Jaskier's shirt was plastered to his chest and Eskel was not looking. If he had been anyone else, it would have been different. Everyone always looked their fill of the bard and Jaskier didn't seem to mind, but with Eskel it was different. Jaskier had said so himself, one summer evening years ago, when they had both taken off their sweat soaked shirts. Jaskier had slouched his shoulders lazily, hadn't tried to make his body look more appealing - not that that was necessary or even possible - and then he had thanked Eskel. Thanked him that with him, he didn't have to make himself into something desirable. The implication had been clear. Jaskier saw him as a dear friend he could trust, but certainly not someone he would ever consider taking as a lover.
So Eskel wasn't looking. He kept his eyes on Jaskier's face, though that proved even more dangerous. His damp hair was curling at the ends and some droplets were still dripping down the strands and onto his cheeks. Eskel had to clench his hands into firsts to stop himself from reaching out and wiping then away.
"Look at this!" Jaskier lifted the wet sleeping bag up and pulled a face. "I get that the drowner pulled me into the water, but couldn't it wait until I had let go of my sleeping bag? It's going to take forever until this is dry again."
Eskel swallowed the words that were fighting their way up his throat.
We can share mine, he wanted to say. I can hold you at night and keep you warm.
Instead, he said, " Here!" and tossed his own bedroll to Jaskier, who struggled to catch it but managed to do so eventually. When he gave Eskel a confused look, Eskel shrugged. "You can have mine."
"Don't you need it?"
"I'm good. I don't mind sleeping on the ground. Besides," he threw a glance at their surroundings. "I should probably keep watch. Make sure no more drowners show up."
Jaskier frowned and for a moment it looked as if he was going to protest, but then he set the bedroll on the ground without another word.
Eskel didn't find any sleep that night. But the next day, when Jaskier handed him his bedroll back, it smelled like ink, lute wood and lavender and that was better than a full night of sleep.
--
Eskel stared at the plate in front of him. He should count himself lucky, he knew that the innkeeper had given him any food at all. Still, his plate had barely been half full when he had received it and now it was already empty. Judging by the growling and painful twisting of his stomach, so was Eskel's belly. He scraped uselessly at the crumbs left on his plate with his fork.
Jaskier, who was sitting opposite of him, frowned. He looked at his own plate, which was still laden with potatoes, bread and some vegetables. His scowl deepened and he pushed his plate toward Eskel.
"Here," Jaskier said, "You can have mine."
"What?" Eskel's stomach did a flip. "But you -"
"I'm not the one who has to fight some ghouls later. You'll need your strength. I'm full anyway."
When Eskel hesitated, Jaskier snatched up some of the bread and held it up to Eskel's lips.
"Eat something," Jaskier said softly. "Please."
Eskel, weak as he was, complied.
--
"I am an empty shell of a man," Jaskier lamented dramatically and dropped the book he had been reading onto his face. "A fool and a doomed soul."
"What's wrong?" Eskel asked. With his finger he marked the page he had been reading and looked to Jaskier, who was lying next to him amidst the flowers.
"Valdo Marx. That's what's wrong."
"Of course." Eskel's lips twitched upwards. "What has he done this time?"
"He asked me to proofread his newest poetry collection and it's just so bad . I cannot read a single sentence more or I'll lose any poetic ability in my possession."
"Then don't."
"Yeah, but I don't have any other book with me, I'll be bored."
Eskel snorted and rolled his eyes fondly.
"Here," he said, took another look at the page he had marked to remember where he had stopped reading and handed it to Jaskier. "You can have mine."
"What, really?" Jaskier perked up. "But you have been talking about this for weeks! You were so excited to read it!"
Eskel's cheeks began to glow and he had to look away. At the tip of his tongue lay the suggestion that Jaskier could simply read it to him. But that would be too intimate and it would only solve half of Jaskier's problem. So instead, Eskel snatched up Marx' book.
"I'll read this instead. Let's see if I can give Marx some criticism."
He pretended to be immediately engrossed in his new reading material, though he felt Jaskier's gaze burning into him. After a while, Jaskier began reading. Still, Eskel found it hard to concentrate, as every once in a while, Jaskier let out little laughs or gasps as he read. Out of the corner of his eye, Eskel caught sight of him reading. Maybe finishing this book could be a reason why they should travel together a little longer. And maybe, once they inevitably parted, they could write each other letters, discussing the book. It wasn't as good as getting to hear Jaskier read it to him, but it was pretty damn good nonetheless.
--
"This really isn't the right festival for people with allergies." Jaskier let himself fall onto the bench beside Eskel. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and his eyes were alight with joy. "You never think about how hard it is to dance while wearing a flower crown. Let alone three. Those things are really difficult to balance."
Eskel rolled his eyes goodnaturedly.
"Maybe if you weren't so charming, people would stop giving you all those crowns."
"You think I'm charming?"
Eskel choked and flustered as he was, he failed to explain himself any better than, "I mean… people think you are. I assume. Or else they wouldn't give you the flowers, would they? I mean. Not that I don't think -" with a groan, he broke off and covered his face with his hands.
Thankfully, his rambling didn't insult Jaskier, who merely laughed and nudged Eskel in the sides.
" Don't worry," he said lightly, "I know what you mean. I would say the people have good taste, but - where is your flower crown?"
Eskel snorted at the absurdity of anyone giving him such a token of affection.
"I don't have one." He tried to make it sound as if he didn't care, but even as the words left his mouth, they tasted bitter.
Jaskier stared at him, his brow set in a determined frown.
"Here," he said and pulled one of the crowns he was wearing off his head. It was the one with little blue blossoms that had almost the same shade of blue as Jaskier's eyes. "You can have mine."
Eskel's heart skipped a beat.
"Really?"
"Of course. It's not right that you don't have one. You're handsome and generous and kind. Why wouldn't I give you a crown?"
Because of what comes after, Eskel didn't say. There was no need to make this uncomfortable. Maybe Jaskier had forgotten about the tradition and Eskel wouldn't hold him to it.
Slowly, he took the crown from Jaskier snd placed it on his head.
"Beautiful," Jaskier whispered. He pushed the crown a bit higher up, so that no leaves would tickle Eskel's forehead. His hand came to rest on Eskel's cheek and before Eskel had time to ask what Jaskier was doing, Jaskier was leaning in and brushed his lips against Eskel's scarred cheek. It wasn't quite the kiss tradition demanded, but it still left Eskel stunned. Jaskier cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck.
"Alright then," he said with a strange smile. "Guess I'll leave you to it then. Happy Belleteyn."
"Happy Belletyn," Eskel echoed, but Jaskier had already disappeared back into the dancing crowd. Only the memory of his kiss lingered in Eskel's skin.
--
It took Eskel a while to find Jaskier. Instead of mingling with some folks at the bar or singing in the middle of the room, Jaskier sat at a table in the corner, away from any prying eyes. In front of him stood a concerning amount of empty tankards. In his hand, he was gripping another one.
He had deep bags beneath his eyes and his tousled hair looked as if he had spent the past hour running his hands through it.
"Jaskier."
At the sound of Eskel's voice, Jaskier looked up at him with bleary eyes.
"Oh. You're back." Jaskier tried for a smile, but it was shaky and his eyes were glistening.
Eskel frowned, uncaring of the way the expression tugged at his scars. As gently as he could, he pried Jaskier's fingers off the tankard and held his hand.
"How can I help you?" he asked, lost for what else to do. "What is wrong?"
Jaskier gave him a long strange look that slowly wandered to their linked fingers.
"Nothing," he eventually said, so softly that Eskel would have missed it, were it not for his witcher hearing. "I just lost my heart."
Eskel's blood turned cold. He had seen Jaskier fall in and out of love so many times, but this was different. Normally, Eskel's heartbreak at least meant that he got to see Jaskier laugh and smile and have that beautiful shine in his eyes when he talked about his paramour. Seeing Jaskier like this, so miserable in his love felt like his chest getting pierced by a blade. Eskel wanted to help, wanted him to be happy.
Here , his foolish hope was screaming at him to say, you can have mine!
But that wasn't the heart Jaskier wanted, even though it had been his for years already.
So instead, Eskel gave his hand a helpless squeeze. With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, he said, "Yeah. Me too."
No one dared to spit those insults at Eskel openly – not yet. For now, the people of the town contented themselves with shooting him dirty looks, whispering behind his back and turning away when they caught sight of his face.
It was only a matter of time before the whispers would turn into shouts when fear became cruelty.
He had seen it happen often enough to know it was inevitable.
And yet, he had hoped that just this once it could be different. It had been different, when he had met Jaskier. It could be different again.
But these people weren’t Jaskier. They would rather claw Eskel’s eyes out than let him see their smiles or bite off their tongues before they let themselves utter a single kind word to him.
So Eskel kept his head low as he walked through the cobblestone street towards the inn, hoping they would tolerate him, at least for one night, if he didn’t attract too much attention. He ignored the whispers, the stares, the stench of disdain.
He barely flinched when something it him on the shoulder. He had known that sooner or later, stones would fly. He just had hoped it wouldn’t happen that soon.
With a sigh, he hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, making himself seem smaller, like less of a threat as he threw a glance over his shoulder to see if any more stones would be hurled his way.
What he saw instead, made him falter. What had hit him wasn’t a stone. It was a ball wrapped in leather, not dissimilar to the one he used to play with as a child before he had been brought to a place where boys learned how to fight and kill instead of playing.
Eskel crouched down to pick up the ball and take a closer look, but before he could stand back up again, he saw, or rather heard, the one who had thrown it at him.
“You found my ball!” The excited voice of a little girl cut through the disapproving murmurs of the adults like the sun pushing his way through clouds during a thunder storm. “I’m sorry for hitting you, mister.”
“Don’t worry,” Eskel said as softly as he could. “No harm done.”
He held out the toy for the girl who took it with a toothy grin.
“Thank you!”
Something warm and soft spread through Eskel’s chest. It had been too long since anyone had smiled at him, longer yet since he had spoken to a child that wasn’t destined for the cruelty of the trials.
Eskel couldn’t stop himself. For just a moment he forgot himself, too distracted by that soft glimmer of happiness in his chest. One moment of carelessness was all it took.
His lips twitched into a smile.
A snarl. A grimace. A twisting of his face into something hideous and fearsome.
The reaction was almost immediate. The girl blanched and reeled back, before she could even touch the ball.
“You’re the bad man!” She cried. If there had been any passers-by that hadn’t stared at Eskel before, they were now all fixing him with suspicious glares.
Eskel swallowed against the rapidly forming lump in his throat and dropped his smile. Perhaps that had been a mistake too. It was unnatural for people to be able to lose their smiles that quickly. It was inhuman.
“I’m not,” Eskel said soothingly. “I am not going to hurt you.”
“My ma told me that you’re bad!” The girl accused and pointed a finger at him before taking it back quickly and holding her hand against her chest in the same way people protected their hands when they were afraid a feral dog would bite them. “She said to stay away from the man with the ugly scars. She said you will take me away and eat me.”
Eskel flinched.
“I’m not –“
“I think it would be better if you left,” a low voice interrupted him.
When Eskel looked up from where he was still crouched, he saw three men walking towards him with stormy expressions.
Slowly, so as not to startle them, he put the ball to the ground and gave it a small nudge to roll towards the girl. She jumped back as if her toy was suddenly dangerous.
The men’s frowns deepened. Eskel held up his now empty palms in surrender as he stood back up ever so slowly.
One of the man took a threatening step towards him, his fists already raised and Eskel all but fled.
He tried not to listen to the angry and boasting shouts that followed him. It was in vain.
No matter how much he pretended, he wasn’t like his brothers. Geralt might be able to go on after Blaviken, saying that he didn’t need anyone and Lambert might be able to counter every insult with an even more cutting one of his own, but Eskel wasn’t like them. He was desperate and foolish and still clinging to the hope that he could be someone who wouldn’t be scorned and detested.
Another could-have-been. One that gnawed at him like a stray dog gnawed on a bone, tearing off the small bits and pieces that could still be something wanted.
Eskel had no delusions about how the rest of the day would go. He would find no place to sleep here, no hot meal and no contract that would be paid for. The longer he stayed, the bigger got the chances of pitchforks and kitchen knives being directed at him.
But his legs were so tired. It had been too long since he had eaten a healthy amount and ever since he had to give Scorpion away, he wasn’t able to carry his tent with him anymore.
He just wanted to rest. He just wanted to lay down for a while, knowing that he wouldn’t wake to a mob.
But the chances were slim. The best he could do was hide away in a dark alley to rest, hoping that no one would stumble upon him there.
He let himself lean back against the wall of a house, sliding down until he sat on the dirty floor. What more was some dirt, when his shirt already had holes in it? No one would bother to notice anyway, not when they had his face to stare at in fear.
His insides clenched and not purely because of the memory of the child’s laughter turning into cries at his sight.
He was hungry. So painfully hungry.
His jaw twitched as he rummaged through his bag for something edible, knowing full well that there was nothing to find.
Instead, his fingers found something else. Something, he had bought on a whim and quickly shoved to the bottom of his bag. Something he hadn’t been able to get rid of, even as it meant losing precious space in his bags.
Carefully, so as not to tear it, he pulled out the cheap paper, quill and inkwell he had bought months ago. For a long moment he only stared at them, overcome with the painful urge to smash the inkwell against the wall.
He wasn’t a poet, never would be. He was ugly and frightening and no one could even look at him without seeing all the things he couldn’t be written plainly across his face.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
The memory of blue eyes flashed before him. Memories, of a blissful couple of days when it had seemed that maybe he could have, could be, something more. Jaskier had listened to what he had to say about poetry, as if his opinion was no less important than that of any scholar. He had explained the intricacies of word choice to him as if Eskel was worth talking to. As if he wasn’t too oafish, too big and too far removed from everything he could have become.
What had Jaskier told him back then? That poetry was a means to give meaning. That by creating something out of your pain, you refused to let it have power over you.
It wouldn’t work. Eskel knew that. No amount of words could ever distract from the life he hadn’t chosen. But perhaps…perhaps Eskel could make something beautiful.
It was a foolish thought, a desperate dream, but one that lodged itself into his heart, refusing to budge.
Eskel didn’t know how to write beautiful words and craft them into something more. All his knowledge about poetry came from the little he had gathered from reading the old poems. It wasn’t enough.
But it was all he had.
Before he could stop himself, he dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and put it on the paper. He hesitated, watched as the ink flew onto the paper like blood dripping off a sword and created ugly splotches.
Immediately, Eskel pulled the quill off the paper again.
He stared at that spot, that blemish, that failure.
The walls seemed to close in on him, suffocating him, crushing him. Though the sun was still up in the sky, his vision became darker, splotchy. Like the ink on the paper. Like bloodstains on his clothes.
He wasn’t good enough. This wouldn’t work. He hadn’t even written a single word yet and already he had ruined this.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of voices, of doubts, of knowing he would fail.
It was no use. His heart sped up and he felt his breathing becoming shallow. He should be able to control this. A witcher shouldn’t let himself succumb to his own mind.
But Eskel couldn’t do it. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t let his mind drift off for mediation, couldn’t fucking breathe.
With the strength of a hundred men, Eskel managed to scrap together some semblance of calm, just long enough for his mind to stop spiralling for a second and to latch on to one thing only.
Poetry.
Eskel clung to it with all his might, forcing himself to think of lines and verses he had memorised until his mouth moved and formed the words. They were barely more than a whisper, but Eskel had spoken them before, time and time again. His body knew the correct intonation, the right way to inhale enough to have his breath last for the entirety of a line.
The words fell from his lips in a soothing rhythm, the familiarity of them battling against the fear and the strain to remember the lines left no room for any other, unkind, thoughts.
It was only when Eskel’s heart had slowed down enough that the sound of its beating didn’t drown out his whispers, that Eskel realised whose poetry he was reciting.
It was Jaskier’s.
Lines about eyes flashing bright like lightning, comparable to a force of nature that disappeared before one had time to marvel at it but leaving a mark in the life of whoever had gotten the chance to see it.
Lightning. That’s what Jaskier described Eskel as and it was the first word that Eskel put down on the paper once his hands had stopped shaking too badly.
He looked at the word for a long time. It felt strangely right. Like it belonged there. Like Eskel had been meant to put it – a part of himself – out there.
His throat bobbed and his brows twitched at the thought, but before he had time to doubt himself any more, he let the quill scratch over the paper once more, leaving words in its wake. A mixture of Jaskier’s words and the rhythm of the ancient elves.
Lightning across lips cuts bright.
A lowly flash, no more. Leaving flesh forever sore.
Scorching like flame. Scowling for fright.
Marring a mangled man, mutilating a mutant more.
Eskel stared at the words. The poem wasn’t long nor was it particularly good. But it was Eskel’s. Eskel had written something, gave meaning to the meaningless with his quill.
His eyes darted to the splotch at the bottom of the paper, right where the last line ended. Another imperfection.
His brows knitted together and his hand moved again.
It might have been childish - Lambert would have definitely made fun of him for it - but as Eskel drew legs, a head and horns onto the blemish, he found himself almost smiling again.
The almost-smile stayed on his lips, even as he forced himself to stand up once more, carefully putting his writing tools back where they belonged. The paper with his poem he kept in his hand.
He should have just left right away, trying to go unnoticed. That had been his plan as he moved through the alleyways now, but when he passed the notice board at the corner of one street, he paused, staring. A thought formed in his mind, before he even understood why he had stopped.
He didn’t know what possessed him to do it. Perhaps a glimmer of bravery or folly. Perhaps a hint of the man he had wanted to became shone through for a split second.
A man who was loved. A man who made beautiful things and didn’t have to hide away in shame what he had created.
And Eskel had created. He had written a poem. He had become, even if only for one moment, what he had always dreamed he could be one day.
With one swift motion, Eskel pinned his poem to the notice board. Not somewhere half-hidden between notes about nosy neighbours or the price of eggs, but right in the middle where anyone who passed by would be able to see it. The words on the page were spidery and nowhere close to artful, but they screamed I am imperfect, but I am here. I exist despite your spite.
Eskel took a step back, just far enough that he wouldn’t be able to reach the board and tear the poem down again in a fit of doubt. Admiring his own work was vain, but for the first time since Eskel could remember, he had something to admire, something to be proud of.
He must have stood there for too long. Around him, people started gathering, noticing him. One man shoved him. Another yelled at him to get away, that there were no contracts here for the likes of him.
Eskel turned and fled, just as the first stone hit him, right where the girl’s ball had met his shoulder before.
With every shout, every insult, every truth, the mob tore down part of the meaning Eskel had been able to find for himself.
He could only hope that they didn’t realise that the new addition to the notice board came from him. He could only hope that no one would tear off the poem, as they tore at Eskel’s heart with their shouts.
He hoped that maybe, however slim the chance was, someone would find his poem and smile.
It was a foolish hope, born out of pain and despair not unlike the poem itself had been, but it was the only thing keeping him warm that night as he huddled beneath a tree, cold and lonely and dreaming of something he had come so close to having.
He wasn’t even sure if what he did was helping him or not. Sometimes he looked at the verses he had crafted out of the ever present ache in his chest and smiled, feeling like he had taken a small semblance of control back. As long as he already knew what he was, the truth coming from others couldn’t hurt him. There was even a strange sort of beauty in them, in knowing himself and baring his soul in a way he had never dared to before. It was freeing. It was what a real poet must feel.
Other times, he stared at the words, the paper almost tearing from how tightly he gripped it with his trembling hands and it took every ounce of strength in him not to burn the poem, to erase the immortalisation of his failure. Because that was what it was. He could pretend all he wanted that he was creating something beautiful out of something ugly. It didn’t change what he was. What he never would be. It didn’t erase the lonely nights, the days gone without eating, the injuries turning to scars, the people he couldn’t save.
Eskel could only write about what he knew. And what he knew was aching. It was ugly and brought nothing but misery. So that was what he wrote. Yet even so, he sometimes felt that putting the things he saw and felt onto the paper made it more real. It made it possible for others to see it too. It exposed him, his mistakes, his missed chances to the world. It felt as if his words sealed his fate. Once immortalised, it won’t ever change.
Not that there had ever been any hope for that.
Still he kept writing, always hoping that it wouldn’t be one of those days of his mind being unkind to him.
He posted his poems on the boards and left, wishing that he could leave the memory of what happened along with the words describing it.
--
It took Eskel a while to notice that something was changing. Or rather, he couldn’t figure out what was changing.
It started out small. Eyes that didn’t turn away immediately at his sight. Aldermen who didn’t argue or try to swindle him out of his pay.
Eskel had come across such towns before. More so in recent years, ever since Geralt had somehow won a bard’s heart and loyalty.
Eskel’s lips twisted into a smile at the thought of Jaskier. He was probably with Geralt right now, laughing with him by a camp fire and composing another epic ballad about Geralt’s latest hunt.
A strange ache settled into Eskel’s chest. He wished he didn’t know what it was, but there was no mistaking the twinge of jealousy that spiked up in him. He loved his brother and he was happy for him, truly. There was no one Eskel could think of that was more deserving of Jaskier’s praise and presence in their life.
And yet, he found himself wishing that he were the one making Jaskier laugh and showing him the continent. Despite his mind telling him that nothing but heartache and misery would come of it, Eskel imagined himself sitting next to Jaskier, shoulders brushing and faces lighting up when their eyes met.
But Jaskier was probably far away. Even if Eskel was foolish and self-punishing enough to track him and Geralt down just to watch them be happy together, he had no way of doing that. Jaskier’s songs were widely sung. Following them would lead him nowhere. Besides, there was still the problem of bards not being too keen on Eskel. They might repeat Jaskier’s songs, but singing them in front of an actual witcher? That was something practically none of them were willing to do.
So Eskel kept trudging on, kept writing his poems and hoping that maybe someone would spare them a glance, would treat them as they would any other poet’s works.
His heart was heavy as he left the friendly village behind, already dreading what the next one might bring.
Strangely, the next town was even more open-minded than the last one. One might have even called it welcoming. It was almost suspicious. It didn’t make sense for Eskel to get greeted with nods and even occasional smiles. There was no explanation for the barmaid bringing him a serving of stew with an unusually generous amount of meat in it.
Except, Eskel had gone through such a change before. Toss a coin had made life so much easier. All of Jaskier’s songs did. He must have written a new one. Of course he had, that was what he did.
A small flame ignited in Eskel's chest. It had been too long since he had been allowed to listen to any bards. None of them compared to the one bard whose smiling eyes and soft touches danced through Eskel's mind at any waking hour. He knew in his heart that after hearing Jaskier sing he would be too critical of any other musician. And yet he missed music. Missed tapping his fingers on his thigh to the rhythm and silently repeating the words to himself the days after.
Perhaps, if Jaskier had written another song, Eskel might even get to hear it one day? Surely if Jaskier had produced another masterpiece, bards all over the continent would trip over themselves to sing it. It wouldn't be as good as if Jaskier sang it, of course, but if Eskel could get even a cheap imitation of Jaskier's singing he would gladly take it.
Yet no matter how hard he tried, Eskel could not find a single bard. Not much of a surprise there. Bards didn't mingle with people like him. Most bards.
It took weeks - weeks that were filled with more smiles, more coin and more longing to hear the song that had done all this - until Eskel finally heard it. Not by a bard, no. He first heard the new melody sung by voices that were utterly untrained, voices that didn’t care about nuance or refinement: He heard it being sung by children.
It made Eskel pause right where he stood in the middle of the street. The voices of the three playing children overlapped, making it impossible to make out the words or melody and yet the little snippets he heard were unmistakably Jaskier’s. He had a style Eskel would recognise anywhere, however warped the melody got when sung like this.
His fingers twitched helplessly at his sides. He wanted – needed – to hear the song. It was the only piece of the comfort that came with familiarity close enough to grasp. Sure, people were friendlier than they had been before, but for how long would that last? How long until he got to meet someone who was nice to him because they actually liked him? How long until he would see Jaskier again and hear a melody fall from his lips as if he was singing it just for Eskel?
His throat grew tight. He shouldn’t think such thoughts. They were poison and made his nights all the more lonely. There wasn’t even reason to believe he would get to see Jaskier again.
His promise flickered to the front of his mind. He had said he’d show Jaskier his poetry books. And, oh, how he wanted to. His chest got warm and ached at the thought of sitting in front of a fire together, Jaskier leaning against him so they both could read from the same book.
It was a nice thought. Beautiful in an impossible way, like a dream just before waking that one would still cling to in the hopes of keeping it a little longer; only to forget all about it once the morning light stole the dream away and exposed it as the fleeting shadow it had been.
It was enough to give Eskel the last push he needed. He couldn’t read poetry with Jaskier again – not until Geralt invited him to Kaer Morhen and who knew when that would happen – but he could have his words with him now.
His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest as he approached the children; slowly and with hunched shoulders, trying to make as much sound as he could so they wouldn’t be frightened if they didn’t hear him come closer.
Or maybe that was making it worse? Maybe by putting more weight into his steps to make them louder he emphasised how much bigger and stronger than the children he was? How menacing?
Weeks ago, there had been a different child. One who had been friendly until it had seen his face. The memory flashed through his mind unbidden. It made him halt. He couldn’t scare these children too as he had the other one. He couldn’t watch their faces turn into horrified grimaces as they ran away, their toys forgotten and lost, ruined by Eskel’s appearance that would forever taint them.
It had been a stupid idea. No snippet of a song was worth taking away a child’s carefreeness. Not even when the song came from Jaskier. Not even when it meant giving him the barest feeling of home back.
Without wanting to, his feet dragged him forwards until he all but loomed over the children. Like a threat. Like something you should run away from and pray it didn’t catch you. Like a witcher.
The children stopped singing and looked up at him, their eyes wide.
Eskel fiddled with the hem of his shirt. He should crouch down, get on eye-level with the children to make himself look smaller. But no one wanted a witcher closer to their face. Being on eye-level with a witcher meant that whoever looked at him wouldn’t be able to escape his yellow gaze. There was no right way to do this. No way that would not scare away the children and his chance to hear Jaskier’s words.
“That was a nice song,” he said as softly as he could. His voice was still too rough, too close to barking. Any second now the children would shake off their shock at seeing him and flee.
Instead, the tallest girl beamed up at him.
“Thank you! It’s an old one. My sister heard it weeks ago when she visited her friend in Ashwood Valley and she taught it to me.”
Ashwood Valley. Eskel remembered that town. He had been there himself not too long ago. For a split-second something like hope ignited in his chest. If the song had been sung there, then perhaps Jaskier had been there too. Maybe if Eskel turned around he could meet him again.
But the flicker of hope dimmed almost as soon as it had burst to life. Jaskier was a well-known bard and his songs travelled far and fast. Just because his songs had made it to this place didn’t mean he had too. There was no reason for him to travel through small towns like these when he could have Novigrad, Oxenfurt or various courts. And if Jaskier had been anywhere near that would mean that Geralt was there too and as long as the White Wolf could be had, no one would accept Eskel’s work. So it couldn’t have been Jaskier that had sung the song in Ashwood Valley. It must have been some other bard.
Eskel swallowed against the irrational disappointment that choked him like an executioner’s noose. He forced the corners of his lips to twitch up, just enough to be recognisable as a smile. His heart hammered as if it wanted to burst his chest.
“Can you teach me the song?”
The girl narrowed her eyes at him, a grin spreading across her face. “What’s in it for me?”
One of the other children nudged her in the ribs, but Eskel felt something soft form in his chest at the child’s tone. She wasn’t scared of him. Hell, she even demanded something of him, as if she wasn’t worried about his reaction at all.
Eskel searched through his coin pouch and pulled out a silver coin. He held it up into the sun, making it gleam, before he tossed it to the girl. She caught it mid-air and beamed at him. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“For another coin I can teach you all the songs I know.”
Eskel let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Just the one you were singing before.”
The girl shrugged and started singing.
Hearing what was unmistakably Jaskier’s art soothed something inside Eskel’s chest that he hadn’t known had been tearing at him. There was comfort in the poet’s words. They felt like a warm hug or an evening spend by the fire in the company of loved ones.
Strangely enough, it also felt familiar. Not in the way that all of Jaskier’s songs were familiar to Eskel; their pattern, rhythm and rhyme scheme. It was more than that. Those lines…they tugged at a memory in Eskel’s mind. A line that hadn’t been written by Jaskier. A word that hadn’t left the bard’s quill but someone else’s. It almost reminded him of – no. That was impossible. The similarities to the poem Eskel himself had written weeks ago were purely coincidentally. Or rather, they were completely natural. After all, Eskel had borrowed imagery from Jaskier’s work, so of course those very same metaphors and phrases would appear again. They weren’t – couldn’t be a reference to his own poetry. If they were…
A cold chill ran down Eskel’s spine. If those were references to Eskel’s poor attempts at poetry, that would mean that Jaskier had read what Eskel had written. His lines that couldn’t settle on a rhythm to carry through the whole poem. His clumsy tries to find an adequate way to describe feelings most people didn’t even think he possessed.
Eskel knew in his heart that Jaskier wouldn’t mock him for failing at writing poetry. Not openly. But if he saw just how bad Eskel’s poetry – if it could even be called such – was, then things would change. He wouldn’t ask Eskel for his opinion again. He wouldn’t show him another first draft again and ask him which version of a line he liked better. Not when he realised just how little Eskel actually knew about the craft he claimed to hold so dear.
Eskel dug his nails deep into the flesh of his palms, trying to tear himself away from those thoughts. His fears were unreasonable. Jaskier wasn’t anywhere close. He wasn’t the bard that had sung in Ashwood Valley. He hadn’t read Eskel’s poems.
His own reassurances did nothing to stomp down the panic that had welled up inside him and threatened to drown him. His own words never helped. Not in the way that focussing on another’s words did. And who better to listen to than to Jaskier who fought so fiercely to make people believe that witchers were better than anyone thought? Perhaps if Eskel listened to his songs often enough he too might start believing it one day.
He took a deep breath that shouldn’t have been so shaky and focussed back on the song and what the painfully familiar words that had nothing to do with his own talked about.
The subject matter was no surprise and it made Eskel’s smile widen a little. Witchers and heroics. Precious laughter that was only gifted to a trusted few and that was more true and beautiful than any laugh heard at court. The loyalty and warmth that came with a witcher’s friendship. Above anything, the song spoke of a fierce and unapologetic protectiveness. It practically screamed Hurt my witcher and I will hurt you!
His witcher.
Eskel tried to imagine what it would be like to be Jaskier’s witcher. He had felt like he could be, for just a handful of days. He had been there when Jaskier had composed songs about him, asking him for advice and opinions, as if they mattered to him. Eskel had been the one who had been allowed to protect and shelter Jaskier and to bask in the joy and brightness that filled everything that Jaskier touched. He had been trusted to hear Jaskier’s thoughts about the songs be composed. He wished he could hear his thoughts about this song now.
Eskel closed his eyes as he let the words wash over him. He imagined a different voice, blue eyes and fingers tracing patterns on his palm.
But more than that, the song made him think about his family too. He thought of Geralt who must have listened to Jaskier compose this song, grumbling but secretly pleased to have such a devoted friend. And he thought of Lambert and how he probably experienced another witcher’s friendship right now with his Cat.
It was good that Eskel’s brothers weren’t alone. They shouldn’t be. They deserved lovely songs and comforting touch. If anyone deserved to be protected by their friend’s words or swords it was them.
“Can you sing it again?” Eskel asked when the song came to an end. He didn’t need to hear it again to memorise it. One time was enough to brand the words into his mind, but as long as he heard them sung to him, he could imagine what it might feel like to be protected by Jaskier’s loyalty and fondness as Geralt was.
Because the song must be about Geralt. As much as Eskel tried to see himself in the song – a helpless hope of a man who had been lonely for too long – it was impossible. Jaskier might be able to spin lies into beautiful stories that an audience wanted to believe, but not even the most drunken or romantic fool could be made to think that Eskel’s laugh was something beautiful. Eskel only let himself laugh with people he knew wouldn’t mind its ugliness. People who didn’t care what he looked like. For that was all he would ever get. Not caring. It would be too much to ask from even his family to look at him and see someone handsome. He knew they loved his laugh, but not because it was beautiful. It was because if he laughed he did it despite being hideous. No song or rhyme would be able to cover that ugly truth.
It didn’t need to. This song didn’t need to be about him to lift a weight off his chest. It was enough to know that Geralt found reason to laugh and that Jaskier delighted in the sound.
All too soon the girl stopped singing again and yet the song remained in Eskel’s mind. He gave her a small nod and tossed her another copper piece, just to see her smile at him again. It was all he had wanted for so long. Easy smiles, the absence of fear, someone willing to talk to him. But now that he had it, it felt strangely hollow.
This was all he had. Some people he didn’t know and never would get to know who tolerated him for as long as there was a favouring song in their minds. But songs faded and Eskel had to move on, find new strangers and hope they wouldn’t scorn him. None of these smiles would stay with him. He didn’t have anyone to return to, to talk to as the streets got empty and people went home to their loved ones.
He didn’t have a friend or lover with him. Not like his brothers did.
It was a selfish thought and the bitter taste of guilt that came with it rose up in Eskel almost immediately.
He should be happy for his brothers. And he was, he really was. But he was also lonely. When he left this town, he would get to keep nothing but a song reminding him of how differnt the Path could be if only he were someone else. If only he had someone with him and a laugh that could be called beautiful.
But no one ever would call him that. Because he wasn’t and could never be.
All he was was himself. And that wasn’t enough. Not enough to make anyone stay.
People here would forget about him as soon as he left. Maybe, if he was lucky, they would remember that he had saved some farmers from a griffin. Even if they did, they would only describe him as “the witcher with the scarred face”. That was all he was, all anyone could ever see in him, all he would ever be remembered for.
He put all of that into words. Words that wouldn’t be remembered either. Words he wrote more out of spite and as a reminder that Jaskier wouldn’t read them. Maybe no one would. Maybe no one would remember the nameless poet who wrote about nights spend by himself and eyes that never lingered long enough to see anything other than ugliness in him.
It didn’t matter anyways. It weren’t his own words that got him through that night. It were Jaskier’s. Eskel tried to be happy thinking about them. Perhaps he was. Or perhaps he would be some other day. He hoped he would. He knew it was useless to hope.
