Chapter Text
It begins when a deserter bangs on their door one night, and though the late fall air is frigid and still, he can already smell the alcohol wafting in through the cracks. Mother smiles feebly at him, and she mouths go inside your head, baby.
He takes a deep breath and tries, but he's not very good at it, not yet. He can't stop himself when the man stomps in, grumbling about the early chill in the air and pushing Mother up against the wall. She makes her usual sounds of pleasure, little sighs at the back of her throat, but she also tries to speak. "Good sir," she breathes. "The usual rate is fifty for a lay, and half before -"
His backhand is shockingly swift, for someone who's swaying on his feet. "Shut up, whore, I'll pay you when you've done your job."
Mother touches a hand to her lip, though she has not made a sound. It hasn't happened in awhile, but it's not uncommon. It's usually soldiers who like to do the hitting, and Eskel has seen worse. I'm not here, he thinks to himself fiercely, even though he can't take his eyes off the scene before him. He presses his back more firmly into the corner, his breath held.
"Get on that lousy excuse of a bed," he growls, and Mother goes down easy, her head bowed. She never looks Eskel in the eye when this happens, but it's the best she can do. They're lucky to even have this little shack at all, far enough from the town that they don't get trouble, but close enough that they're not wanting for customers.
Mother makes more practiced sounds as her clothes get tugged off or shoved aside, then the man is grunting more alcohol breath into the air, his upper lip curled as if he can't decide if he's angry at Mother or at himself.
Eskel must have moved by accident, because all at once the bloodshot eyes are on him and the man jerks in surprise.
"What the fuck," he snarls, and jumps back quick enough that Mother's eyes shoot open in confusion. Then she gasps as he grabs her hair and drags her off the bed just like that, all with one arm.
"I din' pay for a bleedin' audience!" His spit makes a visible cloud in the air, then he's slapping Mother across the face with his other hand.
Mother wheezes and tries to catch her breath, clawing at the hand in her hair. "M'lord," she slurs. "Plu-pluh..."
He hits her again, then aims a few kicks at her stomach until she's curled up on the floor and retching. "Fuckin', fuckin' loose wench, get that - that whoreson -" he misses the next kick, then staggers back and knocks his head on the shelf behind.
"The fuck," he roars. A sharp sound of steel, a dagger's in his hand. "Still lookin' at me, boy?"
He hoists Mother up by her hair again. Eskel looks at her face - and he knows, she's gone inside her head herself, and he tells himself it's okay, it's okay, let it be over. But he can't look away.
"You like to watch, huh? Y'like to - to - watch this, cunt," the man hisses.
Eskel watches as the dagger glides across Mother's throat, gentle like a caress. He watches the skin tear open and the blood spurt out. Go inside your head, he tells himself desperately, as Mother falls to the floor and does not get up.
The man is laughing wetly, and his form is growing and growing. Then he realises - no, he's not growing, but coming closer. The sloping shoulders block the light behind him and Eskel keeps looking. Then he's grabbed roughly by the shoulders and thrown across the bed, and now his body responds automatically, scrambling away, but the man is faster. The man is still raving, something about bastards and whoresons and other disjointed curses of no meaning. The hand around his wrist grips so tight that Eskel yelps and thrashes, but he's always been small for his age, and even if he weren't, he's no match. He struggles anyway, blinded by fear, then something wrenches free in his shoulder and he lets out a whimper and goes limp.
He tries to catch his breath, and his heart is going rabbit-quick in his chest, but he's flipped over and now the man is looming too near, and there's a ripping sound and a thin, hot pressure at the base of his spine.
He screams then, a thin high trembling sound, and he doesn't know if he will ever stop screaming because it hurts so much, and there's too much movement, and there's the smell of sweat in the air and the taste of blood in his mouth, and he doesn't know what's happening or why, only that he wants it to be over.
Eskel runs out of breath, eventually, and goes quiet. His vision darkens and brightens intermittently, and then suddenly he jolts awake and all the pain is back and the man is laughing and he must be screaming again, but he can't tell for sure now.
Suddenly, there's a discordant crunch sound that cuts through the noise, and the man drops his entire weight onto Eskel. He moans and shoves weakly, fingernails digging, before he realises that the man is looking at him unblinkingly, and that one eye is completely gone with a crossbow bolt sticking right out of it.
Vomit bubbles up his throat and he does pass out then.
When he opens his eyes, he's not in the house anymore. He's shivering on the cold ground outside, half-covered by a rough sheet and aching down to his bones, and he feels like he can't move his fingers and toes, but more importantly:
A man with cat eyes is leaning over him.
He screams and rolls away, or at least he means to: his body manages a shudder and a weak mewl.
The cat eyes gleam lamplike in the dim light from the now-vacant house, but the edges crinkle with something soft like worry. The cat-eyed man is whispering something like a prayer in a different language, but Eskel can barely stay awake. He can feel the world spinning around him and glowing brighter, his insides going numb and light.
Then the man says, it's over, boy, you're safe.
Eskel exhales and closes his eyes, but he's cried so much that there's nothing left.
This is all I can give you, the man murmurs, and if it kills you may it be quick. A finger coated in some tincture shoves messily past Eskel's teeth, and the potion burns and burns. He coughs and chokes and feels it eat at his lips, his tongue, his throat, but he has nothing left to give, so he lies on the floor silently shaking through the throes of it. But after the burning it feels like a thick wooly blanket has been thrown over all his hurts - they're muted now, like a pain he can see from far away and can only guess at. Finally, Eskel sighs and falls into a long, dreamless sleep.
The worst night ends when he blinks awake slowly, days later. He's so surprised he almost falls right off the horse immediately, but the man seated behind him hooks a forearm around his waist and holds him in place.
"What - where -" Eskel tries to say, but stops. His voice comes out in reedy, thin wheezes of air, as if someone has sewn his throat shut from the inside.
"Don't try to speak," the man grunts. "You'll probably heal in a week or so. Dunno. Never tried Tawny on humans before, heh."
The horse falters a little as they turn up a narrow path towards the mountain. Eskel feels it all the way to his stomach, shifts and whimpers with each movement. It feels as though his entire body is a bruise. He struggles again, weakly, squirming and putting elbows everywhere until the man lets them dismount.
"Stop that fussing," he grumbles eventually, shoving a waterskin in Eskel's face. Eskel grabs it but doesn't drink, just looks at the man properly: he's lean and a little on the thin side, with scars cutting through his right eyebrow and disappearing up into his hairline. His armour's old and worn, and he's wearing a curious chain around his neck of an animal Eskel has never seen before.
"Your captor's dead," he assures Eskel. "I'm bringing you to the wolves, since it's close enough. Looks like you might actually make it there alive." He grins like something is funny, but the humour doesn't reach his eyes. "Well, if you survived your ordeal, you'd probably survive the Trials."
Eskel doesn't understand a word he says, but he relaxes slightly and lets the man scoop him back onto the saddle. "Thank you," he whispers, remembering his manners and how Mother had taught him. Smile and thank them, no matter what they've done to you. Or we don't get to eat.
The man barks out a laugh. "Don't thank me, boy. You'll be cursing me in a few years yet."
They reach a fortress in the mountains before dawn three days later. It's only when the man announces himself that Eskel realises that he doesn't know who the man is.
"Merten, School o' Manticore," he calls out to the gatekeeper, who scowls back at him.
"Heard there were no Manticores left," the gatekeep says.
"You must be daydreaming up ugly old men all by yourself, huh," Merten shoots back, reining his horse in. "Keep your tits in, I'm not here to winter with a bunch of mangy dogs. Go on, boy."
Eskel dismounts obediently, wincing, squinting up at the high wooden gates. Is this a castle?
The gatekeeper steps forward cautiously. "How old is this one?"
"Ask him yourself. Tell the old asshole I said 'suck my cock'."
Eskel turns, mouth half-open, but Merten's horse is already cantering back down the slope. "Wait!" he shouts, desperate: but his throat just flutters around air and he makes a soft airy shriek instead.
The gatekeep is muttering something about grumpy old bastards, but he grabs Eskel's shoulders with firm hands to give him a once over. Eskel flinches but doesn't look at his face; he feels tears coming to his eyes again. The man leans closer, staring intently at the acid-burn scars around his lips, then his eyes go wide. "Fuck, did he give you a Witcher potion?"
The watcher all but drags him into the building, which is blissfully warm at least, but Eskel can't stop shaking. By the time he's thrust under the nose of another cat-eyed man with grey hair, he's wheezing and doubled over, as though trying to hide from the pain blossoming all over his body. The man in front of him stands firm like a statue, tall and old and austere. Eskel shudders and looks off into the middle distance: Go inside, go inside, go inside.
"Vesemir, got something for you."
Vesemir stares unblinkingly for a long, hard moment, then says flatly, "What the fuck, Varin."
"Another witcher dropped him off, I don't know the rest of it," Varin shrugs. "Said he was from the School of the Manticore, I didn't catch his name..."
"Merten, the old bastard," he murmurs, still looking warily at Eskel. "He say anything else?"
"Er," Varin draws up awkwardly. "In his words. He said, 'tell the old guy to suck my cock'. Sorry."
Vesemir lets out a sigh. "Yeah, that's Merten. Just like him to dump a half-dead boy on my doorstep and tell me to shove it."
Varin shifts restlessly. "Well? Should I put him up with the Bastion boys?"
"How old are you, boy?" Vesemir asks, not unkindly.
Eskel blinks under the weight of his gaze. "Eight, good sir," Eskel whispers, like how Mother taught him to.
Vesemir raises an eyebrow. "Would've guessed six. Well, at least you look like you've already been to Hell."
"Pretty sure Merten made him drink some Tawny too," Varin mutters.
"Looks like," Vesemir intones lowly, frowning as he peers at the damage done. He drags a gentle thumb along Eskel's lower lip curiously. It's only then that Eskel reacts: yelps and scuttles a few steps back, colliding into Varin's knees and shaking all over.
"Whoa," Varin gasps, grasping Eskel by the armpits and jarring his torn shoulder. Eskel rasps and twists wildly.
"Whoa," Varin says again, gentler this time, his hands hovering but not touching, like he's trying to calm a spooked horse.
Vesemir's face darkens. "One of those, then," he sighs, sadly. "Alright, get him a pallet with the others. He'll probably be fit enough to start in a week or so."