"How could I forget my knight in shining armor?" Okay, maybe he does still remember now to flirt a little from his younger days. The prospect of her asking to go to bed with him still makes his scars throb like some kind of warning. He could completely fuck it up between them, and he doesn't want to.
"Hm." She's not much of a knight, banished as she is, and her armor certainly doesn't shine any longer, as battered as it is, but the flattery isn't ineffective. She squeezes his arm as they walk, pressing it against her side briefly before stepping away and reaching for his hand.
"Come see what I've remembered," she says, walking half-backwards as they reach the bottom of the hill where the stables are situated.
Tangling their fingers together, she tows him along behind her until the reach one of the far paddocks with high walls and a sturdy gate that is securely locked to keep the horse inside from escaping. Trapped within its walls is a young filly, old enough to show hints of how big she'll be when she grows, but still young enough to be trainable.
"Whoa!" Eskel says, and his enthusiasm shines through even a witcher's emotional defenses. "Look at you!" He says, letting go of Éomer to lean on the gate. The filly is the same warm buff color of barley and regards him with black eyes that are both wary and curious.
"Can't pay you much." He admits. "Just odd jobs here and there. Probably not what your horses are worth down here. But I can pay you some of it. Next year I'll pass back through here with a fat coinpurse, providing nothing tries to eat me between now and then, leave it with the alderman to give to you."
She really is a gorgeous little thing, still a little coltish with youth, with a flaxen mane and tail just like the people whose lands she comes from. If Éomer felt safe returning to Edoras, she might have kept the filly for herself, bringing her back to the royal stables and training her there, but her current nomadic lifestyle isn't well-suited to the kind of permanence it requires to really train a horse properly.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," she replies, folding her arms on the top of the fence and resting her chin on them, watching the filly as she watches them warily back.
"I'll think of something. We don't always name our horses and I have a brother that names all the horses he has the same thing. 'Roach', after the fish. It's good to not get too attached, when you live as long as we do." He smiles at the horse. "But we do take care of our mounts-- we have to, traveling so much-- and I think this little lady would be the most precious thing I've ever owned in my century and a half on this earth."
"Somewhere in there. I dunno how old I was when I was brought to the witchers. That's nothing, the witcher who raised me and my brothers is at least double that, if not a little more." He laughs. "I mean, that's nothing compared to the elves. Or the dwarves, even. I don't know how many of us usually make it to be as old as my teacher. There's a whole generation of witchers after me that didn't. My younger brother is the only one in his class to make it this far." He cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm running my mouth, huh?" He turns his attention back to the horse, who has taken a few tentative steps towards them, nostrils flared and ears pricked forward, clearly curious. "There you go. I'm not so scary, I promise."
"Oh, I know all about the elves and the dwarves," she says, waving a hand dismissively. That's not news to her. Elves live until they die, and dwarves nearly as long as that, that's not interesting any more. What's interesting is that this man beside her, who she might have said was somewhere in his thirties if she had to guess, is old enough to have known her great-grandfather.
Maybe he did. Isn't that a thought.
Strangely enough, she doesn't want to bed him any less. He may have visited Edoras when it was little more than a hamlet on a rock and not the bustling capitol it is now, but that doesn't dampen her interest in him at all.
"No, you aren't so scary at all," she says eventually, reaching up to pluck a bit of straw out of his hair, pleased by the way he talks so gently to his new horse.
"Don't go telling everybody." He says, with a laugh. "It's bad for the guild's reputation." He drapes an arm loosely over the gate, where the horse can give him a sniff if she wants. She leans forward to snuffle the back of his hand, looking a bit like she can't make up her mind. Eskel isn't surprised, witchers smell slightly different from normal men. But in his experience, she'll get over it after a little while.
No, not so scary at all. It's hard to look at a man so carefully offering his hand to a skittish horse to sniff and think him frightening, even with the scarring that skates down his face and twists his lip like that, dimpling his cheek and even touching the edge of his jaw.
Animals are easier. This horse isn't going to try to cheat him, attempt to beat or rob him (less a problem for him, but he never likes having to kill stupid people in self defense), hang him, burn him at the stake, chase him out of town. This horse won't care about anything but his capacity to keep her comfortable and fed on the Path. She won't ask him to make decisions with terrible and far-reaching consequences. "What do you mean?" He asks.
She shrugs, shifting a little to get more comfortable leaning against the fence as she is, watching the filly grow more comfortable with his presence the longer he goes without startling her.
"Gentle giants," is all she says in the end, smiling a little.
His brow furrows. He resists the gut urge to snap at her, feed her some kind of line about how badly she's mis-estimating his temperament. A tension rolls though his body, but he tries not to let it show too much, the hand not offered to the horse curled tightly.
"Depends. If you met my brothers after they'd been mauled half to death, they'd probably be reasonably tame too." That's probably not true, Lambert would resent, curse and rail against the kindness of every stitch, every gesture of kindness from this brave and noble woman with the same volatile disposition one might expect in a wounded beast. Geralt would probably try to sleep with her even mangled as he was (not that there was anything inherently unkind or dangerous about that, it was just kind of ridiculous).
Quiet for a moment, she watches the tension roll over him and notes that away for future introspection.
The stories she's been told of witchers is that they're more beast than man, savage beings closer to the monsters they hunt than the men they once were. She'd been warned to be wary of them, to avoid getting too close, not to trust the things they said and to avoid trusting them in kind.
Her brief acquaintance with Eskel has turned all those tales upside down, and she had been wondering if perhaps somewhere beneath all those muscles and all those scars lay a man who hoped for gentleness. There are times when she aches for it, herself, and her life is not nearly so bleak and lonely as his appears to be.
"I did not mean to offend," she says quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the hand curled into a fist. "My apologies."
"It's alright." He says. "You'd think I'd be happier about it. That there's somebody who wants to see me as a man and not as a witcher. Somebody who isn't overcome with the urge to scream or faint when she looks at me. I just don't want you to think I'm like this all the time. Maybe I'm not a monster, but I'm not a good man either. I'm not nice, I'm not kind or patient or loving. I'm rough and mistrusting. And I've done a lot of shit I regret, or didn't do things I should have done. And I don't want you to think that I'm gonna stick around if we...you know." He sighs.
She turns her back to the paddock, leaning her shoulders against the fence, and lets herself reach out to pick up Eskel's curled fist in both her hands so she can coax his fingers to spread out again.
"Eskel," she starts, looking down at his fingers, "do you know why I like you?" A beat, and then she huffs. "There are many reasons why I like you. Do you know why I would like to take you to bed?"
She looks up at him again, her hazel-green eyes meeting his golden ones boldly. "Your body appeals to me, it's true. I think you could be capable of much gentleness if you tried. But more than that, you are not intimidated by me. I do not frighten you. You do not want to dominate me, to tame me, to make me a wife and a mother. You look at me and see me as I am, not as what the world wishes me to be. I am rough, myself. I am impatient and stubborn. I speak plainly and do not consider how my words might offend until they have already left my lips.
"We all have regrets about things we have done, or left undone. I do not ask you to stay for me, to keep a home for me, to do anything more than remember me fondly in the years to come."
She tugs his hand until he extends his arm enough that she can place his palm firmly on her hip, laying her own atop it to keep it in place.
"You do not have to accept my offer. I will not be angry if you do not. But know that it is open to you tonight, or maybe the next, until our paths part again."
He's surprised that he allows her to mold his body in this way, but he does. He listens to her words very carefully. Parts of what she has said alleviate his anxiety and frustration. She doesn't mind if this is a one-off, she won't pine for him or worry about him. Hell, she'll probably leave before he does, though now he has no reason to linger, and he's going to cut it close getting home as it is. He resists the urge to fight with her about his body. Even if she was used to scars as a soldier, it was another thing to lay beside him and see them all. To see the monsterous mask his ruined face can become in firelight. To say nothing of what it looks like, so twisted in places, in the moment of--
"I'd kiss you," He says, carefully. "But it's...I don't think it's very pleasant."
If it helps his worries, her eyesight is not as good as his. In the dark, it will not matter to her how his scars catch the light, how he might grimace in pleasure, how his smile might turn closer to a snarl when he isn't so careful to monitor himself.
Besides. She can close her eyes if it's really all that bad.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that," she murmurs, lifting her face towards his.
"It's been a while." He adds as a last warning before he cups her jaw in his free hand and kisses her.
He only has partial sensation in his face, but the part of her lips he can feel are warm and about as soft as you'd reasonably expect from someone who spent most of their time out in the elements.
The hand on her hip moves to her waist, not quite pulling her closer, but not pushing her away either.
She had almost forgotten, in all the years since she grew tall enough to look down her nose at some of the riders in her éored, how it feels to be backed into a hard surface by a man larger than her; Eskel's hand on her jaw feels enormous, the grip he has on her waist firm but not bruising, and a part of Éomer thrills at the promise in that hold.
Letting her hands lift to settle on Eskel's broad shoulders, she curls her fingers in the soft linen of his shirt and lets herself be kissed, considering the unfamiliar sensation of his lips against hers, the stubble on his chin scratching pleasantly as she shifts a little against him to kiss him more firmly.
It's not unpleasant. Not by a long shot.
"Can you...feel that?" she asks, barely pulling away to murmur in the scant space between them, letting her lips brush against the torn part of his mouth where the skin did not quite heal back together again.
He's doing his best not to feel like he's cornered her, though he knows he can't help the way his larger form looms over hers like a draft horse. When the breaks the kiss, his brow furrowed. "Feel...? That side of my face? No, not really. The cuts and tearing were so extensive even magic couldn't fix it. The mage had to save my life, couldn't spare time for the cosmetics. Sorry."
It's a bit of a shame, really, but it's alright in the long run. It's certainly not his fault. Éomer will just focus her kissing on the left side of his face instead, coaxing him into returning the gesture again so she can tease the tip of her tongue against the swell of his lower lip.
He makes a small noise, a low sound deep in his chest, his arms embracing her with ease as he returns her kisses. He holds her close, rather than pinning her against the boards of the paddock and she's so warm. She's not as soft as some women he's held, but he likes feeling the strength of her body under his broad hands, against his chest.
And she likes to be held there, at least for now. If things were different, and it weren't so clear from the beginning that this was a wholly temporary arrangement, she might chafe at being held like this, treated like some sort of delicate creature that needed careful handling, but for this one brief dalliance, it's kind of nice to pretend.
It's not often Éomer is made to feel normal.
She presses closer, letting one hand slide up and around to cup the back of the witcher's neck, her fingers delving into his exotic dark hair and curling appreciatively.
He wouldn't dare suppose to handle any woman roughly (when not half done-in by drink or fisstech, at least, as had been the case now and again in younger and more reckless days) without being told it was alright. Not even a woman as sturdy and unafraid as Éomer. He feels her fingers in his hair and growls, but it's a sound of pleasure rather than a warning.
"Shouldn't do this here." He says, when he pulls back enough to breathe.
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"Come see what I've remembered," she says, walking half-backwards as they reach the bottom of the hill where the stables are situated.
Tangling their fingers together, she tows him along behind her until the reach one of the far paddocks with high walls and a sturdy gate that is securely locked to keep the horse inside from escaping. Trapped within its walls is a young filly, old enough to show hints of how big she'll be when she grows, but still young enough to be trainable.
"Isn't she beautiful?"
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"Can't pay you much." He admits. "Just odd jobs here and there. Probably not what your horses are worth down here. But I can pay you some of it. Next year I'll pass back through here with a fat coinpurse, providing nothing tries to eat me between now and then, leave it with the alderman to give to you."
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"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," she replies, folding her arms on the top of the fence and resting her chin on them, watching the filly as she watches them warily back.
"I haven't named her yet."
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"No," she breathes incredulously, turning to look at him and grinning. "Are you really a hundred and fifty? I don't believe it."
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Maybe he did. Isn't that a thought.
Strangely enough, she doesn't want to bed him any less. He may have visited Edoras when it was little more than a hamlet on a rock and not the bustling capitol it is now, but that doesn't dampen her interest in him at all.
"No, you aren't so scary at all," she says eventually, reaching up to pluck a bit of straw out of his hair, pleased by the way he talks so gently to his new horse.
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She wonders if he'd let her touch it.
"Tell me, Eskel, are all your brothers like you?"
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"Gentle giants," is all she says in the end, smiling a little.
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"Depends. If you met my brothers after they'd been mauled half to death, they'd probably be reasonably tame too." That's probably not true, Lambert would resent, curse and rail against the kindness of every stitch, every gesture of kindness from this brave and noble woman with the same volatile disposition one might expect in a wounded beast. Geralt would probably try to sleep with her even mangled as he was (not that there was anything inherently unkind or dangerous about that, it was just kind of ridiculous).
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The stories she's been told of witchers is that they're more beast than man, savage beings closer to the monsters they hunt than the men they once were. She'd been warned to be wary of them, to avoid getting too close, not to trust the things they said and to avoid trusting them in kind.
Her brief acquaintance with Eskel has turned all those tales upside down, and she had been wondering if perhaps somewhere beneath all those muscles and all those scars lay a man who hoped for gentleness. There are times when she aches for it, herself, and her life is not nearly so bleak and lonely as his appears to be.
"I did not mean to offend," she says quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch the hand curled into a fist. "My apologies."
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"Eskel," she starts, looking down at his fingers, "do you know why I like you?" A beat, and then she huffs. "There are many reasons why I like you. Do you know why I would like to take you to bed?"
She looks up at him again, her hazel-green eyes meeting his golden ones boldly. "Your body appeals to me, it's true. I think you could be capable of much gentleness if you tried. But more than that, you are not intimidated by me. I do not frighten you. You do not want to dominate me, to tame me, to make me a wife and a mother. You look at me and see me as I am, not as what the world wishes me to be. I am rough, myself. I am impatient and stubborn. I speak plainly and do not consider how my words might offend until they have already left my lips.
"We all have regrets about things we have done, or left undone. I do not ask you to stay for me, to keep a home for me, to do anything more than remember me fondly in the years to come."
She tugs his hand until he extends his arm enough that she can place his palm firmly on her hip, laying her own atop it to keep it in place.
"You do not have to accept my offer. I will not be angry if you do not. But know that it is open to you tonight, or maybe the next, until our paths part again."
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"I'd kiss you," He says, carefully. "But it's...I don't think it's very pleasant."
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Besides. She can close her eyes if it's really all that bad.
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that," she murmurs, lifting her face towards his.
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He only has partial sensation in his face, but the part of her lips he can feel are warm and about as soft as you'd reasonably expect from someone who spent most of their time out in the elements.
The hand on her hip moves to her waist, not quite pulling her closer, but not pushing her away either.
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Letting her hands lift to settle on Eskel's broad shoulders, she curls her fingers in the soft linen of his shirt and lets herself be kissed, considering the unfamiliar sensation of his lips against hers, the stubble on his chin scratching pleasantly as she shifts a little against him to kiss him more firmly.
It's not unpleasant. Not by a long shot.
"Can you...feel that?" she asks, barely pulling away to murmur in the scant space between them, letting her lips brush against the torn part of his mouth where the skin did not quite heal back together again.
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It's a bit of a shame, really, but it's alright in the long run. It's certainly not his fault. Éomer will just focus her kissing on the left side of his face instead, coaxing him into returning the gesture again so she can tease the tip of her tongue against the swell of his lower lip.
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It's not often Éomer is made to feel normal.
She presses closer, letting one hand slide up and around to cup the back of the witcher's neck, her fingers delving into his exotic dark hair and curling appreciatively.
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"Shouldn't do this here." He says, when he pulls back enough to breathe.
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