The Witcher 3 (Eskel x Reader): The Last Dance ⚔️
Link to Masterlist here
Summary: the time has come to say farewell to your old life.
Word Count: ~2.2k
Tags/T.W's: EMOTIONAL DAMAGE. Angst. Parental grief. Crying. Goodbyes. Tobias being a menace, per usual.
A dense bank of fog rolls over the valley, muting the rising sun as it crests over the mountains. Dew clings to the grass, drops from the fresh spring leaves, gathers in shallow puddles on the dirt road. Smoke wafts from the chimneys of the surrounding huts, curling lazily into the hazy air. Evergreen takes it time unfurling, content to remain curled in on itself for a few hours longer. Waiting.
From the window, Tobias watches Eskel depart, swords swinging on his broad back. Every footstep is confident, fearless – determined. Leading him back into the forest, to the hunting grounds of the Leshen, where he will slay the beast or die trying. Soundlessly, the ealdorman sends up a prayer to Melitele, searching for some way out of this labyrinth. As is typical, he’s greeted with nothing but the endless silence of a distant god and the fog rolling in, smothering the land in its wispy tendrils.
You rest on your side, your features smoothed out in slumber. Through the open bedroom door, Tobias watches you, a blade a grief wedged firmly though the slats of his ribcage, piercing what little remains of his heart. For twenty-five years, he’s mourned this day. The moment he couldn’t hold back the hands of time, the fury of the Fates, the will of the universe. Crossing the floor soundlessly, he leans against the doorframe, letting his gaze wash over your youthful beauty, the smattering of freckles you inherited from your mother, the mane of flaming hair that reminds him of his own yesteryears.
Despite the bits and pieces of himself he can so clearly identify within you, the things he gladly takes ownership of, he has always known that you will never entirely belong to him, nor to your mother. From the day you were born, some part of you was parcelled away, cleaved and hewn, auctioned off like you were nothing more than a wide-eyed calf at a meat market. The part of you that could be bought and sold. The part of you that was promised to the Witcher.
When you were younger, Tobias used to imagine what you would look like with golden cat eyes, your perfect skin marred with countless scars. It was enough to drive him to madness – or more specifically, to the bottle. He imagined what it would be like to watch you go, a teary-eyed little girl in the back of a wagon, destined for Kaer Morhen. He imagined attacking the Witcher, driving a dagger into his back before he had the chance to leave the village. Surely, the mutant would kill him, but at least he’d die knowing – that you’d know – he tried everything he could. Now, he’s a shell of a man, weakened in his age, rendered useless by the invisible, scheming hands of Fate.
Mostly, he wishes that the Wraith had finished the job, all those years ago. He longs to be resting in a grave at the edge of Evergreen, his bones picked clean and soul content with the fact that you’d be just fine.
You murmur in your sleep, eyebrows knit tightly together, drawing the old man back to the present. Your sleep had been fitful, fuelled by the medicinal tea Agatha brewed for you. Since the Witcher walked out the front door, long after you’d been pulled under by the valerian root, you’d been twitching and muttering, teetering on the edge of wakefulness and oblivion. Tobias’s frown deepens. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear you were worried for him, even in the grip of dreams.
Agatha straightens your cloak, tying it securely at the base of your throat with a small, leaf-shaped brooch. She smooths her work-worn hands over the fabric, struggling to meet your gaze. On your back, an overladen travel pack, fit-to-burst with a handful of everything the herbalist had to offer – medicinal leaves, poultices, salves, dried herbs, crushed petals, strong spirits, a collection of precious stones in a velvet bag. Some gold crowns, tucked into your pocket with a hush.
Behind her, Tobias stays fixed to the window, a long, gnarled finger pressed to his bottom lip. Agatha fears for his heart – knowing there’s nothing in her arsenal that can revive a man who has no will to come back. The other part of her is afraid of the alternative. That he’ll keep waiting until he simply can’t any longer, petrified in his own grief.
Shaking the thought away, she focuses on you, straightening the cloak a second time.
“You’re fussing,” you tell her quietly, a brave look on your face. The healer smirks at you, that familiar cord of fondness reverberating in her chest. Agatha’s adjustments still, her fingers reaching up to pinch your chin between her index and thumb lovingly. “Remember what I taught you,” she murmurs, pulling you in for a warm embrace. You return it forcefully, some of that courage slipping in the comforting arms of your mentor. “I will,” you whisper back. “I promise”.
The both of you turn towards the sound of the front door swinging open. A moment later, Myra emerges, tears streaking down her rosy cheeks. You step away from Agatha, barely having enough time to extricate yourself before your childhood friend launches herself towards you, a broken sob in her throat.
“You can’t leave!” she cries, burying her face in your face. “I won’t allow it!”.
You shush her, rocking her gently, patting soothing circles into her back. The herbalist watches the interaction, observing how effortlessly you comfort the girl, your gaze full of manufactured optimism as you reassure her in a soft voice.
“You’ll write me?” Myra demands, wiping roughly at the flood of tears gathering at the swell of her cheeks, “and let me know you’re alright?”. You nod. “Every chance I get,” you vow, brushing at a bit of moisture under her eye with your thumb. “Take this,” your friend insists, producing a compact, ornately designed dagger. The sharpened blade gleams in the early morning light. “Bastien gave it to me,” she tells you, eyes shining. “Before he left. For protection”.
She curls your fingers around the hilt carefully. “I want – need – you to have it”.
“Thank you”. It’s all you can say before pulling her in for another tight embrace, eyes squeezing shut as your friend continues to weep.
Throughout the exchange, Tobias has not moved from his position at the window, his gaze growing more haunted by the minute. Agatha stifles the uncomfortable sensation of disquiet in her gut.
Several hours later, Eskel limps his way back to the village, the Leshen’s severed head held tight in his grip, leaving a dripping trail of monster blood behind him – though some of it presumably belongs to him. The fog that curled around the trunks of the trees when he set off towards the forest before the dawn has risen, blotting out the midday sun entirely. He moves through the mist, dragging his wounded left leg slightly. A newfound quiet has settled over Evergreen – something akin to peace. He knows tomorrow the birds will sing twice as loud.
The Witcher makes his way through the centre of the village, following the deep ruts in the dirt road, leading him back to Carlite’s cabin.
The trek takes twice as long, on account of his injured thigh, but he makes it all the same. The blonde-haired man is waiting when he arrives, stepping back from the open door wordlessly when he catches sight of him. Eskel deposits the Leshen trophy on the stableman’s kitchen table. Carlite studies it for a long moment, arms crossed, an impossible to comprehend expression on his face. After a moment, he simply shakes his head.
“I thought I’d feel some sense of …”.
“Closure?” Eskel guesses.
Slowly, Carlite nods in agreement.
“Wraith is yours, as promised. I hope he serves you well, Master Witcher”.
Eskel gestures his thanks stiffly, forever unsure how to take his leave. “Before you claim him – I’d see Agatha and get that stitched up,” the man suggests, pointing to the jagged lesion the Leshen carved into the meat of his thigh. “You’re bleeding all over my floor”.
As it seems to come most naturally to her, Agatha hums while she works. Needle in hand, she pierces the thread though the puckered, blood-streaked skin held tight in her fingers. Eskel watches her, skillfully suturing the flesh back together, promising minimal scarring if he doesn’t tear them first. He listens to the slow, steady thump of her heart, fully at ease next to him, stool pulled up close to the edge of the cot he’s draped across.
“There,” she announces, smile softly, seemingly pleased with herself. She snips off the excess, douses it with dwarven spirit, and slathers a liberal finger-full of salve over the affected area. Immediately it starts to tingle, cooling the inflamed skin.
Agatha turns her back while Eskel slips on his trousers back on, the torn fabric hastily pinched together with some leather scraps, as if she hadn’t been close enough to his most delicate bits that he’d felt her warm breath there a moment ago. Cinching the belt at his waist, he clears his throat, announcing his decency. She goes to the washbasin, scrubbing at her trimmed fingernails with vigor. Her normally squared shoulders slump, an unseen weight pulling her down, making her seem smaller.
“I can never repay what you’ve done for me,” he tells her softly – though it sounds foreign, too gruff in his gravelly throat. Agatha shakes her head gently.
“There is one thing you can do for me,” she sniffs, drying her fingers carefully on a clean towel.
“Keep her safe,” the herbalist requests, her lower lip trembling delicately. “Protect her”.
Without thought, Eskel nods.
“Promise me,” she insists, stepping forward and resting her hand on the strap of the sword scabbard across his chest, right above his heart. Hesitantly, he places his much wider palm over hers, the slide of smooth skin unfamiliar against his own.
It seems the entirety of the Evergreen population has gathered outside of the ealdorman’s hut. Eskel leads Wraith through the crowd by his halter, ignoring the whispers and spits hitting the ground at his feet. Absently, he pats his new mount’s neck soothingly, hoping the gelding is half as brave as Carlite promised. Slowly, the villagers step aside, allowing him passage.
You stand next to Tobias outside the front door; your red tresses braided carefully in a single plait down your back. Nervously, you fidget with the frayed edges of your navy travel cloak. Agatha takes her place at your other shoulder. “It’s time,” he hears her whisper.
Eskel stops a few feet away, a steadying palm on Wraith’s chest to slow him to a halt. Idly, he counts the number of villagers, takes note of the tools in their hands, identifies the most muscular of the bunch. He likes his odds.
“Tobias”. He nods in the direction of the ealdorman. The old man is a thousand miles away. The Witcher’s gaze flicks to you, finds your green eyes eager to meet his. He reads shock there, sadness, perhaps a touch of apprehension – but no fear. “Go on,” Agatha urges, a hand going to your lower back to push you forward slightly. You take a singular, stumbling step forward. Immediately, Eskel reaches out to steady you. Spine straightening, you ignore his offering, your boots squelching in the mud as you break away from the throng of onlookers with an air of dignity.
The fog wraps around the hem of your cloak, swirling as you walk alongside the Witcher and Wraith. Eskel listens to the thunder of your heart, the careful, valiant mask you keep fixed to your face at odds with your pulse.
Behind you, the villagers remain frozen, their gazes fixed on your retreating figure.
Head whipping to the side, Eskel becomes aware of a second, much faster heartbeat. A moment later, a voice cries out. Finally, some emotion colors your cheeks, your pupils shrinking rapidly as you pivot on your heels.
Tobias breaks free from the crowd, a long, silver blade in his palm. He runs towards the Witcher, a wild, frenzied look in his eyes. You scream, realizing what he intends to do.
Carlite grabs a hold of the ealdorman, yanking him backwards with a furious grunt, the old man’s legs flailing, dagger swinging blindly. Agatha takes Tobias’s other arm, narrowly missing the tip of his weapon, and pulls him down to the dirt. “Father!” you screech in horror.
“Let him go!” you cry out, positioning yourself to run back to the village. Before you can, Eskel’s arm shoots out, blocking your path. For a moment you stare at him, a fire in your gaze, before attempting to duck under the obstruction.
Sighing with exasperation, Eskel snares you easily, dragging you back to him, before making the decision to haul you up and over his shoulder. He calculates a matter of minutes before he ends up with a pitchfork in his back, like Geralt. You kick madly, wailing until all the nearby birds leave their roost, pounding his armoured back with your small fists. You wriggle like an eel, fingers grasping, and tears streaming down your face as you watch your father struggle twice as hard against the restraining limbs of his people, bellowing your name until Evergreen disappears from sight and sound entirely.
