Chapter Text
Cold. It’s the first thing Iorveth feels when he wakes up again. Cold so strong, so all-encompassing that it bites into his skin like knives and sits in his bones like shards of glass. His scars in particular seem to be burning, as if the torturer’s knife was flaying the right side of his face open all over again. A broken noise makes its way out through his parched throat as his injured legs buckles underneath him and he falls to the ground.
There is a high sound somewhere, a wailing, and for one second Iorveth’s addled mind is back in the forest when his parents were slaughtered, can almost smell the stench of blood and burning flesh. He is shaking, he realises distantly, his entire body trembling from cold, blood loss and the weight of memories. His fingers scrabble across the cobblestones on the courtyard until they find a patch of grass that has grown between them. The feeling of the green blades between his fingers, the sharp smell that rises up as he crushes them, finally help ground him.
“Iorveth!”
Eskel’s voice. There are hands roving across his back, his side, his wounded leg, searching for injury before they slow down. Eskel puts a hand on Iorveth’s back and slowly helps him sit up before he suddenly freezes in his movements.
“I’m fine. I-“
But Eskel doesn’t seem to hear him, is staring at something over Iorveth’s right shoulder instead.
“Eskel?” Iorveth reaches out but Eskel doesn’t react to his touch. It’s only now that Iorveth realises that Eskel’s cheek is bleeding slightly, blood staining his teeth. The cold must have torn open his scars again.
“No,” Eskel whispers. “Vesemir, no-“
He stands up, lurching, and it isn’t difficult to parse what has caused him such distress. There is a shape lying on the ground, grey and green, Ciri and Geralt kneeling next to it. Iorveth cannot see Ciri’s expression from his position, but Geralt’s is a mask of deep and abject grief. Eskel stumbles forwards, one arm pressed against his chest, before he falls to his knees next to them, reaching out with a shaking hand towards his father.
“Fuck.” Lambert stands behind his brothers, hands balled into fists, arms trembling almost imperceptibly.
Iorveth remains sitting on the ground, still wracked with pain and weakness and not trusting his leg to carry his weight yet. He hears footsteps and looks up to see Roche approaching, eyes brimming with sympathy when he looks towards the Wolves. By some miracle his chaperon has remained in place during the battle, although it is torn and bloody, like they all are. He pulls it off his head and presses it against his chest in a gesture of respect. His hair is unexpectedly curly, Iorveth notices with distant surprise. He cannot find it in himself to make a cutting remark in honour of their old enmity. Not now.
*
Eskel refuses to let anybody even see his wounds. Just like he had refused any help when they were building the pyre. His face is a façade of stone all throughout Vesemir’s funeral and, unlike the others, he doesn’t say a single word. He remains standing next to the roaring flames for long after the others have left, even as dawn is already colouring the sky. Iorveth remains with him for as long as he is able to, shoulder to shoulder, hoping in vain that his presence might lend some strength.
At some point, his leg aches so fiercely that standing up becomes almost impossible. The sorceresses had all been far too exhausted to heal anyone properly, so they used the sparse remnants of their Chaos to stop bleeding and fix the worst of the damage for all of them, particularly those who didn’t benefit from the accelerated healing of witchers. It’s enough that Iorveth is sure that there won’t be too much lasting damage except some stiffness and pain on a bad day, but it also means he has to take it slow with recovering.
Eskel, upon noticing Iorveth’s pain, helps him back to the keep where Iorveth drops off into a dreamless sleep for a few hours. The next day passes in a flurry of activities, Eskel constantly disappearing from sight. It worries Iorveth, but they are both grown adults, older than ordinary humans. Eskel can look after himself, he tells the nagging voices in the back of his head.
“Iorveth.”
Iorveth’s head whips around from where he is sorting through a chest of old clothing. Lambert is standing in the doorway, dark rings under his eyes. It is late in the evening, and most others have gone to bed, exhausted from the day. Iorveth knows he wouldn’t be able to sleep and has taken to busying himself with the chest instead. Putting things in order has always helped calm his thoughts.
“Lambert.” Iorveth acknowledges him. He doesn’t stand up, not wanting to aggravate his leg any further. They've settled into a sort of truce since the end of the battle, Lambert’s animosity from the earlier days almost gone, overshadowed by everything else.
“You need to talk to Eskel,” Lambert says bluntly. His directness is refreshing. Iorveth waits for him to continue, noting the way his entire frame seems to be tense. Lambert notices his gaze and his expression darkens. He crosses his arms over his chest, the only indication that the move pains him the way a muscle in his cheek begins to twitch.
“He won’t listen to me, or Geralt,” Lambert finally continues. “Says he’s fine. He’s not. Usually, Vesemir would-” he bites off the rest of the sentence. Something else about Eskel and his family slots into place for Iorveth then – he’s the one they always come to for help. The steady, reliable one, shouldering it all without protest, his mentor the only one who really knew how much he always takes upon himself.
“I’ll go. Where is he?” Perhaps Iorveth should have asked earlier, but he hadn’t been sure whether Eskel was the sort who preferred to be left alone. He should have asked, he realises.
“We were able to drag him inside from where he’d been trying to chop more wood. He’s in front of the fire now.”
“And you just…left him there?” Iorveth frowns. Lambert’s expression hardens. The implication, no matter how far-fetched, that he would ever willingly desert his brother, clearly bothers him far more deeply than he’d like to admit.
“He didn’t let us get any closer,” he snaps. “And we weren’t going to knock him out.”
Iorveth raises a hand, even though he bristles at Lambert’s tone. They’re all on edge. Tired, injured, exhausted and, in the case of the Wolves, grieving.
“I’ll go,” he says again. Lambert only nods before he stalks away.
Iorveth finishes up his task before he goes to seek out Eskel. He finds him sitting on one of the furs and staring into the fire of Kaer Morhen’s great hearth. His face is turned towards the flames so that all Iorveth sees are the deep scars on his right cheek, thrown into stark relief by the light of the fire. He limps towards Eskel, leaning onto the staff Letho had given him earlier.
“Hey.”
Iorveth pulls up a chair and sits down next to the Wolf. He eyes the bottle of Lambert’s strongest vodka next to him but doesn’t comment on it. At least it’s only one for now. Eskel looks up and acknowledges him with a nod before returning to stare at the fire again. There are deep circles under his eyes and his pallor is paler than usual, although it’s difficult to see in the light of the fire. Iorveth hesitates, then reaches out to put a hand on Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel flinches, so Iorveth withdraws his hand again with a little sting in his chest.
“Have you looked after your wounds yet?” he wants to know. Eskel doesn’t reply and that alone is answer enough.
“Eskel. Let me see.”
“I’m fine.” His voice sounds like shards of broken glass grating on each other. The Wild Hunt’s frost had made his scars break open again, the skin cracked and dry, still leaving flecks of blood on his teeth when he speaks. He evidently hasn’t even used his usual scar ointment on them.
“Liar.” Iorveth crosses his arms in front of his chest, meeting Eskel’s glare when his head whips around. Better that he turns his anger against him than keep martyring himself for a lost cause he alone believes in. Iorveth keeps his voice even, although his heart is bleeding for the witcher. “Eskel. Let me help.”
“Why?” Eskel’s eyes are rimmed red, but dry. Iorveth sighs. He is familiar with the mood Eskel is in at the moment, where nothing truly seems to matter, where pain is the only thing he thinks he deserves, the only thing he can feel. He also knows that no words he can say about Eskel’s worth would truly make the witcher believe him. Not tonight, at least. Not when he’s like this.
“Because I won’t leave until you let me at least have a look.”
Eskel grunts, but he doesn’t move away when Iorveth carefully begins to pull at his clothes. It becomes apparent that Eskel can’t raise his arms up very high and it requires some substantial effort on Iorveth’s part to remove his shirt.
He breathes in sharply when he is finally faced with the amount of damage on Eskel’s skin below. His chest is blue and black, the bruising spreading out in a starburst pattern from his ribs from where Caranthir’s weapon had hit him. It is a miracle that Eskel has been able to remain upright for so long. It has to hurt horrendously but the only sign of pain is the way Eskel’s lips keep twitching and how he sucks in a sharp breath when Iorveth’s fingers ghost over the surface.
“Wait.” At least Iorveth had thought ahead. The witchers’ medical chest had still been well filled with supplies. “Hold still.”
Eskel flinches, hissing a little when Iorveth begins to slather the salve on his skin to help with the bruising. He doesn’t move away, however, which Iorveth counts as a small victory. They don’t really speak, not even when Iorveth wraps Eskel’s chest tightly to help with holding his ribs in place. He’ll have to trust Eskel’s witcher metabolism to do the rest of the work. He also takes out the scar ointment, leaving it on the table next to them in a pointed gesture.
“How’s your leg?” Eskel finally breaks the silence when Iorveth is done.
“Healing. Although it will take a few weeks.” To make his point, Iorveth bends his knee slightly, just as far as he can without major pain.
“Good.” Eskel nods and turns to keep staring into the fire again. The lines of his face are slightly less harsh now that some of his physical pain has been taken care of, but Iorveth is under no illusion that his deeds have done much to alleviate the mental anguish Eskel must be feeling.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?” Iorveth asks. Eskel doesn’t reply, but he shakes his head, moving to the side on his bench to make space for Iorveth, who sits down next to him with a grateful nod. He has grieved many a people during his time and has been companion to those facing their own sadness even more often. Some get angry when faced with loss, lashing out at everyone and everything. Some need to talk, to remember, to share. And some, like Eskel, will go still and quiet, withdrawing within themselves, like a statue made of stone. Nobody can say when which mood will strike, and how long it will take; there are as many paths through grief and towards as healing as there are people on the Continent.
Iorveth digs in his pockets and pulls out his recorder. Eskel glances over at him, briefly, but doesn’t seem to disapprove. Pondering for a moment, Iorveth takes a deep breath and puts the instruments to his lips. The song that rises into the air is an old one, far older than Iorveth himself.
It is one of mourning, of remembrance, but also of acknowledging the joy that someone’s existence has brought; of peace and of letting go. Eskel leans his cheek into his palm and closes his eyes as he listens. For a while, everything fades around them, the quiet crackling of the fire and Iorveth’s music the only things that matter. When Iorveth finishes, he can see a wet sheen on Eskel’s cheek but doesn’t comment on it.
“Thank you,” Eskel whispers finally. Iorveth nods.
“You should sleep,” he suggests. Judging from the way Eskel looks, he hasn’t had any rest since before the battle. Eskel’s gaze darkens slightly, but he doesn’t object to Iorveth’s suggestion. There is a pallet not far from the fire – Iorveth doesn’t know who has dragged it here, but he is grateful to whoever it was.
“Can you play some more?” Eskel asks, his voice thick.
“Of course.” Iorveth sets the recorder back to his lips again and begins anew, this time a slow melody that doesn’t belong to any particular song but simply flows out of him. Eskel sighs and rubs his face in his hand before taking off his boots and moving to lie down on the pallet. After a moment of consideration, he moves the pallet closer to Iorveth, as close as possible. His back is wedged against Iorveth’s legs when he curls up on his side, wincing at how the movement aggravates his ribs but not moving from his position. Iorveth plays until Eskel’s form relaxes and his breath becomes deep and regular. He keeps on playing for a while more until he feels some of his own tension drain from his body. The notes sound different, in these old halls so heavy with history. Iorveth hopes fervently that perhaps, they might ease the passage of some ghosts that must surely be caught in the stones of the keep. Perhaps, even, Vesemir himself, who’d watch over the last of the Wolves even in death if he could.
Iorveth gets ripped out of his thoughts by a quiet shuffling noise coming from the entrance to the kitchen, which isn’t far. He looks around, expecting to see one of Eskel’s brothers, or perhaps Ciri, but to his surprise it’s Roche. Iorveth’s first instinct is to reach for the dagger at his belt, before he forcibly reminds himself that if Roche wanted to kill him, there would have been dozens of more convenient ways to accomplish it.
Roche leans against the wall when Iorveth limps over, carefully disentangling himself from Eskel first. The Wolf remains deeply asleep despite being jostled, evidently utterly exhausted.
“The leg?” Roche nods at his injury. Iorveth shrugs.
“Healing,” he says quietly. “Your shoulder?” He repeats Roche’s gesture, nodding towards Roche’s arm that’s currently sitting in a sling.
“Same. It’ll be some time before I can swing a sword again, but…” Roche’s voice trails off. But at least he and Ves are both alive.
“We were lucky.” Iorveth sighs. He hates to admit it, but they both know it’s true. He is too tired to keep up the charade of hatred with Roche; their old enmity has begun tasting stale in the light of the events of the past few days. He will never forgive the dh’oine for what he has done, but he also knows that he is a kindred spirit in a way. They are far too similar to each other in too many regards.
“We were,” Roche agrees. He looks towards the hearth, Eskel’s sleeping form on the ground, and frowns. “If it weren’t for Cirilla, none of us would have survived, I presume.”
“She certainly is something special. No surprise, really, with a family like that.” Iorveth lets a smile pull at the edge of his lips.
Roche chuckles before he seems to realise who he is sharing such an odd moment of levity with. He clears his throat and looks away. Iorveth begins to feel exhaustion settle deep in his bones. The drawn expression on Roche’s face is familiar, and it reminds him once again of how neither of them are who they once were anymore. At least he is lucky enough to have found a home in Upper Aedirn, even if he still has trouble getting used to the relative peace there after so long at war, and often feels ill at ease.
Iorveth indicates the kitchen and one of its side doors leading out of the keep for easy access. After a moment of hesitation, Roche follows him, one of his hands straying to the dagger hanging from his side after snatching a leftover roll from the bread basket. Iorveth rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment on it.
He sits down on the steps leading up to the kitchen door and takes out his pipe once they are outside. Roche raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on it. He leans against the wall instead, beginning to take small bites from the bread in his hand.
“How is Ves?” Iorveth asks after he has lit his pipe and blown the first smoke ring into the air. She’d taken a few hits during the battle – nothing life-threatening, but certainly nothing to laugh at either.
“Are you asking because propriety dictates you should or because you genuinely care?” Roche wants to know. His voice is laced with an echo of their former animosity.
“Her death would bring me no joy.” Iorveth shrugs. “I might not place much worth in most dh’oine’s lives, but neither do I currently actively wish any harm upon you and her, at least. Assuming that you have given up your business of hunting Scoia’tael.”
“I only ever did it for Temeria. Even if the methods…” Roche shakes his head and takes another bite of his bread, although Iorveth can see that he is slightly uncomfortable. There are pieces of both their pasts that they will never take pride in. “Now…there are other things that have become more important.”
Iorveth’s curiosity is piqued at those words, but he doesn’t inquire further. The tenuous bit of trust between them isn’t strong enough yet. He opens his mouth to speak again when Roche continue.
“And Ves is recovering well. We should be strong enough to travel back in a few weeks’ time at the most.”
“Ah. Good.” Iorveth takes another drag from his pipe. Roche clears his throat.
“So. You and the witcher.”
Iorveth raises his eyebrow.
“Yes,” he says. It is strange to say out loud, still. Especially in front of someone like Roche. He leaves it at just the one word. Roche nods before nibbling more on his bread again. The silence between them stretches, but it isn’t as uncomfortable as it should have been. A dozen questions flit through Iorveth’s mind but he isn’t quite sure he wants to ask any of them.
“Did you ever think we would end up here? Like this?” Roche asks, all of a sudden. When Iorveth turns to look at his face, he is frowning, evidently deeply in thought.
“In a castle full of witchers, fighting against the Wild Hunt itself?” Iorveth barks out a small laugh. “Not in my wildest dreams. I always thought I’d die by a dh’oine’s hand long before.”
“Mhmmm.” Roche agrees. ”Strange, where fate has led us. To think that we’d take up arms side by side. In the past, I might simply have refused altogether.”
“So, what made you change your mind now?” Iorveth wants to know.
“The witchers needed us. Geralt needed us. And I am not one to leave a debt unpaid.” There is a hardness to Roche’s voice, an undercurrent of iron.
“And neither am I.” Iorveth looks up into the starry sky above them, the myriads of little lights dotting the endless darkness of the void beyond them. Not for the first time he wonders about how insignificant their lives, their struggles must seem from so far away. And yet here they are, fighting nonetheless, trying to protect some vestiges of love still left in the world. It’s beautiful in its own way, he supposes.
Roche nods at his words and Iorveth takes one last drag on his pipe before tipping it over and knocking out the ashes. He sighs and heaves himself upright again, careful not to put too much weight on his injured leg. For one moment he is standing face to face with Roche, closer than they have ever been without trying to kill each other. Iorveth can see how Roche musters him and seizes him up and down, before he seems to come to a decision.
“I hope Upper Aedirn will endure and know peace for a long time. For all of our sakes,” Roche says eventually. “Well met, Iorveth.”
“Well met, Vernon Roche. I hope you and Ves will find your peace, too.” Iorveth returns the sentiment, after a moment of hesitation. He wonders if he should hold out his hand to shake, but the gesture would feel wrong, somehow. Instead, he gives a nod, perhaps a bit longer and deeper than he normally would, before walking back into the keep.
Eskel stirs a little when Iorveth lies down next to him, mumbling something incoherent. The fact that he isn’t fully awake tells Iorveth just how tired he must be.
“Sleep,” he whispers back. “All is well.”
Eskel says nothing in reply, just scooting closer to him. Iorveth curls up next to him, his chest pressed against Eskel’s back. Eskel’s heartbeat is witcher-slow, although his sleep isn’t peaceful from the way that his limbs keep twitching. He still smells of blood and sweat and having gone unwashed for too long, but those aren’t smells that Iorveth is exactly unfamiliar with. He has experienced far worse, out in the woods.
With a sigh, he closes his eyes and finally drifts off into sleep himself before too long.
*
“Eskel.”
The witcher looks up when Iorveth approaches. He is carrying his bow on his back and a deer slung over one shoulder that he hands to Eskel as soon as he’s close enough.
“Thanks.” Eskel takes the animal with a quick nod. His expression is distant, forehead creased in a frown that smooths away slightly when he looks at Iorveth. It isn’t difficult to tell what he’d been working on when Iorveth just walked in through Kaer Morhen’s front gates. The numbers and scribbled notes in front of him paint a clear enough picture – he’s been mulling over them for days attempting to figure out whether trying to rebuild Kaer Morhen after the Wild Hunt’s damage is worth it or not. He must’ve been at it for days. Probably since Iorveth left for his little outing, if he had to guess.
Eskel is the last one left in the keep – Lambert and Keira had stayed the longest after the end of the battle and had departed two weeks ago. Iorveth knows he should return, too, to his duties at Saskia’s side, but something about Eskel keeps him tethered here. There is something fragile about him, as if he is teetering on the precipice ready to fall when Iorveth isn’t looking. Leaving for a week to hunt and visit the nearest village had been a risk he almost hadn’t been willing to take, if it hadn’t been necessary. He’s seen that expression in Eskel’s eyes one too many times in his own people.
Iorveth follows him into the kitchen and through it to the butcher’s room at the back of the keep. Eskel hangs the deer on one of the large hooks, but before he can begin butchering it, Iorveth reaches out and puts a hand on his arm.
“It can wait for a bit,” he says. And then, knowing that only a direct question will get him an answer, he continues. “Have you slept at all in the past few days?”
“I don’t know,” Eskel mumbles, dragging his hand through his hair. Its strands are frazzled and greasy. Iorveth can see the nerves in the right side of his face twitching, likely from exhaustion. “I keep…dreaming. It’s better not to sleep.”
“You need rest.” It’s not a question, just a fact. “Do you have any potions that might help?”
Eskel frowns and looks away. “Don’t want to take any potions.”
Iorveth sighs. He knows it’s a touchy subject, but he also knows that Eskel needs sleep.
“I’m here to stand guard, in case anything happens,” he suggests. “I can wake you up, if necessary.” He sees Eskel teetering on the edge of a decision, clearly torn between the desire to catch some sleep and stay vigilant at all times.
“Promise you’ll wake me,” he says at last. “Promise.”
“I promise.”
Iorveth sees to it that both the deer’s carcass and everything else he brought is stored way in one of the keep’s cold rooms before joining Eskel in his nest of blankets and furs in front of the fireplace. His ribs have healed well; there’s only the shadow of a bruise around the newest set of scars that Iorveth traces with the briefest of touches. It’s clear that Eskel hasn’t really bathed in a while, but Iorveth doesn’t really care, not right now. He hardly smells any better, and perhaps the task will become easier once they have finally had some rest.
Eskel curls up, pressing tightly against Iorveth. Every single bit of him is tensed up, as if his body is still poised for a fight at any moment. Iorveth begins carding his fingers through Eskel’s hair and humming, the way he faintly remembers his father doing when he was very little. Bit by bit, Eskel seems to relax under his touch, until his breathing becomes deep and even.
Iorveth watches him as he sleeps, lost in his own thoughts. Wishing that he could take his pain away, that he could give more comfort than his touch and meagre words can afford.
*
“It’s no use.” Eskel sighs and buries his head in his hands. Iorveth has just come back inside and walks over to stand next to him. Eskel looks up at him briefly, before staring down at the papers again. “Fuck.”
“I need some help outside.” Iorveth touches his shoulder briefly. “Come and join me?”
“I-“ Eskel stops himself from uttering the objection that is so clearly sitting on his tongue. Even now, the desire to be helpful and of use wins out over everything else and he slowly rises up from his seat, joints creaking. “Of course.”
Over the past few weeks, Iorveth has slowly gotten to know the keep and its surrounding, with all its hidden nooks and crannies. He leads Eskel over to one of those now – an old and forgotten parapet on the western side, half-collapsed decades ago and now covered in grass and flowers that form a stable, gentle slope. The view from up here is breath-taking, out over the entire valley with the rays of the slowly setting sun draping the sky in a vivid fest of colours. The nearby trees creak in the wind, as soothing a noise to Iorveth’s ears as the sounds of the home that is now forever lost.
Eskel draws up short when he sees what awaits him.
“You said you needed my help.”
“I do. The contents of this aren’t going to eat themselves.” Iorveth keeps walking, hoping that Eskel will follow. After a moment, his footsteps pick up behind him again. They drop down into the grass, next to the covered basket that Iorveth had set out earlier. Eskel raises his eyebrows, but some of the heaviness has fled his expression. Iorveth pulls the cloth away from the basket, spreading it on the ground and begins to set out its contents – some elderflower cordial, a few pieces of bread and cheese and apples and, last but not least, a small pot. Eskel’s features light up when he looks inside, a spark of genuine joy in his eyes.
“Where did you find them?” he asks, taking out a piece of honeyed cake. It looks almost exactly like the ones one would have been able to buy in Ard Carraigh about fifty years ago. Tastes like it, too, if Iorveth is any judge.
“I talked to an old lady in the village when I went to buy some supplies.” Iorveth points at the cordial. “She still had an old recipe for the honeyed cake they used to make and was surprisingly agreeable to make some. For a dh’oine at least.”
“You went down to the village just to get some cake.” Eskel sounds incredulous.
“And cordial,” Iorveth adds, deadpan. Of course he’d bought other supplies, too, but they hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind. Eskel looks at him, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again and just shakes his head.
Iorveth pours them both their drinks as Eskel takes a hesitant bite of the honeyed cake. His face lights up, honesty joy dancing in his eyes.
“It tastes exactly like I remember,” he whispers. He looks over at Iorveth. “I- Thank you. Thank you, Iorveth.”
“My pleasure. You deserve it.” Iorveth reaches out and rests his fingers lightly on Eskel’s hand. Eskel’s expression crumples slightly at his last words, but he pretends that it’s nothing. For a while, they simply sit and eat, watching as the sun slowly dips further towards the horizon, painting the world a fiery red. Once they have finished their meal with the last remaining slices of cake, Iorveth finally dares to approach the one topic he has been dreading to talk about. But talk about it they must.
“Do you know where you’ll be spending the winter?” he asks.
Eskel’s hand drops to his side, fingers digging into the grass and soft soil beneath. His eyes are fixed on the horizon when he finally answers.
“No.” He sounds like he is breaking apart. “We cannot rebuild Kaer Morhen enough for it to last through the season. I’ve never really wintered anywhere else. I-“
His mouth snaps shut again.
“You’d always be welcome in Upper Aedirn.” Iorveth extends the offer carefully, but with enough firmness that Eskel knows it is a serious one, not just courtesy. Eskel looks at him, surprise flickering across his face for a brief moment.
“Are you sure your Queen would concur?” he asks. Iorveth shrugs.
“I see no reason why not. And she has been nagging me to be more sociable.” He can already hear the amused tone in Saskia’s voice should he ever introduce Eskel to her. She would be enamoured with him, no doubt. It’s hard not to be, at least in Iorveth’s opinion.
“It’s a generous offer. I’m not sure yet. Perhaps I’ll simply travel for a while.” Eskel looks away, his gaze getting lost on the horizon again. Iorveth reaches out to touch his hand again. This time, Eskel’s fingers curl around his, giving them the lightest of squeezes.
“Make sure you don’t lose yourself on your travels,” Iorveth says. “And remember that you’ll always have somewhere to return to. I can wait. But not forever.”
Eskel squeezes more tightly, before leaning over to kiss him. It carries the edge of desperation with it, of a man searching for an anchor when he is adrift in a sea vast and wide and unbeknownst to him. Iorveth tries to give him a hold as well as he can, but he also knows that beyond a certain point it is up to Eskel to find his own path, his own way of survival, figure out who he is as a person away from the tethers of Kaer Morhen.
All that Iorveth can do is illuminate the surroundings and hold out a helping hand when needed. But he cannot find the path for him. Nobody can.
“Play something for me?” Eskel asks, finally. “So that I remember what home sounds like.”
The irony of the words isn’t lost on either of them, but Iorveth is happy to grant the request. He chooses and old song, the oldest that he knows; it seems only fitting, to play the notes that were conceived in a place that has long since turned into dust in the ruins of another that will go the same way in a century or two. And yet, the notes carry with them the knowledge that one is never alone; that even in loss, someone is there to share the burden. A lover, a friend, family. I will wait, Iorveth says again through the song.
*
Eskel walks through the gates of Vergen over a year later, just when the first inklings of snow begin to speckle the land. There are streaks of grey at his temples, and the lines on his face have deepened. He is limping slightly, keeping one of his arms closer to his body more than strictly necessary. His steps are settled, however, belonging to a man who has finally begun to grow the edges of the ragged wounds of his being back together.
“Ceádmil, Bleidd.” Iorveth’s touch is light when he presses their foreheads together. He knows how much the cold must hurt the scars on Eskel’s face, feels it twinging unpleasantly on his right cheek as well. A thousand welcomes to you, Wolf. Eskel had written, if sparsely, over the last months, talked about visiting Geralt and Yennefer in their new home in Touissant, joked about Lambert and Keira who seem to be sticking together against all odds. He had mentioned the monsters he had hunted, the people he had met. Iorveth had hoped that he would come before another winter had passed. Had hoped, but not known.
Eskel looks at him, lips pulling into a smile.
“I thought, perhaps, it was time to come home.”