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It was not the first time Eskel was caught by humans. Humans were… pitiless, cruel, small, hard, afraid . They looked at each other suspiciously, not trying to gauge if the other could cause harm but rather when he’d cause harm. The worst part was that they usually caused the harm they feared.
Eskel lived for over a century, and he tried everything with them, just as he traded tricks with his brothers.
He tried to be comprehensive, and empathize with their pain, their fears — powerless little humans unable to protect against their kind, even less against monsters, chaos and nature. They had to be afraid because they couldn’t survive otherwise, like a dog barking because it had to show it was a menace, even if he knew that it could be put down with a well-placed kick. He tried to talk with them, to show he was a friend of their humanity, he was made to kill the other , not them.
He tried to hide away from the humans, but it lasted so long until he was reminded of his duty. He hadn’t been created to hide or to live, but to kill monsters and to protect humans. He didn’t have a free will, he had been made with a purpose and could only follow it.
He tried to be imposing, menacing — not hard with his marred face — to growl at everyone, to slash when not paid his due, to scowl at kids. It didn’t feel good, because Eskel didn’t like the monster part, but if it protected him, it was a beginning.
He tried to remain silent, neutral, not to create any emotions other than mid fear and disgust and accept them, the same way a hound had to accept to scare the pack sometimes to protect them. It didn’t—it shouldn’t bother him, what they think of him. He should be able to accept it, the same way he accepted everything in his life, from the Trials to his swords to his face. It had been a century since it was this way, which meant it was the way of nature. A witcher can’t fight nature.
“And what should we do with the beast?” one of the men screamed.
A chorus answered his voice. Some proposed to skin Eskel alive, others to cut his body into various parts, others to deliver him to local monsters. Eskel didn’t move from the ground he was forced to kneel on, blindfolded and handbound. He’d always been one of the strongest witchers, both muscle- and magic-wise: a rope was no hardship for him. He could rip it, and walk away; he could rip it and kill everyone; he could also choose not to rip it and let the story unfold.
It was not the first time Eskel was caught by humans, whether for crimes he did commit or for crimes he did not. He always managed to escape, often using his raw force or by intimidating them. Sometimes they were just not strong enough to kill him and so once their attempt was over, Eskel walked away. It should not be the case this time: they’re a mob, and before he was blindfolded he saw enough iron to know he wouldn’t make it out alive if he didn’t fight them properly.
But… Eskel felt a bit tired of these games. He was over a century old and yet life was the same as it was when he was twenty. He learnt new combat techniques, met a few agreeable dwarfs, saw beautiful landscapes; there were new monarchs and the borders of countries shifted; the humans created new things made to improve their lives. He couldn’t say in good faith that nothing had changed, but he could mistake a day of fifty years ago to one of today.
He escaped death a lot, even at times when he thought he would not. He cheated destiny a few times, like when he got his facial scars. He reflected a lot these past years, as the numbers of returning to Kaer Morhen witchers fiddled. Who was he to think himself above destiny? He didn’t believe in gods, but he didn’t not believe in them either. Destiny, gods, nature, whatever it was, it always found a way for the livings to ploy to its will.
The moment the humans trapped him, he knew he wouldn’t fight it. He was a bit tired of cheating destiny for his duties. The number of monsters lessened year to year, anyway. There would soon be no reason for witchers to exist and then— what? What would Eskel do? Buy a cottage and raise goats? Continue to travel the roads only to be met with contempt? Huddle with his remaining brothers in Kaer Morhen and wait for the roof to crumble and kill him in his sleep?
He wouldn’t say he was choosing death on his own terms, because he never chose anything from the day he was born. It just felt right, in this moment, to let the humans do with him as they pleased. He suffered a great deal of pain since he was brought to Kaer Morhen, since he was four; nothing they would come with would be something he never experienced before.
And after that… after that there would be nothing. There would be no more Path, no more humans, no more Kaer Morhen, no more witcher, no more monsters, no more feelings. There would be death and only death. If not peace, at least not war. If not happiness, at least no more fear, no more struggling.
He let the shouts of the crowd wash over him, its fear, its hatred, its contempt, its relief. He let all of it cling to his skin, to his hair, to his clothes, to his swords, to his wrinkles and to his scars, knowing that they would be not following where he was going.