Chapter Text
He had scarcely hoped that Eskel would accept his gift, even if his heart didn’t want Coën, he had to try. After years spent wintering in the same keep together, he knew that his heat would always belong to the simmering mountain of a man. While other Witchers fell in and out of bed with each other, tumbling and fumbling like teenage boys, Coën wanted to give Eskel more. An enduring love that could stand the test of time. Courting him was the obvious choice, the only choice; it was what Eskel deserved. So while he ached to wrap his fingers in Eskel’s hair, to caress his face and kiss his scars, he would be patient and show with actions, words, and quiet longing the tempest that beat within his heart.
Parting from the Witcher was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. But Eskel didn’t need a helper on the path, he didn’t need someone to protect him or provide for him, he needed someone who saw him as the capable man he was. He didn’t need someone who would shirk his responsibilities and leave part of the continent without protection. So Coën went, plans for the winter already dancing in his head.
He rode hard, making camp under the stars before pulling out a sketchbook and getting planned on his next gifts, composing poetry that spoke to his soul, to hopes he had for the winter, and to the long years that he would have to court and love his soul’s choice. He thanked the stars that they were both less than mortal, that Eskel was competent and he as well, that they could have years to work this out, that he could do this right.
After two days on the road he found a small town, an even smaller contract, but a surprisingly welcoming inn. Settled in with food and beer, he didn’t expect a messenger to appear with a letter, one that smelled of Eskel’s sea salt, volcanic stone, and sun warmed slate scent so strongly it was like the man was still beside him. It took more willpower than he wanted to admit to push the letter to the side and focus on eating and preparing himself for the hunt ahead.
Only hours later, when the minor necrophage infestation had been cleared, his wounds stitched, and his skin freshly bathed did he allow himself to open the letter. Feeling his heart overflow with love at the few lines within. An acceptance poem, a returning of his suit in kind, more than he could have ever dreamed of receiving. With trembling hands he folded the paper into a small heart and placed it over his own, intending to keep it with him until the end of his days.
Drifting off to sleep his vision was filled with the other man’s kind eyes, the feel of his calloused hand on Coën’s wrist, and the subtle blush that had colored his features as he accepted his gift.
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Coën cut his journey across the continent short by almost a month, riding hard to make it up the pass and the killer before the leaves finished turning. He needed to speak with the Wolf patriarch, needed time to prepare a gift for midwinter, needed time to calm himself before he saw the man he was beginning to think of as his mate again.
His early arrival didn’t seem to surprise Vesemir, the man wise beyond his years and calmer than the mountain he oversaw. A warm fire had already been lit in his chambers, a list of chores waiting upon his desk, and a meal ready after he washed the grime of the path from his skin. These small acts of service were the old man’s love language; the way he showed those he accepted into his fold his continuing devotion to their well-being. Coën hoped that he would still continue them after they spoke.
After the meal, a bit more rustic than those prepared for the larger group that normally came over the winter, Vesemir motioned for Coën to follow him and grabbed a rope wrapped decanter of wine, settling before the great hearth in his favorite chair. Coën chose to remain standing, fingers worrying the hem of his shirt as if he were a child called before his teacher, not a witcher with more than a century of experience. Vesemir didn’t push him to talk, waiting quietly with eyes that didn’t judge or prod, simply waiting for the griffin to open his mouth.
“Sir, I have begun a courtship with one of your students, your pups. I would seek your blessing in this matter, seek to honor the school of the wolf with my suit.”
A long minute passed as Vesemir held him in place with an appraising stare. When he spoke it was with a calm tone, almost too calm, one that spoke of a violent promise should he not like what he heard next.
“Eskel, you love him pup?”
Coën exhaled shakily, speaking of his feelings, this he could do. This was less worrying than other tasks he had imagined Vesemir setting for him.
“I do, he awakens within me emotions I previously only knew in ballads and poetry. Reminds me of tales of old, takes my breath away with his capabilities, humbles me with his strength. For all of my days I shall see him as my mate. My very being sings out with love for him.”
“Very well.” Coën blinked as the decanter was shoved in his direction, drinking quickly before passing it back. He had expected more, a challenge, an argument, even words of caution, but they passed the evening in silence until Vesemir took his leave. Coën sat several hours still, staring into the fire, rubbing gently at the small bump of paper beneath his clothes, finally free to hope and dream.
The next day he completed his chores in record time, even adding in some himself that he knew would normally be left until the other witchers came home. Eskel didn’t need someone to provide for him, but Coën could lighten his burden in other ways. Once he was sure there was nothing more for him to do he headed to the tannery, stretching an arch griffin skin taut, scraping and preparing it for the gift he had in mind.
The next day he repeated his actions, finding more chores to do again, before departing to the forest in search of ingredients for dye. Steeping them in a cauldron as he began to prep the forge for the next step of his gift. In this way he passed the weeks until the other witchers came home. Waiting for the first glimpse of his lovers bright red raiment over the ridge before he retreated and waited.
When Eskel walked into the keep he wanted nothing more than to run and sweep the man up in his arms. The pass had begun to accumulate snow by the time his Wolf had made the climb. His muscles were tight ropes, his back tense and his shoulders hunched. Several days of stubble dotted his face, his scars raised and worried from the wind. He flinched slightly from the loud sounds of his brothers, moved slower than normal and pulled in on himself. Everyone was like this at the end of the year, the promise of a winter away from the over sensitive grating of the human world like a siren song for their bodies. But other than weariness Coën saw no indication he had been harmed.
When the others left and he finally approached Eskel his tongue felt dry and his voice rough, he couldn’t help himself from sinking to his knees, speaking words of love and devotion and stealing a touch from the large and capable hand offered to him. When he spotted the small embroidered cloth he had gifted Eskel among his belongings his heart soared. His future mate was home and safe. He could ask for no more than that.