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Two b/w illustrations for vortexoffate ❤❤❤

Young and grown Geralt under the same tree, showcasing the passage of time

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The Witcher (Eskel x Reader): The Last Dance ⚔️

Link to Masterlist here Summary: Eskel begrudgingly takes you with him to the forests of Midcopse. Word Count: ~2.2k Tags/T.W's: Mentions of nightmares. More Eskel x Reader banter. Creepy old man being creepy. Lots of scene breaks because that is who I am as a person.

Chapter 11: Cave Dwelling

You wake from a terror-soaked dream, thrashing about in your bedroll, bits of leaves and moss collecting in your braids. In it, your father’s hands were at your cheeks, cradling you as he had done so many times. “It’s not too late,” he whispered. A pit opened in your stomach, pulling you down, sinking through the earth and into the great yawning abyss of your deepest, lowest consciousness. When your eyes fly open in the pale morning light, you fear it is too late – for what, you cannot be sure.

Immediately, you seek out your travelling companion, wishing to make certain that you’re not still trapped in the nightmare – needing to ensure that all of this is indeed real.

Eskel is nowhere to be found. You sit up, neck protesting at the sudden movement. Wraith remains where he’d been tied up, tail swishing with cool indifference, head down as he picks apart the small clearing he has access to. Clumsily, you scramble upright, tugging at your cloak to untangle it from your shoulder and waist. You brush at the bits of forest detritus that sticks to you.

Just as you open your mouth to call out, he reappears, utterly soundless, emerging from the thick wood with a contemplative look across his stern features. “I thought you’d left,” you admit without hesitation, a hysterical chuckle catching in your throat, and inwardly cringing as soon as the words leave your lips. He regards you for a moment, moving towards Wraith to stroke the gelding’s neck soothingly. “Where would I go?” he wonders softly, as if not to spook you, fingers scratching rhythmically across the coarse horse hairs.

“Away”.

You shrug. It’s all the honesty you’re willing to part with.

Eskel shoots you a sidelong glance. “We should reach Midcopse by mid-afternoon,” he tells you, changing the subject, and giving Wraith a final pat before crouching to inspect the state of the coals. They smolder, a blaze long since retreated from the scorched remnants of the logs he’d fed it the night before. “That’s good,” you comment quietly, unsure what else to say.

“After you eat, we’ll get moving,” he suggests, kicking some dirt over the small firepit. You nod, not seeing a reason to argue. Sifting through your pack, you pull out a bit of bannock, the bread crumbling in your fingers upon the first bite. You pull your knees to your chest, nibbling at the dried corners, stomach twisting into knots as the jagged fragments of your dream refuse to shake free from your psyche. In the morning light, you feel shy, under slept, and out of sorts. A heat has settled in your cheeks that has yet to abate. You find it hard to meet your companion’s eye.

As if hearing the internal war of your thoughts, Eskel moves closer, standing directly in front of your bedroll, and extends his hand. You blink, looking up at him with curiosity. Unfurling his fingers, he reveals several plump spring berries. Cautiously, you accept them, brows knitting together as you do. “Thank you,” you murmur, inspecting the fruit. “I saw them in the area”. He clears his throat. You pinch the fattest of the bunch between your fingers, testing the ripeness. Satisfied, you offer it to him. “I insist,” you add, stopping him mid-protest. Begrudgingly, he takes it back. You watch him pop it into his mouth, chewing mechanically. “Good?” you wonder idly, breaking off another hunk of bannock to have with a berry. “Good,” he replies quickly, a smirk pulling on his full lips before disappearing behind his usual stoney expression.

Woodsmoke curling into the light blue sky, high atop the tree line, is what signifies the closeness of the small village of Midcopse first. Second is the excited whinny that Wraith gives out, tugging at his reins. Eskel steadies him, fingers immediately going up to check the buckles of his halter. A few moments later, your small entourage catches sight of the settlement after a significant bend in the road. About half a dozen huts are nestled among the trees, the breeze tugging at their thatched rooves with insistence. Villagers mill about, hanging clothes on the lines and chopping firewood on old stumps. The harmonious sounds of domesticated life reach your ears, making your chest ache immediately. Homesickness settles deep in your gut, moisture springing to your eyes. You fight to push it aside.

Eskel takes the lead, broad shoulders swaying with each confident footstep. You stay behind him, nervousness creeping into your throat. The midday sun is high, unfiltered by the cloudless sky as it beams down on the quaint little village. The edges of the puddles crisp up, the branches laden with fresh buds, promising a lush summer ahead.

The Witcher stops short of a larger cabin, its doorway decorated with strings of various spring flowers. He knocks, stepping aside gracefully as an aging man, certainly near the end of his natural lifespan, emerges from within.

“Have you done the deed?” the old man questions immediately, forming the words around several missing teeth. Inside the cabin, you catch the soft laughter of children. Your companion shifts, a thumb sliding beneath the strap of his scabbard. “I was … delayed,” he eventually answers, maintaining steadfast eye contact with the elder – daring him to protest. “Hmm,” the man simply hums.

“Then why are ye back?” he eventually sighs, a hand going to the doorframe to support his stooping weight. Eskel’s yellow eyes slide over to you. “I need to leave her here,” he explains, ignoring the way your mouth immediately pops open. “I’ll be back by nightfall,” he adds. The old man looks you up and down, his wormy lips spreading wide in a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, leave the girl with me,” he agrees, nodding crookedly, as if it hurt his neck to do so.

Discomfort blooms in your stomach, your fingers twisting together to quell the tremble that has erupted in your joints. Your lips are frozen, unable to articulate the only thought that has entered your mind since laying eyes on the village elder: I don’t want to stay with this man. Don’t leave me here.

Eskel studies the elder for a moment, taking in his leering gaze and twisted smirk. “Excuse us a moment,” he grunts, suddenly grasping you by your upper arm and hauling you several feet away. You go somewhat willingly, boots dragging in the spongy soil. As soon as you’re out of earshot, he releases you. “Take me with you,” you beg immediately, a fearful hiccup stuck in your windpipe. His expression softens. “Please”.

“It’s dangerous,” he warns, brows knitting together with concern.

“I’ll stay at a safe distance,” you insist. “I promise”.

“And what if you do something foolish, like try to run back to Evergreen?” he wonders aloud, arms crossing across his armoured chest. You swallow thickly. The thought had crossed your mind – a tantalizing idea, though you know the cost of your idiocy would be death. For everyone. You watch his biceps jump beneath the cloth as his grip on himself flexes at your continued silence. “I would catch you before you made it back,” he promises lowly, jaw ticking. “I know,” you tell him honestly, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. Slowly, his shoulders drop, his hands falling to his sides.

“Fine,” he sighs, a note of defeat in his tone. “Keep close”.

You do as you’re told, legs burning with exertion to keep up with the Witcher. He moves through the woods fluidly, as if operating from an internal map, dodging bits of marshy swamp and thick brambles with ease. Your boots sink into the mud, the hem of your travelling coat dampening from the moisture on the ground. You huff and puff along, staying close behind him, your lungs burning with the effort of keeping you oxygenated.

He stops in an innocuous looking section of the forest, head tilting as if listening intently. “Nekkers are spawning within the cave. They’re still far away enough that they won’t catch your scent,” he assures you, a hand going to his back to draw his silver blade. You watch wide-eyed as he unsheathes it, the finely crafted metal gleaming in the golden light. “Can you hear them?” you whisper. “Faintly,” he tells you at a normal volume. “Though my medallion hasn’t started to hum yet”.

You raise your eyebrows, gaze immediately finding the carved wolf-head around his neck, laying neatly against his armour. Eskel doesn’t appear to be in the mood for another lesson on Witcher lore, kneeling quickly to produce a long boning knife from a scabbard strapped to his calf. He hands it to you.

“I-I have one already,” you confess, mirroring his stance and brandishing the decorative dagger that Myra gifted you from its hiding place within your boot. The Witcher looks surprised, a soft chuckle reverberating in his chest before he stands. “Very well,” he shrugs, “now you’ll have two”. Carefully, you take the blade from his palm, being sure not to brush your fingers against his as you do.

“Stay here,” he commands, straightening his spine and stalking off in the direction of the Nekker cave without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

You try and sit still for as long as you can, folding yourself into the position Eskel had been in the night before, your legs beneath you and your palms resting on your lap. Taking a deep breath, you listen to the sounds of the forest – birds chirping, the rustle of a squirrel darting through the brush, the flutter of the leaves on the boughs overhead. Behind your eyelids, the sun ignites the darkness. After half an hour, your thighs begin to cramp.

“Ow,” you grumble, stretching your aching appendages out. Pins and needles erupt in your muscles, rendering them useless for the time being. You arrange your cloak beneath your bottom, ensuring your skirt doesn’t become dirtied, and drum your fingers against your chin. Boredom plucks at your mind, drawing a long exhale out of you.

You look around for something to do.

You identify several kinds of edible plants – a few medicinal as well. Standing on shaky knees, you cross over to a small patch of bryonia growing near the base of a large poplar tree. You make yourself useful, plucking the small white petals from their stems with precision and storing them in the folds of your dress. Moving around the trunk, you spy a berry bush, a few of its fruits ripe enough to eat. Methodically, you pick the spindly branches clean, fingers staining from the dark juices of your harvest.

Humming to yourself, you continue on, content for the time being with mindless foraging.

The hour is late, and you are lost.

Dusk falls over the forest, the canopy of leaves blocking out the evening sun as it descends beneath the hills. You rock back and forth on your haunches, eyes straining in the low light, heart thundering in your chest. You pack is weighted down with all the herbs and berries you’ve found – this small accomplishment watered down by the circumstances you currently find yourself in. You curse softly to yourself, desperately trying to recall the nonsensical path you followed to end up here.

To your back, a small brook slices through the dense forest. Moss clings to its gentle banks. You try to recall if you saw a stream near Midcopse. You wonder if following it will only lead you further astray. Around you, the nocturnal creatures of the night stir, chittering and shuffling through the undergrowth. Shivering, you recall the charred corpses of the Endrega warriors that laid near Eskel when you first found him. You have no magic to protect you here – only a ceremonial blade and a boning knife, none of which you are confident enough to wield.

Cursing again, you resist the urge to press your head into your heads. Perhaps smacking yourself would provide some relief. Instead, you tilt your head towards the sky, watching the slow exit of the only illumination you have with a terribly hopeless feeling washing over you.

You think of home, and what your father might be doing now. Tending the hearth, you imagine. You think of your bed, your familiar furs, and the flowers you planted at your windowsill. Bowing your head, you bite down on your knuckles to keep from weeping. You know whatever prowls these woods will hear you – prey upon you in your vulnerability.

You can’t bring yourself to contemplate anything more than the present moment, your runaway pulse pounding in your head, thrumming in your temples. You know you should stand – move – but find that you are utterly paralyzed, rooted in place on the cold forest floor.

It’s why when the echoing thrash of branches being crushed underfoot erupts from deep within the forest, sending the nearby creatures into a panic, so terrifyingly close to where you’re sitting, you simply stare into the darkness – awaiting your end.

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