bakerstreet | ( nursed back to health shipping meme. )

I'll say, I wouldn't want to be on your wrong side. [He laughs. He laughs so easily, particularly compared to his typically more dour brethren. There's a warmth to Eskel that people rarely expect, providing they get over the disgust his witcher's eyes and ruined face inspire.] Well...I suppose you've done all you can for me. Thank you, Éomer. I owe you a life debt, certainly. I probably didn't have more than a few hours left in me before you arrived. [The healer informed him it may still be a bit risky, that he must rest to avoid compromising any more blood vessels. But there's no reason to trouble Éomer with this; she probably already knows, having seen men wounded in battle.]

[ Eskel is the only witcher Éomer has met in the flesh, so to her, they must all laugh this much. It's nice. He has a pleasant laugh, and it's nice to see a man who must spend so much of his life witnessing pain and anger able to find joy in small things.

His eyes are a bit strange, she'll admit that much. But the eyes are only part of the face, and she's already spent so much time talking to him and thinking of him as a person, it seems a little churlish to start taking offense now.

She uncrosses her arms to wave one hand dismissively. ] I would do it for anyone. You owe me nothing.

[ What kind of person would she be if she left a man to bleed to death alone? At the very least, she had been determined to sit with him while he died. The fact that he's still kicking, figuratively, is a miracle in and of itself, one that has very little to do with her intervention. ]

If you manage to survive a few hour's more, I will bring you that ale I promised. Unfortunately, for now, you'll have to wait a bit longer.

Oooh, I'll hang on for that promise of ale. [He swears, settling back onto the pillow.] And the company. Healer says I'll be here a while longer than I planned. Especially if I'm to recuperate sufficiently to not lose any range of motion in my arm. I'm going to go home as soon as I can though, no sense in getting myself killed later in the season because I'm still stiff or weakened.

Yes, I would think it in everyone's best interests if we avoided that.

[ She steps a little closer and reaches out to pat the back of his hand. ]

Rest. I will see to your horse and bring you some food once you have slept some and once the carcasses have been dealt with.

Yes ma'am. [In truth, it's not hard to do as she asks. His eyes are closed by the time she crosses the threshold and he's sound asleep a few moments after that. Exhausted by his brush with death, he sleeps deeply and mercifully bereft of the nightmares known to inflict witchers. He's asleep still when she returns to him, snoring somewhat.]

[ True to her word, Éomer seeks out the witcher's horse, already stabled and cared for, and sets to grooming her again regardless, murmuring to her quietly in her lilting mother tongue and enjoying the way the horse's ears flick back and forth like she's trying to understand what Éomer is saying to her.

Once the mare has been seen to, she sees to Firefoot as well even though her squire has already washed the blood off him and brushed him down, repeating the whole process herself, holding a one-sided conversation with him as well.

After both horses are happily munching through a nose-bag of oats, settled in their borrowed stalls far enough away from each other that she doesn't have to worry about someone starting a fight with anyone else, Éomer goes and sees to herself next.

The rest of the day passes in much the same way, with Éomer killing time replenishing the éored's stores, speaking with the alderman about official business, visiting the farrier, tracking down the village medicine woman to see if she can procure some more of the herbs that keep her from getting her monthlies while out on patrol. By the time the evening meal rolls around, all her men have returned from their duties as well, and the small village tavern is full to bursting, raucous laughter and drunken singing spilling from the open doors like torchlight. Éomer stays long enough to drink a pint of ale herself, and grab a few bites to eat, but she's not particularly hungry and she promised someone else she'd bring him some sustenance.

The cottage is dark when she slips through the door, but she thinks the witcher is awake. ]

I don't suppose you could light the hearth all the way from over there, could you?

Mmm? [A sleepy growl from the bed. He heaves himself up on his good arm with a groan and in the dark she might be able to see that his eyes reflect, the mirror-shine gaze of a predatory beast.] The fire? Maybe, but you're gonna want to stand well clear while I try. [Of course, he can't resist the urge to show off, even beat to shit as he is.]

[ That sleepy growl was rather nice, actually. Éomer firmly pushes that thought aside. Now is not the time for even idle speculation.

His eyes flashing like a cat is a little odd, but it's not like it's altogether surprising, if she thinks about it. He's already got the slitted pupils of a cat, it stands to reason that they'd react to dim light the same way a barn cat's eyes would.

The grunting and the shuffling around in bed is a very human noise, though. Even if his eyes did disquiet her, the rest would be enough to put her at ease. ]

...You aren't going to burn the cottage down, are you? This is a thatched roof.

I'll be careful. [He promises, shifting a bit and focusing through the ache in his ravaged body. He focuses and makes the sign of Igni and a whirl of flame lurches across the space. The sparks dissipate instantaneously when he stops making the sign, but a little tongue of flame has caught in the hearth. He sinks back against the headboard, looking very pleased with himself, if a bit sweaty with the effort. The spell isn't really meant for such precision but he'd managed it.] Told you.

Good heavens.

[ Watching someone launch fire across a room, even a room as small as this one, seems like it would require more swearing than that, but Éomer has already seen Eskel with fire dancing across his fingertips, so she at least was somewhat prepared.

Still. That was impressive.

Though, in the light that the fire is now producing, she can see the sweat that's cropping up along his brow and in the hollow of his throat, and she frowns at him. ]

You could have said no. I wouldn't have thought less of you.

[ Honestly. Men. They're all the same. ]

Here. Drink your ale.

Hell no. My pride won't let me fail to cast twice in a row in front of good company. [He takes the ale, sipping it gratefully. Beyond the fact that he's thirsty and in the need of having his spirits lifted in the way only the effervescence of beer can provide, it's also just really good beer. He makes a very pleased noise and restrains himself so he can savor it for a while. He looks at her over the rim of the mug.] Damn, that's good. Thanks.

Unbelievable.

[ Perfectly believable, actually.

Rolling her eyes at him, she sets the trencher she brought with her down on the bed beside his good leg and goes to fetch herself a chair that she can drag a little closer to his bedside. ]

I thought you might need a little sustenance. Healing is thirsty work.

Much appreciated. [He's happy to dig in, though he does his best to retain some semblance of manners. A little difficult with only one hand but he'll manage. And she spends all her time with soldiers, surely she's seen a man bolt his food a time or two.] You don't have to stay too long, though I'd be glad of the company for a little while. Otherwise I'm just gonna lay here and think about how itchy and sore I am.

[ She purposefully brought him food that could be eaten one-handed: bread with butter, cured meats, some roasted vegetables. The stew that was served to her men had been delicious, but she thought perhaps navigating a bowl and spoon with only one hand available would be too difficult, so she decided not to bring any to the recuperating witcher. ]

Sitting with you means not having to yell to be heard, so I'm quite happy to remain.

[ His company is pleasant, too, especially when he's not bleeding all over her. Stretching her legs out comfortably in front of her and crossing her ankles, she settles into her chair and watches him eat. ]

I know what the healer told me, but what do you think? Will you recover?

If I'm a very good boy and sit still for a while. [He jokes, chewing the thick crust of the bread. It's good, chewy with oats and the butter is sweet. Beats dry rations on the road, for sure.] But I think I'll be fine, thanks to my knight in shining armor. [He winks at her with his unscarred eye.]

And are you going to be good?

[ She knows better than to expect any man to actually listen to everything a healer says. Her own riders like to push their luck when it comes to their recovery, and she knows enough about witchers now to know that their healing rates differ from a full human's. Who knows how Eskel will react to being told he has to stay in bed for a few days.

She smirks and picks at a stain on her trousers. ] Hard to find anything still shining out on the plains. Too dusty.

Yeah, I'll be good. Have to be, if I don't make it home for the winter, you're going to have some very nosy, very irritable witchers on your doorstep and I'd hate for that to happen. [He piles some of the cured meats on the bread to multitask on the efficient way he's scarfing down his dinner.] And yet there you were, like a beacon in the blood and the smoke and the mud.

Well, if they're anything like you are, I don't really see why that would be a problem... [ She's enjoyed their acquaintance, so far. Though if the witchers descended upon the Riddermark to avenge a fallen comrade, they might be a little less pleasant than Eskel's been so far. ]

Are you a poet as well as a witcher, Eskel?

A poet? Not on your life. A few stray kind words here and there doesn't make a poet of a witcher. [He finishes the meal and sets the plate aside so he can return to his ale.] Not of this one, anyway.

[ She's smiling as she watches him, amused and a little flattered by his kind words. Tipping her head slightly to one side, she makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. ] Why not?

Not silly enough to be a poet. Just don't see the world the way they do. For one thing, witchers just aren't capable of the depth of feeling. Haven't you heard? Witchers don't have emotions. Or souls. You need both to be a poet.

[ Her smile fading slightly, she tips her head a little more and draws her eyebrows together, watching him silently for a moment before humming. ] I don't think I believe that.

Believe me or don't, that's what they tell us. Everybody knows they bleed all the human feeling out of us. [He shrugs. He's not entirely sure that's true, or maybe he's just broken. Or that something went wrong with the witchers at his school, because as far as he can tell, they all feel far more than they should. Though Eskel of the lot of them seems best at managing these non-existant feelings.]

Everybody knows? The same way everybody knows that witchers are so mutated they don't look human below the belt? [ She settles her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together, and gives him a tight little smile. ] All I know is I've had my hands all over your thighs and you seem fairly human to me.

[ She mirrors his shrug. ] Far be it from me to tell you what you do or don't feel, but I hope you realize that not everyone believes everything they are told.

No, I imagine you most of all don't take anything without a great deal of thinking and questioning over it. Probably why you're such a good leader, somebody your soldiers look to. [He says, his tone serious when he says it.] Even if some of your questions are little brazen. [His tone turns teasing and he makes a vague gesture at the blanket in his lap.]

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