He knew he would be back.

Eskel had told Geralt he was done with Kaer Morhen, but that was like being done with being a Witcher. It's not as if he could just stop being what he was. He'd be back eventually. But not now. Geralt and his sorceress were in White Orchard; Lambert had decided to stay in Novigrad for the winter, all of them not wanting to deal with the grief and blood soaked into the stones.

He couldn't bear the idea of sitting here all winter alone, staring at Vesemir's grave and trying to drink himself to death. He knew that's what he'd do if he didn't get out of here before the snow got too deep for Scorpion to navigate the trails.

He'd go back in spring; they'd need to rebuild what they could, get the holes the Wild Hunt and Ciri blew into the walls fixed up. Maybe the new Empress could send some coin and men to help them. His mouth curled. He knew she would, if they asked. He always liked her, even as a child.

For now, as the first snows fell, he went west, planning to get over the mountains and into Redania before the worst of it. But he'd waited too long and the snow really started coming down before he made the pass. Probably for the best, since he would have been completely fucked if the snow had come while he was in the mountains.

There were plenty of tiny villages on the road but not a lot of places for a Witcher. He wasn't Geralt; there wasn't a line of women just waiting to share his bed. He just hoped he could find an inn or an old woman or something before it got even worse. The cold wasn't going to kill him, but it wasn't going to be pleasant either.

In the distance, there was some smoke rising. Farmstead or village, Eskel couldn't really recall. He'd been through here plenty of times but it was so familiar that he never really paid attention. He was hungry and at this point, he just wanted a fire and something to eat and a few hours out of the weather. He was getting close when the woods exploded in a flurry of grey fur. Wolves. Any other day, they would be hardly a threat but there were a lot of them, packed together to hunt. They caught him off guard, cold and tired and thinking with his stomach instead of his brain.

He managed to dispatch most of them and drive off the rest, but not before one tore a hole with wicked fangs through his pants into the meat of his thigh. Blood poured out of the ragged wound and stained the snow, already red with wolf blood.

He took the thing's head clean off, but that didn't undo the damage.

"Shit," Eskel muttered to himself, sliding his steel sword back into the scabbard on his back. The blood oozed, but didn't spurt. Not an artery at least. Hurt like a bitch.

Scorpion tore off in the other direction. Stupid horse was always flighty. He'd be back, but that wasn't going to help him right now.

"Ploughing bullshit," he swore at himself, taking a step and realizing he'd really done some damage. Travelling in the winter hadn't been one of his better ideas, of course he wasn't known for them. There was a reason he wasn't the one saving the world with a pack of sorceresses vying for his attention.

It wasn't that he wasn't happy Ciri wasn't dead and the world wasn't coming to an end, or still being invaded by the Wild Hunt. That was great. But everything was different; Vesemir was dead, Ciri was not a little girl anymore and Geralt had himself so far up Yennefer's skirt, Eskel was pretty sure he was never getting out again.

Mostly, he was grieving and jealous and lonely and now bleeding like a stuck pig miles from anywhere.

Witcher mutations might blunt his emotions so he could focus, but that didn't mean he didn't have any at all.

He was just a man and lately. a stupid, distracted one. He whistled for Scorpion, but he didn't return. Eskel growled.

Fuck.

He limped forward. If he hadn't been a Witcher, he probably would have laid down in the snow and died. But he was a Witcher. A good one too most of the time, even if he was careful enough to not get famous.

Each step felt like daggers in his thigh. Accelerated healing or no, he was going to need at least a few weeks to be back to normal. If he had been religious he would have prayed to someone that whomever was tending the fire in the distance didn't hate mutants. But Eskel had seen enough to know religion was for suckers, so instead he just trudged on, gritting his teeth against the pain and leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He survived his face being sliced to pieces. He'd survive this too.

There was a hut on the edge of a village next to a little stream that ran along the road here, the water sparkling in little open patches in the ice. It was pretty and he stopped to stare for a minute before looking back up again. Brain was a little foggy.

The rest of the village wasn't far off, but he was frozen through and he knew he'd lost a dangerous amount of blood. If the people in this hut wouldn't let him in, even his Witcher's constitution wasn't going to be enough.

There were several strands of beads tacked to the rough door, some leaves carved from wood.

An herbalist maybe? In the window next to the door there was a statuette, backlit by the fire. A woman. Curvy. Nice tits. It was undeniably a carving of Melitele.

A healer? Could he be that lucky?

Eskel pounded on the door with the heel of his hand, afraid he'd split his knuckles on the wood, so cold from the snow and blood loss. He leaned heavily against the door frame. A little puddle of blood stained the snow.

His boot felt wet inside.

The door creaked open, warm air rushing into the cold. Eskel felt dizzy. He closed his eyes. He thought he might have said something, but he wasn't sure.

"Yes, can I help you?" a woman's voice asked. It was deep and a little raspy and he liked it. Eskel managed to flick his eyes up but he couldn't focus enough to see the owner of the voice other than a flash of pale skin, red hair.

"Oh, a Witcher," she said, spotting his feline eyes. He waited for the disgust and accusations, but they didn't come.

Eskel tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. So dry.

"Can you-" was all get could manage.

"Sweet Mother...the blood." She sounded worried. "How are you still alive?"

He felt her hand under his elbow. He tried to answer her. The world tilted sideways.

Eskel never even felt it when he hit the ground.

He woke up feeling like this head was full of rocks. He hadn't felt this terrible since waking up after the last time drinking with Geralt and Lambert. That night, he ended up in a dress and he seriously considered never drinking again. Didn't take. Like Lambert always said, he needed it. Feeling human for a while was nice.

But Eskel didn't remember drinking, he... shit. He tried to sit up and a shooting pain ran through his leg. He managed not to scream, but he let loose a string of curses that almost offended him.

He heard a chuckle from the other side of the room.

"Guess that means you're going to make it," the voice said. "Wasn't sure for a while there."

Eskel didn't bother trying to sit up, just put his hand over his eyes. "Sorry."

"For the profanity?" She laughed. "Not the first time I've heard it." Eskel could hear her breathing, heard her get up and walk closer. Her shadow fell across him. "What's your name, witcher?"

"Eskel." He didn't trust himself to say anything further. His leg throbbed. He was cold. He felt like Lambert, wanting to bitch about the temperature even inside under a blanket.

She didn't seem concerned about his manners. Her breathing didn't change. "I'm Maya," she said. Her shadow flickered and she sat on the edge of the bed, sliding the blanket back and inspecting his leg. Her fingers were warm when they fiddled with the gauze she had apparently put over his wound. "Bleeding's stopped finally. Want to try to sit up? You need to drink, make some new blood."

He wasn't keen on the idea, but he managed, his head swimming. He was colder when he sat up. She'd managed to undress him somehow. Eskel blinked at her, trying to focus his eyes.

She was small, red haired and an elf, of all things. Maya handed him a wooden tankard full of something warm that smelled like honey. He drank it obediently.

"How'd you-" His tongue still felt a little too big for his mouth. "How'd you get me off the floor? Out of my clothes?"

Maya smiled with one side of her mouth and shrugged. "Stronger than I look."

Whatever was in the tankard worked quickly. He felt warmer. His eyes focused. He took another long drink. Honeyed broth, celendine and something. He could feel his heartbeat speed up, return to normal.

"Thank you," he said, letting her take the empty tankard from him.

"Lucky you made it here. Another hour and there would have been nothing to do but build you a nice pyre." She tilted her head. "From the looks of it, you've been lucky more than once."

Scars. Like most witchers, he was covered with them and not just his face. He survived things that would kill most humans. Would have been ridiculous to die from a wolf bite. He just grumbled as a reply. He was grateful, but didn't really want to chat about how he looked like a walking pincushion.

Maya shook her head at him. "Not real talkative, are you?"

He actually cracked a smile. "Not really, not without a drink."

"Witcher or not, I could get you drunk on a thimbleful of spirits right now." She looked amused and tucked a lock of ginger hair behind her pointed ear. She caught him staring.

Maya made a face. "Come on then, get it out of your system."

"Didn't expect an elf," he said. Felt strange to just say it, but she had told him to do it.

She shrugged again. "I didn't expect a blood soaked witcher in the middle of a snow storm either," she said, emotionless. "Should I call you dh'oine?" She sighed irritably. "Let me tell you what I tell everyone else. I don't know anything about being an elf. I was raised in the Temple of Melitele in Ellander. Learned some healing in between cleaning up and then got out of there because I got tired of being singled out. Oh, and of course, yes, I know the Empress was schooled there and no, I didn't know her. I was gone by then."

Eskel raised an eyebrow at her, considering. "I know her," he said. "She's damn good with a sword."

"Of course you do." She didn't look impressed. She flipped the blanket back down over his leg and stood up, stalking across the room her attitude suddenly radiating frustration. He couldn't even figure out what he did to annoy her. But as long as she didn't throw him back out into the snow?

Eskel leaned back against the wall behind the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes. He must have drifted off to sleep, finally warm and not bleeding to death. Maybe she was crazy and what woman wasn't, but she was good enough not to leave him to die.

He'd have to think of a way to repay her later.

He didn't remember much after that.

Eskel woke to the tangy scent of mulled wine and bread yeast. Through the window he could see that it was night; still night or the next night he had no idea. Maya was stirring a heavy cast iron pot swung over the fire. Fine steam rose up with the delicious scent. Her hair was tied in a knot at the back of her neck, sort of like Triss wore hers all the time. She wasn't at all like the sorceress though, or much like any elf he'd ever met.

Now that she wasn't looking, he looked. Witcher training taught him to carefully observe everything, so looking at the decidedly not elf like plump curve of her ass, well, that was just what he was supposed to do. Probably had some human in her.

If she didn't, Eskel wondered if she'd like some; he was human-ish anyway.

Well, apparently he was feeling better. How long had he been out?

He tried moving more than his eyelids. His leg was still sore, but the pain was dulled. His head actually felt like his head instead of a sack of garbage. All in all, he felt better.

Maya heard him stir and she turned around. She smiled. "Good, I was beginning to think I'd made a mistake and you weren't going to wake up."

Eskel was confused. "Whatdya mean?"

She raised a finger, indicating he wait, then filled two mugs from the pot with a wooden ladle. She crossed to him and handed one to him, setting the other on the table next to the bed. She sat down and pulled back the blanket and gauze, exposing rows of tiny perfect stitches holding together the wound in his leg.

"There was psilocybe in the drink I gave you. I couldn't sew you up if you were thrashing around. I know Witchers are supposed to be, well, but there's over fifty stitches here. I couldn't take the chance. " She frowned. "I would have told you, but clearly you're stubborn as a mule or you'd never even have gotten here in the first place."

Eskel wasn't sure how to respond, so he didn't, just inspecting her handiwork. It was impressive. Little even stitches managing to put that completely ragged wound back together. He'd have a scar, but nothing like some of the others, wide and jagged. There was one on his shoulder that looked like a starburst of raised flesh, where a Graveir put a hooked claw into him, hoping to snap some bones for a snack. Eskel eviscerated it for its trouble. That scar looked like awful, purple and misshapen. For a moment, he wondered what his face would look like if someone like her had been there to put him back together again when it happened, instead of Vesemir just stopping the bleeding and letting his Witcher metabolism do the rest.

She covered the line of stitches with fresh gauze and put the blanket back down. She looked up at him and smirked.

"What?"

"You've been asleep for two days," she grinned at him. "You need a hair brush."

His shoulder popped when he reached up to paw at his hair with his free hand. Clearly sleeping for two days wasn't particularly good for him. It wasn't out of the socket, but it hurt. He looked at the mug with the other, ignoring the pain. He sniffed the wine and deciding it was acceptable, downed the entire tankard in a single swallow.

Maya grimaced. He wasn't sure if it was because of the shoulder or the drinking or something else. Didn't really matter. "That sounded bad. Let me take a look." She moved closer and took the empty mug from him and set it down absently. She reached across him, little fingers touching his shoulder carefully. She hummed in the back of her throat. "Just too much time in the bed. Should try to get you up and about, though I suppose you'd probably like something to wear at least. Hold on." She started to get up but he grabbed her arm softly.

"Thanks," he managed. "Really."

Maya smiled at him. "You're welcome. Now, as much as I might enjoy a handsome naked Witcher wandering around, let me get you something to put on." She rummaged in a basket near the fire. "Trousers were a total loss I'm afraid. But everything else is clean, if a bit blood stained."

Eskel snorted and tried to ignore how the fire made her dress almost transparent. "If you're looking for a handsome Witcher, he's in White Orchard." She gave him a dubious look over her shoulder before fishing something out and throwing it at him. His reflexes worked even when he didn't think about it and he snatched the flying bundle of fabric out of the air.

Maya flipped her hair over her shoulder when she stood, crossing her arms just under the swell of her breasts and giving him another look. Eskel suddenly felt like he was twelve years old and Vesemir was about to tell him why and how he'd fucked something up. He hadn't been twelve in a very long time.

She shook her head at him. She did that frequently; apparently he was frustrating. "Now, why don't you see if you can get those on and we'll make sure you can still walk without an extraordinary amount of adrenaline."

She turned her back to him.

Eskel managed to get his legs off the bed and into the loose pants with a minimum of wincing. Hardly the worst pain he'd ever felt. He wriggled them up over his hips and tied the drawstring and tried to stand. She heard him rustling about and turned around before he could get to his feet.

"You are stubborn," she said, coming and tucking herself under him arm. "Come on now."

It was easier with help, he wouldn't deny it. Putting weight on his leg felt like shit, but he could do it. He ground his teeth.

"Better than I expected," she mused as she limped him the few steps from the bed to a chair by the fire. The cottage was tiny, one room with a divider on one end, a wooden bath and what looked like a second bed peeking out from behind it. There were bunches of dried herbs and ingredients hanging from the rafters, shelves of potion bottles, bones and beads. The chair was wooden and worn, but warm and sturdy and it didn't creak when she sat him down in it.

"So Witcher," she said, leaning back against a workbench pushed up against the wall next to the hearth. She crossed her ankles. "What we're you doing out here? We haven't had any monster trouble lately. There were some rotfiends in the cemetery a few years back after we had the Catriona, but nothing since then."

"I was on my way to Redania for the winter. Just didn't make it."

"Good thing you didn't get any further. It hasn't stopped snowing since you literally fell in the door." She scrunched up her face. "The old timers say you Witchers have some sort of fortress east of here. Why aren't you there?"

Eskel looked at her out of the corner of his eye. Was there anyone who didn't know about Kaer Morhen? It was better when they weren't so well known except when something was killing people. Geralt's fame made some things easier, but a lot more things difficult.

"Looks like that's what I'll have to do now, if the snow lets up and my horse comes back."

"Black stallion, with a Nilfgaard style saddle, right?"

Eskel nodded.

"He's in the stable with my mare. I had a feeling he belonged to you." She shook her head. "I also have a feeling I'll have a lovely hybrid foal come spring."

He couldn't help but chuckle, darkly. "Fucking horse gets laid more than I do."

Maya boosted herself up on to the table and gave him another look. "Why's that?"

Eskel leaned back in the chair and just shook his head. What, he had to point out his scars? Hadn't she been looking at him for a few days now?

"All right, don't talk," she said, hopping back down quickly. "I've heard Witchers heal fast, so I can probably take out your stitches in a week or two. As long as it doesn't split back open, you could probably leave, provided the snow doesn't pile up. Usually here in the valley it gets so that going to the neighbors is an all day event. I don't know that you could get far."

"Wonderful," he muttered.

She looked a little hurt. Or so he thought. He wasn't good at reading people. "I'm sure its not what you were hoping for, but you're welcome here as long as you need. I have plenty of supplies to last through even a long winter. Better than being dead, right?"

"Much," he said. He didn't mean to offend her if he had somehow. But she was pretty and it was going to make him crazy cooped up in here with her with no outlet. At least at Kaer Morhen, the only women that showed up were too dangerous to consider. Once, he'd let his infatuation with Triss go to far. Then he realized she was just dangling him to try to make Geralt jealous.

Sorceresses always had ulterior motives. It was fun, but it wasn't worth it.

He realized he hadn't said anything for a while, staring off into the fire. Maya was still as a stone, looking at him. Her eyes were big pale circles in her face, studying him carefully.

"Do all the scars have stories?" she asked quietly.

"Most of them."

She came closer, pointed to the big one at the crook of his shoulder.

"Graveir, in Temeria."

She nodded, just the tips of her fingers moving over his skin. She stopped at three long gashes curved over his collarbone.

"Werewolf. I think it was somewhere along the coast. I can't remember."

Her fingers moved up the side of his neck to his face. He knew she was going to ask, he knew it but her fingers distracted him from his throbbing leg and everything else.

He never talked about it. Sometimes he wondered if he should, but he couldn't.

"I like these," she said, running her finger up over his chin and along his cheek. She caught his eyes before she spoke again. Maya opened her mouth and closed it again. She let her hand fall to her side and cleared her throat. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "I made bread."

She didn't ask. He liked her.

The snow piled up to the bottom of the window. Maya dug a little path between the cottage and her stable. Her mare would definitely foal in spring. Eskel tried to apologize, but she was both amused and a little excited.

She was good company. He was having trouble keeping his hands to himself.

Eskel wasn't like Geralt. He didn't just hop into bed with random women. He couldn't. Dulled emotions or not, he got attached too easy. It was why sorceresses were such a bad idea. It was why he didn't like to talk about the scars on his face.

Wouldn't that be awkward, ending up in bed with the pretty elf and then be stuck here the rest of the winter, trying to pretend it didn't mean anything?

He knew it would, mean something, that is. At least to him.

He owed her enough already. He owed her his life; he'd need to do something to repay her, and if that meant not making things weird, even when she flirted with him and made advances, well, so be it.

Wasn't easy.

She was funny and now that they were used to each other, she told the worst dirty jokes and told stories that Dandelion would have loved to steal. Ellander was apparently a wild place to grow up. Sounded nicer than growing up a Witcher, though that was a long time ago.

He wondered how old she was. Elves did live a long time, like Witchers who were lucky enough not to bleed to death somewhere.

It was just past Yule now; she thought maybe a few more days for the stitches. He wasn't in any hurry. There was too much snow to go anywhere anyway. It was almost midnight and they were on their second tankards of spiced wine, dinner of snow hare stew still warming his stomach. Maya had pulled another chair up next to the fire, her skirt hanging down between her knees.

She talked with her hands when she told stories.

"And there he was, hanging from the corner of the fence by his knickers, wearing a flour sack as a hat, with the flour all over him." She laughed. "He never lived it down."

Eskel laughed. Even he'd never been that drunk. Even that time with the dress.

"You have good stories," he laughed.

Maya drained her tankard and rested it on her knee. "I bet yours are better, fighting monsters, saving ladies, all those things. I wish you'd tell some."

Eskel shook his head. "I'm no storyteller. Besides, its mostly mucking about in swamps and almost no damsels in distress, unless it's a Bruxa or a succubus trying to convince you not to kill her."

"That happen often?" She looked incredulous.

He shrugged. "Sometimes. Mostly, it's drowners and ghouls."

"Hm." She made the humming sound in the back of her throat. "Still, I'd like to hear some. Maybe I can have you tell me about more scars to jog your memory."

He gave her a sideways look. "Should I just strip down then?"

"Any time you're inclined." She smirked at him.

"Tease," Eskel grumbled.

Maya shook her head but didn't reply. They'd been through this before. She sighed, and he wasn't sure whether she was frustrated with him for resisting her or for thinking she was serious. He honestly couldn't tell.

He didn't dare find out.

She set her mug on the ground and scooted her chair across the floor until her knees were touching his. She sat up straight and put her fingers under his chin, his thumb grazing over the bottom of the scars on his face. Her thumb skidded over his bottom lip where the scar dug a groove into it.

"Why don't you tell me this story instead?" Her voice was quiet.

"No," he said, though he didn't pull away from her. "I don't talk about it. Wasn't a monster."

She moved her hand up along the side of his face, over his cheek up to where he'd just barely kept his eye.

"These are hardly the biggest scars you have," she commented, her fingers stroking over them softly. Her palm felt cool against his cheek and he closed his eyes without thinking about it. "But they hurt you more, don't they?"

He nodded and let his face rest again her hand. He felt her breath, warm and wine scented, ghost over his face.

"I'm willing to listen, whatever this story is, when you're ready."

Eskel took a long breath. He'd already told her more than anyone else. "It's been, what 30 years? I've never..."

Maya kissed his undamaged cheek softly. He was too stunned to respond. "That's a long time to punish yourself for something someone else did to you."

He felt her stand and she tilted his face up as she did, brushing his hair back off his forehead. She looked sad and compassionate and he couldn't think of any reason not to tell her everything, but the words didn't come.

"Goodnight Witcher," she said and then disappeared behind the screen leaving Eskel staring after her.

He almost asked to her to wait, to stay. But he didn't. Sighing, he leaned back in the chair, his feet out stretched toward the fire. He drank the last of his wine and closed his eyes again, letting his mind drift.

It wasn't that the injury was so terrible. She was right. It was his supposed destiny, his fate. What failure was he that his face bore the brunt of his foolishness and then somewhere else, his supposed destiny, someone he never forgot, grew old and died without ever speaking to him again?

Sometimes, he wondered if he was right about what was in the letter he burned without opening. He knew, but he didn't know. It was a message, telling him Deirdre was dying and he just threw it away.

It ached a little behind his ribs. He tried not to think anymore.