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Eskel sighs as the massive iron-banded gates of hewn oak come into view around the last bend of the Trail. A snowstorm had set in when he was halfway up the climb, forcing him to find the nearest abandoned bear cave and camp out until the storm blew over, but he is returning late this year. A contract had held him up in the southern end of Kaedwen. It was easy, but time-consuming, especially in the snowy countryside, and he’d rather not let it fester into something worse over the winter. So he spent the last three days huddled around a fire in the side of the mountain, dividing up the last of his rations and feed between him and Scorpion.
Scorpion nickers, recognizing home, the black stallion as eager as Eskel to get out of the foot-deep snow. Geralt and Vesemir are waiting by the little door to the right side of the gate, and his brother walks the last of the way between them to meet Eskel in the middle. His coat must be new, some kind of an expensive fur that he’d never buy for himself. Geralt pats Scorpion’s nose as Eskel pulls him to a stop. Scorpion neighs in displeasure. “Sorry, boy,” Eskel apologizes, patting his neck, and dismounts to meet his brother.
Geralt doesn’t wait for Eskel to right himself before he’s pulling him into a tight hug. He makes a low, displeased sound deep in his chest, and Eskel brushes his fingers over his brother’s snow-white hair. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Was starting to worry,” Geralt replies.
“There was a pack of nekkers down by Leyda,” Eskel says by way of explanation. “Now let’s get inside. My feet are cold and I’m aching for some of Vesemir’s stew.”
Geralt squeezes one last time before letting go. Eskel takes Scorpion’s reins in hand and leads the poor stallion through the gate. “Left some on the fire for you,” Vesemir says, pulling Eskel into an embrace. In the courtyard the snow has been shoveled, Scorpion’s hooves clacking on the snow-dusted cobblestones. Vesemir takes Scorpion’s saddle bags back inside, Geralt follows him to the far side of the yard and into the warm stable; it smells of dry hay and horse. Roach looks up, unimpressed at the cold wind the three of them let in behind them before the door shuts again, and neighs.
Geralt goes to soothe his bad-tempered mare, pulling out an apple from his pocket, as Eskel leads Scorpion into his box and begins to untack him. Geralt goes about cleaning Scorpion’s tack while Eskel curries him down and cleans his hooves.
By the time he’s finished, Geralt is lingering awkwardly by the box’s gate. Eskel lifts a questioning brow. “There’s … hm —” his brother breaks off. His brow scrunches, trying to find his words. Eskel waits, long used to the way Geralt’s mind works. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” His words are determined but Eskel can sense the unsurety in his voice. Eskel squeezes his brother’s hand. Geralt calms a little. “Someones, actually,” he adds.
Eskel lets Geralt lead him through the side door that leads to the kitchens instead of back outside. They’re well-stocked this time of year, but they always feel too big without the hundreds of long-dead witchers to fill them. The great hall is lively in their stead, pulsing with the warmth of the dozen or so witchers that are still there to fill it and the fire crackling in the hearth. It’s a welcome sound after the weeks of bitter winter wind whistling past his ears.
It seems his brothers have picked up more witchers this year; there are faces he doesn’t know … and faces that don’t belong to any witchers at all. There’s a young man sitting in the couch by the hearth, chestnut-haired and dressed in the fancy sort of garments that nobles favor. His hands are wrapped around a mug that smells of mulled wine and his wool-socked feet are in the lap of a rather small woman wearing a silky black dress with raven-black hair, her lips painted red. Her face has the uncanny symmetry of a sorceress and she taps the man’s feet as they chat.
Geralt leads Eskel to an armchair by the hearth, pushing him into it. His movements are stiff as he steps methodically around Lambert sat criss-cross in the middle of the rug cursing at a sewing project, as he is wont to do, and ladles Eskel a bowl from the big pot hanging over the fire.
He presses it into Eskel’s hands, and Eskel can feel the warmth and feeling seep back into his fingers. The stew smells of venison and potatoes and juniper berries and something spicy Eskel can’t place. He takes in a deep breath of the mouth-watering steam, feeling the warmth spread to his lungs. Geralt gets twitchy, waiting for Eskel to finish half the stew. He seems to make up his mind about whatever — presumably the duo of noble(-adjacent)s sitting across from him — has him so worked up, presses a hand to Eskel’s knee and makes his way over to the woman.
He crouches down in front of her, slowly reaches for one of her hands and she lets him take it, turning from her conversation with the man to face him. He turns her hand over in his, gently pressing his thumbs into her palm, and murmurs something so quiet even witcher-hearing can’t quite pick it up. The woman mouths something Eskel doesn’t try to interpret.
The man presses one of his feet into Geralt’s bicep. His brother’s head turns to the man and he flashes Geralt a rather adorable dazzling little smile. Geralt doesn’t let go of the sorceress’ hand as he faces Eskel again. “Eskel,” he says, his voice a little more sure than in the stables, “meet Yennefer and Jaskier.”
The man — Jaskier — turns his sunny smile on Eskel. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he says.
“All mine,” Eskel answers, moving to stand behind Geralt, and placing a hand on his broad shoulder. He nods to Jaskier in place of a bow. “And you, my lady.”
Yennefer shares with him a charming smile that has just a little edge of ferocity in the corners. “Geralt talks about you constantly,” she says teasingly.
“Hm,” Geralt grumbles, but he relaxes under Eskel’s grip. His brother always did like to worry about everything. This had likely been stressing him for a while. His wolf.
He steps around to sit next to his brother in front of the couch. “Really? All I ever see him do is grumble.”
The mage laughs, high and elegant. “Or glower.”
“Sometimes he says ‘fuck’,” Jaskier chimes in. Eskel snorts, wrapping a hand around the bony ankle now dangling in front of him.
Geralt, for once, smiles. It’s small and soft, but beautiful nonetheless.