lose the one thing that makes his life worth living, and that is the happiness he feels when he is with Geralt. (I wrote a little ficlet here about it. It is the beginning of the longer fic I’ve been working on)

The Trials

Eskel goes first. It is the most horrible pain he has ever felt in his life. He thinks he is dying. He thinks he is dead. He prays for death. But he survives.

When Eskel wakes up, the first thing he does is vow to himself that Geralt will not go through that alone. Not after everything he has done for him. The one good thing is that this impulse means he has not lost his emotions.

So when it is Geralt’s turn, Eskel finds a crawlspace in the dirt under the laboratories and he hides under the floorboards. Geralt may not be able to see him, but at least Eskel will know Geralt is not alone.

It turns out he was wrong. His trials were not the most excruciating pain he could experience. It is far, far more painful listening to Geralt scream and not being able to help him. When he hears Geralt call out for him, he comes up through the trapdoor and tries to free Geralt. He is caned and tossed back in his room. By then Geralt was delirious and fully in psychosis, so he could not have possibly seen that Eskel was there.

When Geralt wakes up, he sees Eskel, and the affectionate response in his chest confirms his worst fear. He failed the trials. He will be nobody and nothing and of no use to anyone.

He tries to put distance between him and Eskel, but it doesn’t help. He is chosen for a second round of trials, which he assumes is happening because he failed. Because everyone can see how he feels when he looks at Eskel.

Since Geralt is avoiding him, and avoiding smiling at him, Eskel thinks Geralt has lost his emotions. It breaks his heart, mostly because the idea of Geralt losing the things that make him happy, guts him. But he also just misses him.

And when Geralt is taken to his second round of trials, he resolves to be with him again.

They have blocked off the trapdoors, so all he can do is sit on the floor in the shadows outside the laboratories. He is farther away, but he is still there.

When he hears the screams this time, he just quietly cries.

When the door to the laboratory opens, they are not surprised to see Eskel there. They give him a delirious, fevered Geralt to carry back to the dormitory.

There are so many dead boys now, they are down to one dormitory for their year. They have been moved into the same room. Their bunks are right next to each other.

When Geralt awakes, he confesses to Eskel that he has failed again. He is a failure.

Eskel asks him how he knows.

Geralt confesses it is because of what he feels when he is with him.

Eskel crawls into his bed with him and they huddle together.

He tells Geralt that it is a good thing that he has his emotions. If Geralt lost his emotions, then Eskel would be alone. He begs him not to leave him alone. He would never leave Geralt alone, ever. He was even there during his first trial.

It occurs to Geralt. Was that psychotic delusion he had, of Eskel bursting out of the trapdoor real? Eskel tells him that yes, it was real.

Geralt finally understands. Eskel matters more than all of the theoretical people out there that he could save. He needs Eskel. Eskel needs him. That is important too. That matters.

They will both pretend they have lost their emotions and no one will send Geralt for more trials. And they will always have each other.

Post trials

For awhile they stay away from each other in public, and only spend time together in private in the dormitories.

But time passes and little by little, they see secret displays of emotions from other trainees and they realize that everyone still has their emotions. They have simply been trained to hide them better.

So slowly but surely, they are more open about their affection for each other. They sit next to each other at dinner again. They whittle together on breaks again. They try to be chosen for the same activities.

It is their way of quiet rebellion.

The instructors, hard men that they are, do not begrudge them this one comfort. Not now that they have their medallions.

Lambert

When Lambert is brought to Kaer Morhen, he instantly latches onto them. He starts following them around. Most normal kids (kids who had not been through the trials) might have ditched a younger kid. But they don’t.

They grow very protective of him.

They realize with dawning horror that no one is going to warn the younger kids about what the trials will really be like. That most of their friends will be wheeled out dead and blue and buried in a mass grave of tiny bodies. That they will feel the worst pain of their lives.

They try to get Lambert out before the trials. They arrange for him to escape.

When he realizes what they are doing...when they actually offer him the out...he refuses it.

His mother is dead now. He has nowhere else to go. And he couldn’t leave the only two people he has ever trusted in his life. He thinks they must be exaggerating the trials. They think he can’t do it. He can do it.

When he survives, he always sees Geralt and Eskel as the only two people who told him the truth. Who tried to help him. That is why he loves them for the rest of his life, regardless of what he thinks about Kaer Morhen.

Leaving for the Path

It comes time for them to leave for the path. They will be apart for the first time since Eskel came to Kaer Morhen.

Since Eskel spent the first part of his childhood in a normal home, he is the first to make that connection from what they feel to what his parents felt.

He decides to tell Geralt he loves him.

He lies awake the entire week leading up to it, trying to work out the perfect words to say. Trying a thousand different ways of saying it.

He chickens out every time, so he decides to write it down.

He slips the letter into Geralt's saddlebags the night before.

Geralt catches him. He tells him first that he loves him. They go further than they have ever gone that night, because they know the monsters could get either one of them their first year on the path.

They spend the night in each other's arms, and no one in Kaer Morhen has a thing to say about it.

Healing from the Trials

It takes decades. It takes the sacking of Kaer Morhen. It takes years and years for them to fully understand how vicious and cruel it was, what happened to them.

They talk about it sometimes, but don’t quite know how to process it. But one night, Geralt is reminiscing. There was a kid who was kind to him, and who disappeared after the trials. He remembers the kids name and some identifying characteristics. After all these years, he still misses his friend.

The next spring, Eskel asks Geralt to come with him on a job. But it is not a job. Eskel has spent the entire year tirelessly tracking down that witcher boy, that friend that Geralt missed.

In the books, Calanthe talks of the boys who are so injured or disabled or their minds so damaged by the trials that they cannot be witchers.

What Geralt and Eskel didn’t realize as children, is that they all didn’t leave for mass graves. Some of them survived but were deemed too damaged and were abandoned.

So they sit with that man in his cottage and talk late into the night. They drink tea and learn about how he has survived on his own. He learns about the sacking of Kaer Morhen, how the mages are gone from the place now, and how it now belongs to them, the witchers.

They invite him to come with them and he accepts.

So for the next few decades, they make it their mission, along with Lambert and Vesemir and Coën, to track down any remaining witchers deemed too damaged or disabled to be of use.

The ones that are impoverished or struggling, they invite to live at Kaer Morhen. Some are thriving and just never wanted to think about Kaer Morhen again. Some would never set foot back in the place if you paid them. But most of them are glad to be invited. They have watched everyone around them die of old age and they are glad to be invited back into the fold by their friends, who were also victims.

They build a new Kaer Morhen. It becomes full again with talking, laughter, communal projects, and even game nights.

They have spent their lives feeling the melancholy of people who are the last of their kinds. Suddenly, their world has expanded again. They not only understand how cruel the trials were, but they understand that they have the power to build something better.

When Geralt told Eskel he loved him all those years ago, and they shamelessly stayed together in the same bed for the night, they were the first witchers to openly express their love for each other.

Now they (along with Lambert and Vesemir and Coen) make Kaer Morhen a place of family instead of torture and science experiments. They bring in their first witcher girl, Ciri, and a child is shown love instead of torture.

Having thrown off the yoke of the mages, and having spent many years understanding what happened to them, and what they could do to rebuild, they redefine what it is to live as a witcher.

They also become the first witchers to ever be married to each other.

They get married out on the yard where they used to take their breaks to whittle together.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #eskel #geskel #geralt x eskel #ok it's less of a list of headcanons #and more of a fic #that i am writing #but #i hope you enjoy

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