It’s rare that humans are able to overpower witchers. But what they lack in strength individually, they more than make up for in numbers. And there is never a shortage of witcher prejudice in humans. It’s pure dumb luck that Eskel is in the area when he scents blood on the air.

It doesn’t take long to find the source. He counts fifteen heavily armored men, armed to the teeth. A few lay on the ground motionless. Their blood is not what’s attracted his attention. Caged in by the circle of men and bleeding freely from a deep wound in his side, is Geralt.

Concern ignites in Eskel's chest. Geralt is an accomplished swordsman and has a sharp mind for tactics, but superior numbers can overwhelm even the strongest opponent. The ruins of Kaer Morhen stand as a testament to that fact.

He can hear them jeering at Geralt, who grins back with blood stained teeth. It's a clear bluff; Geralt is wounded and exhausted to the point where Eskel doubts he could defend himself against a child, let alone a gang of angry men.

Every instinct screams at Eskel to rush to Geralt's side, but he has to handle the situation carefully. The men are unstable, angry, and puffed up with the ugly confidence besting a witcher has granted them. One wrong move and they'll finish what they've started.

Between one breath and the next, the unthinkable happens. One of the men lunges and buries his sword in Geralt's exposed side. For one seemingly infinite moment, the scene is frozen. Then Geralt coughs, lists to the side, and falls to the ground.

Eskel's vision whites out.

Once upon a time, magic flowed through Eskel's veins as easily and naturally as his own blood. Untapped and uncontrolled, it made him dangerous. The witcher trials dampened his connection to his power, tamed it, turned a raging sea into a calm but steady spring.

When Geralt hits the ground, the calm spring bursts it's dam and is once again an uncontrolled and ferocious sea. Eskel feels detached from himself; looks down and sees a creature who wears his face vaporize a mob of fifteen men and the forest around them in a spray of raw magic.

When he's aware and in control of himself again, he's on his knees beside Geralt, the two of them at the epicenter of a crater that hadn't been there moments ago. The devastation is enormous, but Eskel has eyes only for Geralt.

He pulls the fallen witcher to his chest, clinging to him, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes. There's a deep slice in Geralt's shoulder sluggishly leaking blood all over them both. Eskel brings Geralt's pale face close and feels a fresh wave of anguish overcome him.

Eskel seeks out Geralt's natural scent, fresh green leaves, the scent of the earth after a storm, and cannot find it. The metallic smell of blood overpowers his senses. Magic still lingers in the air around them, he can feel it zinging across his skin, reacting to his misery.

"Please," he prays to nothing and everything at once,

"I can't lose him, too."

Eskel loses track of how much time passes as he kneels in the dirt and clutches at Geralt like he can drag his soul back through sheer force of will. He's suffered through untold pain, more than once, and yet none of it compares to the cold horror that is a future without Geralt.

He's so distracted and consumed by his grief that he doesn't notice the lingering sparks of magic begin to converge yet again. Soft green light flares around them steadily for a few moments and is gone as quickly as it appeared.

Eskel's breath stutters when he feels Geralt stir in his arms. Geralt's heart beats witcher-slow and familiar in his chest and its the most wonderful miraculous sound Eskel has ever heard. The cold horror feeling recedes in the wake of feeling Geralt warm and alive in his arms.

He hasn't opened his eyes, but his brows are drawn tight and his expression is grim and determined, like he's fighting his way back to consciousness the way he fights monsters. Relief has Eskel lowering his head to press against Geralt's. Their foreheads touch and Eskel breathes.

There, through the quickly fading blood-and-sweat-and-death smell, he finally finds the fresh green scent of his closest friend. When Geralt finally wakes and goes a bit cross-eyed trying to focus on Eskel's face so close to his own, laughter bubbles up.

He's sure Geralt has no idea what could possibly be so amusing, but he appreciates the confused smile he gets anyway. It feels natural when he dips his head a bit more to press his lips to Geralt's. There's no hesitation and the kiss is sweet and thrilling.