Chapter Text
If someone tried to court any other wolf they would get to the marriage proposal before the Witcher even knew what was happening, but Eskel wasn’t any other wolf. He was patient and kind, romantic, and observant. Eskel knew from the first time that Coën showed intent that he was being courted. The soft blush on the Griffin Witcher’s cheeks matched his own as he accepted the soft square of fabric wrapped around sweet honeycomb the harlequin eyed Witcher had retrieved himself.
“It’s not anything they compare it to - the summer moon.” Eskel scarcely hears the words whispered against his knuckles as Coën lifts them to his lips. A bare brush of moistened skin against weathered veins leaves him feeling bereft as the smaller man takes his leave, a promise in his eyes of further gestures leaving Eskel frozen in place long after he has gone.
Eskel repeats the words to himself as he makes camp that night. The honey heavy on his tongue, the light of the full moon flooding the tiny clearing he has found, bathing him in a love so intense he can scarcely believe it’s real. He worries the soft handkerchief with rough fingers long after he is done eating.
“Spring morning marvel. Lovely nameless little hill on a sea of mist.” His mouth forms an answering poem to the dark, his fingers searching his bags for paper and quill. Only after he has put the words down does he relax, resolving to send it as a letter at his next stop, hoping Coën will know who it is from without any other words.
“It is nothing they compare it to…” his last thought as he drifts off, warmed by the fire and something blossoming in his heart.
Eskel knows that he is being courted and Eskel accepts. His heart singing and soul full, whispers of love killing him to sleep and keeping him safe as he walks his path, alone in body but not in spirit.
Eskel wakes with a smile on his face, the moon fading, his companion through the long night gone to seek its rest. The rising sun urging him on to find a town, a contract, somewhere to send his letter to his love, the paper smelling softly of him from a night worn next to his heart. Coën's favor rides in a pocket over his heart, too precious to be used for mundane tasks.
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When he arrives at the keep that winter his brothers greet him with hugs, slaps on the back, and intimate embraces that speak of family and love. Coën hangs back, his eyes never leaving Eskel’s, never stepping forward to take advantage of the jovial atmosphere. It is only after the others have gone inside that he follows Eskel into the stables.
He bows low, his knees scraping the group as he again grasps Eskel’s hand, lips moving as he makes the barest contact with skin. “The winds of autumn blow: yet still green the chestnut husks”
The soft words and touch warm Eskel as they gather his things, walking side by side into the Kaer. Coën offers him one last gift; quiet companionship for his too raw nerves. A quiet acknowledgment of the years they have to come, the sweetness of their growing love, and a promise to wait until the world around is little more than a dull roar before his courtship begins in earnest.