Chapter Text
The Trial of the Linens wasn't like the other trials. It wasn't a real trial at all--you didn't speak of it to the instructors, who weren't part of it. The Trial of the Linens was put to boys one at a time, by witchers coming back to Kaer Morhen for the winter, or to rest from the Path now and then through the year. No one ever really failed this trial, although you could do better or worse, and you might face it once or many times. The point was just that everybody faced it, and it mattered that you passed that particular threshold, somewhere in your training.
It could happen any time after you'd passed through the Trial of the Grasses--and enough time afterward to be sure you were fit again and not failing slow instead of fast--as long as you were at least shoulder-high to the witcher who chose you.
Geralt wasn't sure what would happen if a witcher chose a boy who didn't meet those criteria; he had a vague idea that the instructors would happen to that witcher, in a very serious way. Of course they must know about the Trial of the Linens, after all, even if they weren't involved. They knew practically everything, and certainly everything that happened in the keep.
Geralt's trial came in the spring before he was counted fourteen. All the boys were considered to rise in age on the day of the summer solstice, though Geralt thought, without quite knowing why, that he might have been born in the spring. Eskel was very definite that he'd been born in winter, and therefore was at least a season older than Geralt, and two seasons older than he was counted at Kaer Morhen.
Eskel was shorter, anyway, whatever season he'd been born in; Geralt had hit his growth spurt first, and Eskel only topped Geralt's shoulder by a few inches.
Afon, the witcher who called Geralt over, actually checked his height--there was no need to ask whether he'd been through the Trial of the Grasses, with his white hair and cat's eyes. Afon set his hand flat on top of Geralt's head, and brought it, level, over to his chin, right where a bright red scar curved under his jaw and down his throat.
"Right," he said gruffly, "you'll do. Come on upstairs, I need some help sharpening my sword."
Geralt nodded, saying nothing. Afon dropped his hand to Geralt's shoulder and steered him toward the stairs. Geralt didn't look back at Eskel, who he'd been walking with a moment before, heading back to the dormitory where they shared blankets nearly every night. This was it--another way Geralt would be changed along the way to becoming a real witcher.
Afon guided him up to one of the rooms--small, but private--where witchers stayed when they returned to Kaer Morhen. They doubled up sometimes, in the winter when several would come back at once and stay for weeks at a time, but now it was late spring, and Afon was the only witcher stopping at Kaer Morhen tonight. The rest of the doors along this corridor were shut.
"Go on and get undressed, no point being shy," Afon said, pulling his own shirt off to reveal a hard body, seamed with scars in every direction. Geralt stared for a second, then hurried to undress, stealing glances as he did.
"No need to ask if this is your first crack at this trial, eh?" Afon said, smiling a little as he walked over to where he seemed to have mostly unpacked his things.
Geralt nodded, then shook his head, then ducked his head and shoved the last of his clothes off.
Afon snorted, amused but not unkind as he looked Geralt up and down; Geralt knew what his body looked like and wasn't unused to it being seen, but never by anyone with that light in their eyes. It made him want to shiver, but he kept himself steady. "Yeah, that's a fine answer, little wolf. You tried anything with the other boys? Hands, fingers?"
Geralt felt his face heat, thinking of the last several months sharing blankets with Eskel. They'd never been shy with each other, had figured out plain friction a long time ago, but lately they'd found all kinds of more elaborate things they could do to, or with, each other. No one seemed to mind, except if they made too much noise and bothered the other boys in their dormitory.
They'd gotten good at being quiet.
"A little," Geralt said. "Not--" he swallowed, and put his chin up. He knew why he was here. He knew what the Trial of the Linens was, and like Afon had said, there was no point in being shy about it. "We haven't fucked, but we've tried fingers."
Afon laughed a little, right out loud, his expression bright and pleased. "Have you? Precocious puppies, I see. Have you tried other things than each other? Ale, or anything stronger?"
Geralt shrugged, nodded. "A few times. Just ale, not--"
Afon pulled out a bottle of something not quite clear. "You know what this is?"
Geralt's eyes widened. "Is it--is that--White Gull?"
A few of the oldest boys, past all their trials but the last, claimed to have tasted White Gull, and told wild stories about its effects. Their instructors, more succinctly, said, "If you aren't a full witcher, do not drink it, because it will kill you."
"It is," Afon said. "I'm not going to invite you to drink any, little pup, no need to look like that. Just--come here."
Geralt walked slowly closer, watching Afon's hands and the bottle as he would a cliff-edge. Afon turned it over, then upright again as Geralt reached him. He uncorked the bottle, held between them, and the fumes rushing up had a strange sharp-sweetness that made Geralt's eyes and mouth water.
"Here," Afon said, holding out not the bottle but the cork. "Touch your tongue to that, no more."
Geralt did, holding his tongue against the cork when Afon didn't immediately draw it away. Even the residue of White Gull on the cork burned against his tongue, but he kept breathing in that strange fascinating smell and held Afon's eyes until his own started to water.
Afon broke into a grin and pulled the cork away then. "There. That ought to help you relax. Go get on the bed, I'll find something to do the rest of the job with."
Geralt went, and felt like he was swimming through the air, feeling it touch him all over. Except the soles of his feet, which were touching stone, feeling all the little shapes of it and--
"Almost made it," Afon said, suddenly right behind him, his big hand looking dark where it wrapped around Geralt's hip. "Look, look at those nice sheets, little wolf. Even whiter than you are, hey?"
Geralt let himself be pushed down and--the sheets were whiter than he was. They were--they were actual linen, not just called that because they belonged to the category of things you put on beds, unlike the rough pieced-together bedding the boys slept on down in the dormitory.
He made a sound that he was dimly aware might be a giggle. "The Trial of the Linens. Because it's really linen."
Afon laughed softly above him, and Afon's hands, big and warm and hard, callused but gentle too, stroked down Geralt's back all the way to his ass, and then back up, unhurried. Geralt hummed at the pleasure of it, wriggling a little just for the feeling of his skin sliding against Afon's hands.
His own hands brushed over the linen under him, and he rested his cheek against it. His gaze drifted to the fire in the fireplace across the room, and the flames seemed edged with rainbow colors, just on the verge of making shapes he could recognize.
Afon said something, again in that friendly laughing tone, and Geralt mumbled something that might have been an answer. Afon's hands moved down, down, to the backs of his thighs, and spread them open, and somehow the touch felt edged with rainbows, too, better than anything he'd ever felt. He let Afon press his legs open and wriggled some more--his dick was getting stiff against the linen, and rubbing it felt amazing.
And then Afon touched his hole with slick fingers and Geralt gasped, pushing up into the touch. That felt--better than best, amazing, impossible--and the sensations only kept building, more and more and more.
It was all a bright-edged blur after that--pleasure and a little pain, heat and fire edged with rainbows and the white white linen and Afon's hands and Afon pushing inside him. Geralt laughed, or cried, or maybe neither of those showed on the outside and he was only lying still, staring into the flames, twitching his fingers against the linen, too overwhelmed to move or make a sound. He felt as if he soared into the heavens at the same time.
He definitely came. Twice.
The fucking part ended, but Geralt was still dazed, even when Afon finally moved between him and the fire to look into his eyes.
Afon was rainbow-edged too. Afon had given him all of this, all this pleasure and all this sensation he could never have imagined. Geralt beamed at him, and Afon patted his cheek and said, "Yeah, you're sleeping here tonight, pup."
Geralt did, eventually. For a long while he just lay there, his body feeling heavy and good, even better than after a training session where he'd bested every other boy in his cohort. The bright colored edges of everything faded slowly, while he watched through his eyelashes as Afon mended gear and sorted supplies, even mixed a few potions kneeling right there by the fire. Geralt was fascinated as much by the way Afon grumbled over a nearly empty pouch of celandine as by the alchemy that made disparate ingredients combine into the glimmering liquid of a new potion.
Eventually the fire died down and the room got dim, and Afon came and lay beside him in the bed. Geralt curled closer to him, seeking his warmth and his already-familiar scent. He finally closed his eyes, and slept, and if he had any dreams he couldn't tell them from the reality of the evening.
Geralt woke when the first faint light of false dawn was starting to lighten the sky. This room didn't face east, but the narrow window showed the shade of dim greyness that Geralt had learned well in his years at Kaer Morhen. The fire was almost all ash now, only a few faint hints of red suggesting that some coals still lingered to be roused back into flame.
Geralt felt perfectly sober now, and warm and comfortable on this fine bed, tucked between a big solid body and the wall. he grinned at the man whose blankets he'd shared, though Afon's eyes were still closed.
"Mm," Afon murmured, slinging a heavy arm over Geralt. "One more time before you go, pup? See what it's like with both feet on the ground?"
He was only a little sore from last night; Afon had been gentle with him and it had felt good much more than it hurt. Twice. Geralt was curious about what it was like when he was properly aware of everything, too. Would it feel even better? Or just more?
And it was Afon, who was still edged with rainbows in Geralt's mind, even if he was only a gray-on-gray shape in the dark to Geralt's eyes. "Okay."
"Roll over, face the wall," Afon rumbled, giving him a little push. Afon moved the opposite way, retrieving a small pot from the floor beside the bed.
Geralt was still lying there watching when Afon turned back with the pot in hand, an eyebrow raised. Geralt felt himself flush hot and turned quickly, propping his forearms against the wall.
"There, that's not so hard," Afon murmured, pushing a knee between Geralt's thighs, pressing Geralt's top leg forward to rest against the wall. Geralt braced his toes and knee against the stone as well, the cold in front of him a sharp contrast to the heat of Afon's body pressing close behind him--Afon's cock, slick and wide, pressing against his hole and making the fading soreness there suddenly sharp.
It didn't feel like the night before--but it wouldn't, of course. The night before he'd been flying on White Gull; this was the real thing. Now he would know what it was really like, facing the Trial of the Linens with nothing to help him through it.
And there was, after all, still linen under his cheek, and it was still Afon pressing against him, and only testing, not shoving inside harshly, not hurting him. Geralt rubbed his cheek against the softness of the sheets and took a steadying breath, then made himself relax and open up the way he'd learned through trial and error with Eskel.
Afon let out a low pleased groan at that, pushing forward into Geralt. The sound and the knowledge of how good it must feel for Afon sent a thrill up Geralt's spine that still felt edged in rainbows, tangling up with the sharp burn of being stretched by the head of Afon's cock. Geralt remembered that it had felt sort of like this last night--not the hurt but the stretching, being opened up and filled. He panted, caught between memory and reality as he chased the pleasure of it, the way even the hurt felt good.
It was like a real trial, like training, being pushed to a new limit he hadn't even known was there and knowing he would come through it stronger.
And then there was a shock of actual pleasure, so sweet and intense that he gasped, his whole body jerking against the wall.
Afon laughed low in his ear and curled an arm around Geralt's chest, spreading his hand over the pounding of Geralt's heart so that his thumb brushed Geralt's nipple. "That's the spot, huh? You liked everything so much last night I could hardly tell when I hit it."
Afon moved then, thrusting shallowly in and out--he was only barely inside--but his cock was pressing against that spot that felt good. Just being touched there had never felt this good, this dizzy wild rush of being held by a big body, of Afon's knowing laughter in his ear, being stretched open and still feeling little shivers of pain but also--also so good.
Geralt was hard, rising toward coming, but before he got there, Afon groaned again and murmured, "Sorry, pup, I just need--"
Geralt nodded frantically even as Afon pushed in deeper, a slick slide that took Geralt's breath away, stretching him further, filling him deeper. There was pain again, but still that good pain that he knew would get him somewhere, sharp and clean and exhilarating. Afon moved in him, slow at first as he started to get into a rhythm, and then faster, harder, so that Geralt really did have to brace himself against the wall.
But the more Afon moved, the more Geralt felt, and the more the previous night came flooding back, the pleasure and the dizzy impossible delight of it all. Afon's hand slid down to Geralt's belly, stopping short of his cock to press his palm and spread fingers against his flesh right over the place where Afon's cock was pounding in faster and faster, as if he could feel himself right through Geralt.
It only made Afon feel bigger inside him, made him feel small in a way he hadn't in years, not since he survived the Trial of the Grasses. Here he was caught between a stone wall and the witcher fucking him, a man who spent most of the year killing monsters, who was so big that Geralt only came up to his chin. Geralt felt almost helpless, almost like a child, and for a teetering second he didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry, hide his face or shout from the rooftops.
Afon's hand moved downward again, curling around Geralt's hard cock, which was nearly engulfed by his big, rough hand. Geralt gasped, whined, tried to push into it and push back against Afon's cock all at the same time. The sensations overwhelmed him almost as thoroughly as the White Gull had, and he lost all track of what hurt and what felt good and which way was up.
He came, a single flash in the storm of sensation that went on and on afterward, somehow just as intense, or even more so. His body was wracked with pleasure and pain and the desperate need for something he couldn't have named even if he could speak.
Then Afon's arm tightened around him, pulling him tight to Afon's chest, away from the bracing solidity of the wall, and he rolled Geralt half under him to pound into him a last few times. The softness of the linen and the wool mattress under him was welcome after the wall, even if he could hardly breathe. Afon groaned in his ear and came, cock jerking inside Geralt while Afon's hand moved down to Geralt's belly again to press in hard.
Geralt bit his lip and didn't groan at the cramping pain of that doubled pressure. Then it let up, and Geralt breathed out and let himself melt into the bed. Afon stayed on top of him for a moment, a welcome sweaty-hot weight. Geralt was just starting to be aware of the scrapes on his elbows and knee and toes when Afon pulled away, leaving him feeling startlingly cold.
He wasn't gone for long, though, settling beside Geralt on the mattress, where Geralt was still lying facedown. He planted a hand in the middle of Geralt's back and said, "Almost forgot to blood you, can't have that."
Geralt hadn't made sense of the words before he felt a sharp, deep sting on the back of his shoulder, and then it clicked.
It was the mark a witcher left on a boy, since no other mark from the Trial of the Linens would last more than a day or two, and many times nothing else in the trial drew blood. Treated with Seal salve, it would make a scar, a neat vertical tally mark; every witcher who brought him to bed after this would leave his own mark, so that Geralt would always have this reminder of what he had given to the witchers who went before him, and what they had taught him.
"There you are," Afon said. "Now, ever had Seal on a wound before?"
Geralt shook his head. Outside of the tally marks, Seal was only for wounds that might kill; it was as hard on the body as any healing potion and always left visible scars, the price for the way it could close even serious wounds almost instantly. Geralt hadn't ever chanced to be hurt that badly--and Seal might have killed him if he had, since he was too young to have built up much of a tolerance for the toxicity of witchers' potions.
"Well," Afon said. "Best to start small, eh? Get a few more marks like this and you'll be just about ready to use it for real when you need it." With that said, Afon smeared something over the cut that made Geralt twitch and gasp at the tingling burn of it. He felt a shivery echo through his whole body of the Trial of the Grasses, and the extra trials he'd had since, but the feeling passed as it always did--within a few minutes this time.
When it was gone, it took with it the last shreds of Geralt's satisfied sleepiness. He could feel everywhere he was sore, then, which was mostly everywhere. Still, he pushed himself up to sit, since Afon hadn't lain back down. Dawn was nearly here; when he sat up there was a directionless gray light filling the room, and he could see the sky starting to pale through the window.
"Right," Afon said, looking him over--oddly like he had the night before when he chose Geralt, when he was a stranger and Geralt had never touched him. "All in one piece, and not yet late for morning chores and breakfast. Best you head back to the dormitory now. I'm riding out this morning, I've got to pack."
Geralt nodded, mustering up a smile. He would be as nonchalant as Afon was; he understood how this worked.
"Thanks, Afon." He looked around for his clothes and spotted the pile he'd left them in the night before. He scooped them up and walked out without looking back, only realizing when he stepped out into the corridor that he probably could have lingered another minute to put them on.
As it was, he was standing naked in an open hallway with a bruise rising on his belly and what was probably a mixture of come and oil sliding down the inside of his thigh. He hurriedly yanked his shirt and pants on, leaving his shoes tucked under his arm, and took off for the dormitory at a run, silent on bare feet.
He only made it to the top of the stairs before he had to stop short, flinging one arm out to balance himself as Eskel popped to his feet from where he'd been curled up on the third stair down.
Geralt hurried down to him. "What is it? Something wrong?"
Eskel's brow furrowed as he looked Geralt over. "I'm not the one who stood a trial last night. I woke up an hour ago and saw you still weren't back, so I thought I'd just..."
Eskel gestured vaguely.
Geralt grinned, slinging his arm around Eskel's shoulders and turning him down the stairs. "It was amazing. Last night was--uh, maybe we can talk about that outside," Geralt said, glancing around and recalling the way the instructors seemed to just know everything that they ever said, anywhere in the keep.
"Outside?" Eskel said dubiously, but he slung his arm around Geralt in turn and didn't argue when Geralt headed for the nearest way out when they reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Yeah, we can--" Geralt searched for an excuse, and quickly found one that wasn't really an excuse at all. Even better. "Afon's out of celandine and he's riding out this morning. I thought I'd pick some for him so he isn't caught short."
Eskel looked even more dubious, but he followed Geralt through the door and across the inner courtyard to the postern gate that let out onto a relatively easy stretch of the path away from the keep. Geralt paused to stretch, feeling again all the aches in his body, and couldn't help grinning as he looked up at the sky, still dark blue overhead. His stomach grumbled, and his grin faltered a little as he considered the fact that gathering celandine for Afon was likely to mean missing breakfast.
Eskel, beside him, heaved a sigh and then passed him a little bundle, wrapped in cloth, and warm like he'd been carrying it in his shirt. Geralt shot him a grateful look and unwrapped the pilfered roll. It was only a little stale, and Eskel had even managed to get hold of some meat to stuff into the middle of it.
Geralt started eating, looking around as he did. He jerked his chin downhill, chewing, and made a questioning noise with his mouth full, not bothering to try for words. He didn't need that with Eskel.
"Yeah, there's a lot more downhill to try than up," Eskel agreed, and they started down the path while Eskel pulled out his own breakfast--every bit as good as Geralt's, Geralt saw, so he didn't need to insist on trading. They ate and walked in peace, each watching his side of the path for any sign of celandine big enough to strip a few leaves from without killing the plant so early in the season.
Geralt felt the little glances Eskel kept shooting his way, and he chewed and swallowed and struggled to think of what he was going to say, exactly.
He still wasn't sure by the time Eskel stuffed the last of his roll into his mouth and turned aside to pluck a few leaves of celandine. Geralt swallowed his last bite and crouched beside him, looking for another clump nearby.
"So it was good," Eskel said, low. "You liked it that much? So much that you couldn't say inside?"
"Well that was more the White Gull," Geralt said, grabbing a few leaves but watching Eskel's face.
Eskel's eyes went wide and swept quickly up and down over him.
"Not undead," Geralt said, grinning again. "It was just a taste--" Eskel's shocked expression started to turn annoyed, and Geralt shook his head. "Literally just a taste! Just the bottom of the cork, that's all, and the fumes. I didn't swallow anything at all, Eskel, I swear. I know better than that."
Eskel's scowl softened, and he grabbed the back of Geralt's neck, digging his fingernails in and giving him a little shake, but that meant he wasn't mad, not really. If he was mad he would walk away and refuse to touch Geralt at all.
"It was just, you know, to help me relax, I guess?" Geralt said when Eskel let him go, struggling to reach back through the magic-tinted blur of the evening to the things Afon had said to him just before. "And even that much had me flying, so I'm not gonna doubt the instructors about what actually drinking it would do."
Eskel nodded, studying his face, and then looked around again; they'd taken all the leaves they could from the celandine within reach. Geralt stood, Eskel standing in sync with him, and they started down the path again.
"And he, I mean. You know. He fucked me. Just that, not anything--" Geralt waved a hand. Older boys' stories tended to embellish a lot on the obvious acts, claiming that all kinds of positions and weird additional activities might be required, if a witcher's taste ran that way. "He didn't even want me to suck it first or anything, but it felt--" Geralt waved his hands, and Eskel ducked under one with a wry look and nodded toward another clump of celandine.
Geralt crouched beside it while Eskel moved a little further off the path, looking for more. It was easier to say it to the plant as he chose which leaves to take, than to Eskel looking at him or walking beside him.
"It felt amazing. Better than--I didn't know it would feel better than fingers, I thought it would just hurt more. But it was--" Geralt waved his handful of leaves around, still lost for words. "Amazing. Like magic, but just good."
He looked over at Eskel, who was a little flushed but staring steadily at the celandine in front of him. Was Eskel wondering what his own Trial of the Linens would be like, when his turn came?
"If he comes back for the winter," Geralt blurted. "Maybe you--"
Eskel looked up sharply, but waited a moment before he said, "Yeah? Sounds like you'd want him all to yourself."
Geralt shrugged stiffly and stood, heading back to the path with Eskel on his heels for a couple of strides before he reached his usual shoulder-to-shoulder spot. "I mean, I--I wouldn't say no," Geralt muttered. "If he wanted--but I know it's not--"
"Viduka's balls, do you really want him all to yourself?"
He'd hardly thought of the concept before Eskel said it, hadn't even really thought of the possibility of having him again, let alone over and over, but--there was something hot in his belly and tight in his chest at the thought. He liked Afon, and Afon had been so kind to him, like maybe he liked Geralt too. He'd only said you'll do, but that was high praise whenever it came from the instructors; it might mean as much from Afon.
Still. Eskel should get to know what it was like, and Geralt had never been selfish with anything he had, when it came to sharing with Eskel.
He shook his head hard. "You should. And I know it's not--witchers don't--"
He did know that. He'd never heard of a boy going to one witcher's bed only, or a witcher always asking for the same boy every time he came, but... No one really said so, but Geralt knew that he was different from the other boys, just a little bit. Special. He'd faced extra trials. Maybe he could be special to Afon, too.
It wouldn't be like regular people were, but still, he could be Afon's favorite, maybe, and Afon... Afon was already his, even if Geralt didn't have anything to compare him with. What else did he need to experience?
He caught the sound of hoofbeats, still quieter than his own heartbeat but in a distinct rhythm. Geralt looked around hurriedly and dove at another celandine, trying not to rush while also wasting no time. Eskel followed suit, again going a little further off the path to find another plant. Geralt listened to the hoofbeats approaching--the horse was walking, and without a rider, Geralt thought. Afon would be walking, leading the horse down the difficult path, guiding her through the almost-invisible routes that would allow a horse to traverse it safely.
Geralt reached behind him, without looking away from the path, and Eskel dropped celandine leaves into his palm. Geralt stepped up just to the verge and watched up the path, waiting and trying to suppress a smile.
Afon was intent on guiding the horse; he didn't look up and notice Geralt until he was only a couple of yards away, and then he stopped short and stared--not as if he'd never seen Geralt before, exactly, but definitely as if he couldn't imagine what Geralt was doing here.
Geralt let himself smile a little then and took a step forward, holding out the celandine. "I picked some for you, I noticed--"
Afon's gaze went to the celandine and his expression tightened into an unmistakable frown, hard and cold and distant, not Afon anymore but a Witcher. Geralt faltered, aware that he'd misstepped but seeing no way to retreat now, and then Afon took a short step forward and flung out a hand, slapping Geralt's hand hard enough to make it go half-numb. The celandine leaves scattered from his suddenly strengthless fingers as pain, as stunning from the unexpectedness as the intensity, shot up his arm.
"What in all hells are you thinking, kid?" Afon snapped, and kid made Geralt feel stupid and small in a way pup hadn't, last night. "I fuck you a couple of times and let you enjoy it, so you start picking me flowers? Melly's tits, get back into the keep before I turn around and tell them what kind of little bitch their white wolf pup is."
There wasn't really room to get by Afon and his horse on the path, but Geralt flung himself forward and up, scrabbling at sheer rock and thinking only of escape, and managed it somehow without touching Afon or letting him get in another slap or another word. He didn't really touch the path again until he fell onto it on his hands and knees.
He shut his eyes when he heard soft footfalls, deliberately loud enough to let him know Eskel was coming up on his blind side. He didn't bother to stand before Eskel crouched beside him.
Eskel had heard that, had seen all of it. And the furious denials rising too late in Geralt's throat--not flowers, just celandine, Afon needed it and Geralt was just being helpful and anyway he'd only done it because he wanted an excuse to talk to Eskel outside--Eskel already knew all of that, so Geralt didn't have to say it. He let out one sound, trying to choke it back when he realized how much it sounded like a sob, and shook his head hard at no one.
He wasn't stupid, he wasn't a little bitch, and he would get fucked by every single other witcher in the School of the Wolf before he ever let Afon touch him again.
Eskel leaned down, shoving a shoulder into Geralt's armpit, and Geralt let himself be pulled up, realizing as he did that Eskel had a big handful of celandine, some of it a little crushed.
"Shouldn't go to waste," was all Eskel said. "If we take it to the potions lab Master Alwyn will let us have something to clean up your hands. Come on."
Geralt gritted his teeth, gave a short nod, and walked, leaving his arm slung around Eskel's shoulders. He breathed a little easier when Eskel's arm curled around him in return.
"If he asks for me," Eskel said thoughtfully, "I'm going to bite him. Hard. Show him what kind of teeth a wolf pup has."
Geralt was startled into a laugh, too loud and a little painful, but it was enough to let him go back into the keep with a smile on his face that wasn't entirely a lie.