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cas-kingdom · 2 years

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For Eskel

Read the OC version of this fic here.

A/N: After season 2, I intended on writing many Witcher fics to further accommodate Akela (reader) in the universe you’ve all helped me create since season 1. Unfortunately, my writing hit a bit of a bad spell and those fics are still very much WIPs. Alas, they will not be much longer in the making, I promise. For now, please enjoy the first of them. <3

Title: For Eskel

Summary: In the Temple of Melitele, you grieve Eskel.

Words: 3591

You weren’t sure how you found yourself in the hallway of candles. You’d been wandering through endless corridors, neither your mind nor your soul in the right place, until the flicker of orange caught the corner of your eye. You stopped, tiredly observing Nenneke lighting the candles. The priestess offered you a smile but continued in her work, sensing that words would fall short on you tonight.

She was right, of course. You had felt off since the memorable night after you’d returned to Kaer Morhen with Geralt and Ciri. Though the off-ness had lessened somewhat since, you still often felt the brunt of it sneak up behind you, just when you might have believed things were going in the right direction.

Slowly, you lowered yourself to sit against a pillar. You had been to the temple before, seen the candles as you walked back to your room in the evenings, but you’d never paid them much attention. Geralt might have told you what they were for once, something about welcoming travellers in the night, but you looked at them now with an altered though unfamiliar view. The flames comforted you. There were hundreds of them, lighting people’s way through the hallways, providing some semblance of warmth and solace they might not have been able to find elsewhere. Or perhaps that was just you.

You weren’t sure if your exhausted body had succumbed to sleep or you’d simply not been paying attention, but when you picked up the foggy sound of shuffling, and your mind shoved you into painful reality once more, you saw Ciri amongst the candlelight. Nenneke had disappeared further down the corridor, but Ciri was close by, carefully touching wicks to flames.

You rubbed at your eyes and stood to your feet, your stiff joins protesting to the movement after who knew how long you’d been still. Sleep must have taken you, then.

Ciri turned to glance over her shoulder, her hand pausing before it lit its next candle. She stared at you for a moment, then glanced at a ring of white candles surrounding a single unlit one. “You should do Eskel’s,” she quietly suggested.

You felt a pang in your chest, of both pain and fleeting anger that the princess had brought him up when you’d been trying so hard to forget, but you pushed it down, rolling your shoulders to ground yourself. “What?” you muttered, the words raspy.

“His candle.” Ciri suddenly sounded hesitant, but the trait she possessed most was persistence. “They’re what this is all for. We light candles for those we’ve lost.” She tried a half smile as you took slow steps towards her. “This is Roach’s—” Ciri pointed at a candle that looked no different to the next—“and this is for Mousesack. I told you about Mousesack, I think.”

You wouldn’t soon forget that name. Still, you said nothing, stopping by Ciri’s side. You didn’t accept the flaming stick offered towards you, instead reaching out to gently press your fingers to the warm wax of Roach’s candle. The flame seemed to react to your touch, leaning towards you, brightening for a moment before dimming.

“Will you tell me about Eskel?”

“Why do you want to become a witcher?”

Ciri was obviously taken aback by your quick interruption. It appeared as though the words had been waiting on your tongue, ready to divert any conversation you didn’t want to be included in. Ciri blinked, her mouth opening and closing for a moment as she wondered whether repeating her question would ignite the flame…so to speak. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to discuss your question.

Ciri swallowed back the minute yet customary amount of fear she still felt when unsure of what was whirring in your head, and counteracted. “I asked a question first,” she reminded you cautiously.

Your finger was still pressed to the wax of Roach’s candle as Ciri’s eyes flicked between it and your expressionless face. When Ciri noticed your lack of reaction as a drop of melted wax touched your skin, she stepped quickly towards you, moving Roach’s candle behind the others so that your finger remained motionless in the air. You seemed to be frozen, eyebrows furrowed, but you moved when Ciri reached over to brush off the hardened wax and reveal an angry redness beneath. As though you’d only just felt the burning sting, you drew in a sharp breath and clutched your finger to your chest, turning quickly to walk back the way you had come.

Ciri put down the stick she’d been holding and followed you. “Wait, please,” she called. You slowed, your finger still encased in your hand, and finally stopped, just as Ciri licked her lips in preparation for her next words. “If I answer your question, will you answer mine?”

Vesemir had told you that talking about Eskel may help. That each time a witcher died, his brothers and mentor would sit in Kaer Morhen and recount their dearest memories together, so as to remember him in the best light possible. You had steered clear from that, avoiding most mentions of Eskel so you could avoid the relentless vision of him, staring straight at you, just as you—

You drew in a deep breath. Shut your eyes. Dug your nails into your palms. A part of you wanted to say no. You did not want to talk about Eskel tonight. Ever. But another part of you, the important part of you, wanted company more. And perhaps, somewhere deep inside, you did want to talk about Eskel. Just to get it over with, and perhaps find an inkling of that help Vesemir had mentioned.

Without waiting for an answer, Ciri moved to sit on the bottom step of the stairs leading into the corridor. You still had your back turned, but Ciri knew you wouldn’t leave now.

“If you want to know why,” Ciri began, carefully concealed reluctance in her tone, “it’s because I’m tired of not being able to protect myself. I mean—” She shook her head— “What is a human compared to a witcher? Everyone should take the opportunity to become better than they are.”

You came to sit beside her, lowering yourself slowly onto the same step. There was a moment of silence before you spoke. “You think witchers are better than humans?”

You stared at each other, your eyes searching for individual answers. Ciri blinked then, mostly in surprise. “I…” She trailed off, unsure of the words because she was unsure of an answer. In actuality, yes, she did think witchers were better than humans, in more ways than one, and she’d figured it a universal opinion. But looking at you now, noticing the ripples of confusion just surfacing above the waves of pain, she wasn’t sure anymore.

She frowned. “What did Geralt say when you spoke of becoming one?”

Your brows rose and you dipped your head, as though waiting for the princess to say you had merely been joking. When no such words came, you mirrored Ciri’s expression. “A witcher? Ciri…what makes you think Geralt and I ever spoke of such a thing?”

Your question struck a chord within Ciri’s very soul. You were so clearly telling her that you and Geralt had never discussed you becoming a witcher. Ciri wasn’t entirely sure why that shocked her, but she had always figured it to have been a mandatory conversation between you. How had you gone almost twenty years without the subject cropping up at least once? If not for your own betterment, surely for Geralt’s peace of mind when concerning your safety?

“I assumed you…” Ciri’s voice faded as her mind continued to come to term with this fact. For some reason, it caused her own beliefs to swerve, though not significantly enough for her mind to be completely changed. “You didn’t?” she asked. “You’ve been alright with…being less able than those who raised you? More vulnerable? More…dispensable?”

You blew a short breath of what may have been amusement at the younger girl’s innocence through your nose. You looked exhausted, but Ciri could tell that the smile which appeared on your face next was genuine as you turned more towards her. “Ciri,” you said, “I was never raised with those beliefs in mind. Geralt taught me that my humanity is enough, that I never needed to become more than what I am. Have I thought about what life would be like if I were to take the mutagen? Did I ever fleetingly ask to be a witcher when I was a child? Of course. I grew up under the care of countless witchers. It would have been impossible for me not to want to be like them. But as I got older, I realised that the qualities I admired in them, that I wanted for myself, were never a result of the mutagen. Geralt’s determination, Vesemir’s devotion to his men, Lambert’s stupid sense of humour…” You paused abruptly, words dying on your tongue, as though you had wanted to add another name to the list. You took a deep breath and forced the pain back. “They’re all perfectly attainable qualities for any human.”

Ciri shook her head insistently. “But I could do so much more if I just had that—that push!”

“Of course you could.” You lowered your voice, a blatant attempt at reminding Ciri that the temple you were in prided itself on quiet peace and sanctuary. “But that doesn’t mean you should want it. If there is anything I’ve learnt from this world, it’s that humanity is precious. Mortality is precious. Do you know that every witcher you have ever met wish they still had such a thing?” Ciri didn’t reply, the cogs in her brain turning quickly and smoothly. You let it. “The only reason I’d want to be a witcher,” you said, “is so that I can live a long life with the men who mean the most to me. That’s all.”

“But…” Ciri’s shoulders dropped. “I want to be prepared for when they come for me. Because they will come for me.”

“That’s what our family’s for, Ciri.” You reached a hand across, resting it on her knee and squeezing reassuringly. “They won’t let anyone take you, and neither will I.”

Ciri knew that, and she relished in it more than anything. You and Ciri’s relationship had been far from smooth sailing, leaning more towards disastrous than any other word in the Continent’s language. There had been a cacophony of emotion, jealousy reigning more often than not, and such had been the nature of your affiliation until your arrival at Kaer Morhen. It seemed all you had needed to truly feel at home again with Geralt was the comfort of the Keep, and the reminder that loneliness within your family was quite literally impossible. Along with Vesemir’s words of wisdom and encouraging remarks from the other witchers, you had eventually come to the realisation that Ciri was in no way attempting to take Geralt from you. Safe in that knowledge, you had allowed your barriers to break, and an ineffable connection had not hesitated in forming between the both of you. So much so that Ciri knew each word you said to her, about family and protection, was true.

Placing her hand atop yours, Ciri smiled. “I always wished to be like my grandmother,” she admitted. “She was everything I believed a true warrior to be. A true woman. I suppose I presumed you would be the same with Geralt.”

You shrugged lightly. “You aren’t entirely wrong. I look up to Geralt more than I do anyone. I would love to be half the person he is one day. Just not the witcher part.” You felt yourself smiling before you realised you were doing it, and in the less conscious part of your mind, you decided that sitting here with Ciri was significantly lifting your mood. Unwilling to subject yourself fully to that comprehension and become very aware of it to the point that you consciously tried to change it, you opened your mouth to speak again. “Geralt would hate for me to become a witcher. It isn’t a lifestyle anyone would wilfully bestow upon themselves.” Ciri frowned lightly, that innocence on the topic returning once more. You had to remind yourself that though you had grown up around witchers and knew practically all there was to know about them, Ciri’s knowledge came only from the books and stories her grandmother would allow her access to. “He would hate for you to become one, too.”

Ciri nodded slowly, sucking on her teeth. “I gathered that,” she muttered. “What about the others? Vesemir seemed on-board.” She paused. “Eventually.”

You struggled with your answer to that. You knew Lambert despised his mutation. Coën had never been entirely thrilled either. Vesemir was less vocal about his opinions, as a mentor should be, but all the same you did not recognise the man he had been the moment you and Geralt had caught him before the mutagen could enter Ciri’s body.

“Vesemir…” You began slowly, deliberating over each word, deciding whether it was the right one. “Vesemir believes you to be more than human.” It seemed that was the safest bet. It was partly true, after all. “He would never let me take the mutagen, but, in a way, I suppose he…thought you could take it.” You frowned deeply before shaking your head and reasserting yourself in reality. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “Maybe he doesn’t really either. As for the others…I’m sure you’ll understand more as you get to know them.”

Ciri nodded slowly. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and subconsciously tucked her hair behind her ear. “And…Eskel?” The question was extremely uncertain, each movement of her lips preparing to backtrack immediately if she noticed your gaze harden or your body tense. She saw neither of these, but her nerves kicked in either way. “You don’t need to…”

“I told you I would,” you said. You offered a tight-lipped, short-lived smile, and leant forward, resting your forearms on your thighs as you peered at Eskel’s unlit candle. “Eskel valued my humanity more than I think I did,” you said quietly. “For me to become a witcher…he told me once it would break him. I was young, and I remember wondering how such a strong, brave witcher could ever be broken. And he said I made that possible.” You frowned, your body moving with the suddenly prominent beat of your heart as you swallowed back the tears you could feel rising. There was an odd taste in your dry mouth and a knot in your throat, and without considering the consequences, you spoke the words that had circled your mind for weeks. “Do you think I killed him?”

A harsh silence answered that question before Ciri recovered from her surprise enough to reply. “The leshy killed him.”

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me. Everyone keeps saying it wasn’t my fault. The leshy killed Eskel, I just killed the monster.”

“It would have killed Vesemir.”

“We could have saved him. We’ll never know if we could have saved him.”

Ciri leaned forward, trying to catch your gaze. “It would have killed Vesemir,” she firmly repeated.

When a tear leaked from your eye, you didn’t reach up to wipe it away. You stared unblinking at the candle, the moment you’d been pushing to the back of your mind since it had happened quickly overtaking your consciousness.

Everyone had told you you had done the right thing. The leshy had needed to be put down. Geralt had been pinned to the wall and Vesemir had been seconds away from impalement. If you hadn’t stabbed your sword through hi—it, Kaer Morhen would have mourned more deaths than one that evening. Still, why had that one death been him? And why had you been the one to commit it? Why couldn’t you have been in another room? Why couldn’t you have been seconds from impalement, so Vesemir could be the one with the sword? Why couldn’t you have just closed your eyes?

“I know,” you said. “I know. I just…I hope he forgives me, you know? Wherever he is.”

Ciri sighed, the memories of her own unprocessed grief returning to the forefront of her mind. “I didn’t know Eskel very long, or very well,” she tried, “but the stories I’ve heard and the image everyone has conjured of him in my mind…he wouldn’t blame you for it, Y/N. If anything, I think he would thank you. If there was any emotion Eskel held for you in insane amounts, it was love. Of that I’ve never been more certain.”

When you glanced up, an anguish swimming in your glassy eyes with an overwhelming ferocity, Ciri abandoned all caution and enveloped the girl she considered a sister in her arms. You thankfully welcomed it, tensing for a mere second before tightening your arms around her and burying your face in Ciri’s hair.

“I miss him so much,” you said, your voice wavering.

“I know. I—And I know how it feels. So, if you ever need to talk about it, maybe we can help each other. Mousesack once told me that emotion can be a weapon. Don’t hide it away. It deserves to be let out.”

You drew apart after a moment of quiet tranquillity, the only sound between you being the faint flicker of the flames and distant voices in close corridors. You wiped at your cheeks and took a deep breath as you stood to your feet and walked towards the candles. The wick Ciri had used still rested on the table. You clenched your fist in attempt to dispel the trembling before you picked it up.

Lighting a candle for someone who had meant the world to you seemed a pitiful way to commemorate him, but you figured it a step towards acceptance. Nobody except you and Ciri would know that this was Eskel’s candle, or that that was Roach’s, and that Mousesack’s. But, in a way, it was like the medallion tree at Kaer Morhen. No soul outside would understand which medallion had belonged to which witcher, and why hanging them on branches was helpful to the witchers’ grieving, but none of that mattered. They didn’t need to know. Something like this was an intimacy and a comfort little were allowed to be afforded, and in that way it was perfect.

You could remember the first time you had experienced the medallion tree in a way that wasn’t simply observing it at breakfast or walking past it on your way to your room. You’d only been ten, nowhere near oblivious to grief but innocent all the same. Eskel had let you pick the branch and he had hung the medallion’s chain around it.

“There,” Eskel said. “Now he’s at peace with his fallen brothers.” He stood back and watched as you stared up at the tree with an open mouth, admiring it properly for the first time.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed out.

Eskel turned back to the tree with a soft smile. “It is, isn’t it? Each medallion tells a different story, but every one radiates the same bravery and loyalty.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “One day, mine will be among them, as will Geralt’s, and Vesemir’s, a—” He stopped suddenly as your gaze, ripe with horror and frustration at his words, snapped to look at him. He snorted and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you fondly into his side even as you feebly resisted. “Oh, come on,” he said in amusement, “none of that will happen for a long, long time, I promise you.” He pointed at a branch with his free hand as you settled against him. “Look, I’ve already picked my place out. That one there. And Geralt likes this one because it’s centred. And Lambert chose that one, but I think he’d be better suited somewhere no one can see him. Maybe behind mine. Right? Hm?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help your grin as Eskel stupidly waggled his eyebrows at you. He was trying to get a rise, and it worked, as always. You wrapped your arms around him and relaxed your cheek against his ribs, peering up at the tree once more. “Will I go on the tree?” you asked then.

It was an offense to Eskel’s very nature for him to even think about the fact that the little girl he’d helped raise would one day die, and he spoke for the entirety of Kaer Morhen when he admitted his selfish hope that he would arrive on the tree long before your last breath left your body. Still, he had some semblance of peace in knowing he would, in part, rest with his brothers after he died. If he could give that to you, then he didn’t see why not.

He hummed under his breath. “One day, I’ll make you your own medallion,” he promised, “and when, if we ever let you, you pass over this world, you will have your own branch.”

You smiled and Eskel put a hand over his heart, his eyes on the newest medallion on the tree. “Rest now.”

You clutched the chain around your neck, the cold medallion hanging between your skin and your tunic. You touched the burning wick to the candle and watched it dance to life.

“For Eskel,” you whispered, just as the flame bent towards you.

Witcher Masterpost

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