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Fantasy Journey Celtic Collection. Tales From The Lost Kingdom. The muscles in his forearms tighten and his lungs draw in a deep, slow breath. What is his lung capacity? He inhales and inhales. The enormous fire crackles, the only sound in the stiflingly hot room. She has a stray thought to cast a spell to discourage sweating.

Yen develops a sudden professional interest in seeing Caranthir suffer, but bloody thoughts must wait another time. Eskel is talking, letting out words that have gathered like poison in his blood. Yen hesitates. It is important to give these matters the right words and call them by their name. Unspoken harms fester in the heart and turn all they touch to withered, sickened things. The right words, though-- not violate , not forced himself.

They have each lived a century in this bitter world. They know the right name. His head drops, a sudden jerking movement. You survived. Their chief navigator. He has invaded countless worlds and commands power that would make our Lodge of Sorceresses swoon with envy.

You were held captive, alone, by one of the most powerful mages to walk this or any other world-- and you survived. Whatever you did in order to survive, it was the right choice. Do you understand me? Yen almost misses it at first-- the slow movement of his hand from his lap.

His hand moves to hers on the mattress. Thick calloused fingers wind around her palm. She squeezes back. Yen rises from the chair. Only their knees and hands touch. Eskel tells her without hesitation. She accepts the answer though she has no idea herself.

Why ride when one can merely open a portal? That keeps Eskel busy. His eyebrows furrow and after a time, he gives her another answer whose veracity she cannot confirm but appears to be the result of considered calculation. He frowns. Yen holds up another finger with every sound he names. Your heartbeat. That counts separately. Spoon against a pot. Wind through that broken window in the south tower. And-- a boom. What can you smell? Eskel raises his eyebrows, looks at her. An excellent sign but Yen merely raises her eyebrows the way Tissaia did when her pupils were too slow for her liking.

Too messy. Lilac, gooseberries. Oughta shake out some of these pillows. Eskel grins, wide and genuine. Eskel grunts in confirmation even as his eyebrows wrinkle. Yen tilts her head back and hums. Unfortunately, many men lack your powers of observation. To them, I am simply another woman. Has Geralt ever told you about the sorcerer Vilgefortz? Suffice it to say-- I know what power does to some men. Power or the need for power. I have paid the price of crossing their paths. And I have outlived them.

The owner of that voice is long dead. So much has happened in the years since, the memory is like an old portrait rediscovered in an attic, faded and made oddly marvelous by the passage of time. That had been her? That happened? Yen lets a remembered fire flicker in her eyes as she looks at Eskel.

Eskel meets her gaze and something flickers in the yellow of his eyes, too-- the spirit of a man who stood alone when Caranthir portaled in and raised his sword anyway. A man who can survive this. She slips her hand into the crook of his arm. Eskel flicks a reverse Igni over his shoulder and the raging inferno in the fireplace winks out. Give him space, Yen had said. Don't push him.

Don't make him talk if he doesn't want to talk but if he wants to talk, listen. Help him feel safe. It's true but not simple. This morning, after Eskel disappeared on one of his long walks alone, Geralt and Yen leaned together and let out a long shared sigh.

Eskel isn't a burden. Both of them would wince at the word. But there's a weight to him now, some struggling monstrous thing that he tries to restrain, the way Eskel always does, except this one's too big to cage. It comes out sometimes, snapping bared teeth-- a sudden sharp comment, a dark look, a motion or gesture that's too forceful. Sometimes it's that long deep stillness, not calm like meditation, but lurking, ominous. Depths where monsters dwell. They'll see him staring into space, come back half an hour or an hour later and find him in the same position.

When he's like that, he doesn't even notice them. It makes something grow in them, too. A darkness that drains.

Geralt watches it as the days pass. Yen chides him, tells him that these things take time. She doesn't understand. It's not supposed to be this way between them.

The Trials, the first years on the Path, the siege, Deidre, Ciri-- they've always carried each other. It gives Geralt thoughts that unbalance him. He wants Yen to portal them into Tir na Lia, find Caranthir, kill him now and have done with it so Eskel can get better already, gods damn it. Let me help. A man oughta know poetry for an occasion like this-- the occasion of knowing Yen, and wanting to talk about her properly. It never lasts a day on the Path.

But look at her. None of the phrases he knows can do her justice. Big and lonely. Stay with me tonight. Good story, always gets a laugh. Eskel usually laughs too and he wants to. His lovers. Funny world. Look at them. Imagine having the poetry for Yen. Enough ink to cover the years with Geralt. What do you offer? You disgrace. You disgusting fucking ruin. Too fast-- they both whip around to look at him and their eyes instantly change.

I, uh The walls. They can sleep together in the other guest bedroom in the unruined tower and wake up smelling like just the two of them again. Enjoy the night, lovebirds. Oh well. Eskel falls to his knees, bends himself over the wooden frame.

His wrists clamp together in front of him. It gnaws against his skin. So did that drowner that left the mark on his forearm, the werewolf that got him on the shoulder.

The cuffs of Sad Albert trapping him in place as the Grasses convulsed him. His body has never been his. He has always been this helpless. Eskel wants to ask this time. Go ahead. Take what you want from me. But make it count. There is no time. Even the walls fade. He jerks forward on the pallet bed frame. Just a body.

The wood scrapes his branded stomach. It doesn't hurt enough. A dissonance. Eskel lifts his head, Caranthir is yanking it up by his hair, and he looks around for something suitable. To find his fit in time. Eskel has time to spin around, sit down with his ass on the floor and his back on the bare bedframe when the door rattles in its frame, Geralt is knocking so hard. They could have just opened the door without asking. Geralt casts Igni at the fireplace to give them all a better look.

Geralt looks at him with warm eyes. All he can do is shrug. So without saying anything more, Geralt and Yen sit down on the floor next to him, backs against the exposed bedframe, one on each side. He wants them as far away from him as possible, or to wrap their warm bodies around him from both sides and let him breathe their mixed scents.

Wants them close, wants them gone. She sighs but hands it over, leaning far in front of Eskel so her arm barely enters his personal space during the handoff. Even her whispers can sound like commands. Which-- we shall be, sooner or later. Geralt plays with the bottle. He presses it into thigh and they both watch, Eskel and Geralt, as he lifts it again. The impression of the bottle lingers in the fabric of his trousers, a dented circle.

His voice is grit. He and Yen have been talking, which is all well and good. Saves Eskel his breath and the trouble. It was just torture. Bodies can be hurt. Can be killed. Found an extra. Show you soon. He wants to touch Eskel. His hand curls into a loose fist that knocks against the stone floor next to him instead. Eskel rubs his free hand over the top of his thigh.

His body is here, solid at the moment. He looks at Yen. Geralt stirs on his other side. Makes sense that it catches them off guard. The Terror had jolted through him, no warning, no give. The two of them. And if it does come roaring awake and narrows his mind into primitive animal panic, might be they can bring him back.

They get the message. He imagines it and can feel the Terror shift somewhere in its depths. Geralt snores. Slept quiet until sometime in his fifties. One of those medical mysteries. Eskel rolls his head on the pillow so he can look at the ceiling again. Yen nestles her head into the crook of his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, lets the bulk of his arm rest on her slender back. He wants to obey her. This is good, though.

The three of them in one bed again. The familiar smells and heartbeats. Should be like this all the time. The three of them together and in the morning, pillows lined with dark raven hair and silvery white hair and. Eskel flinches, lets out a choked nothing sound. Yen lays her thigh across his thighs, wraps around him with her arm and leg and lifts her palm to his scarred cheek. Eskel takes to helping Zoltan with the excavation of the courtyard.

Anything, in fact. The dwarf keeps up a genial stream of chatter throughout the process. Take a stone and carry it. Simple work that his traitor body manages well and a wholesome soreness afterward. Always has been a good friend, Zoltan. That leaves Eskel. Geralt finds him easily enough. The urge to shake him returns. Geralt takes himself to the storeroom instead, picks out two wooden training swords.

Come on. His fingers scrape at the bristles that have grown wild on his chin. Eskel lifts his eyes. Geralt lays his wooden sword down on the table and sits across from Eskel.

Too busy with meetings? Eskel shrugs one shoulder, not looking at him. Is he thinking about Caranthir? The battle? They had a rhythm, once. Even on the Path, it works its inexplicable magic. Geralt finds himself pulled toward nothing towns with no prospect of work and finds Eskel camped out there, as if waiting for him. Wren, Loyd Auerbach. Brown, H. Hurst, L. Koehler, G. By Sue Viders, Becky Martinez. By David S Jablonski.

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