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Vesemir and Mignole arrive first. Truthfully, Geralt expected them to arrive last. Getting Vesemir to leave the keep he protected for so long should have been harder than pulling teeth, but once Vesemir figured out what Geralt had planned, he soon asked if he could bring a guest. How could Geralt refuse him? He certainly didn’t want to. The witchers have spent so much time alone with no one else but each other to keep them company. If the old wolf had finally found someone that makes him happy - someone that isn’t his wolf pups - then Geralt will be damned if he doesn’t allow the man who raised them this one simple joy.
Geralt has a house built separately from the main manor. It’s a quaint thing, more like a cottage than anything else, but Geralt swears he could see tears in the old wolf’s eyes when Geralt gives them a tour of the meagre home. Truly, it’s nothing special, sitting at the edge of a lake and entirely constructed of wood and stone. Even so, Mignole fawns over it, despite having a nicer home as a countess, and Vesemir doesn’t quite hug Geralt, but Geralt treasures the squeeze to his shoulder all the same.
From a distance, he watches Mignole start to set up a garden in the front yard, growing fruits and vegetables that she intends to give Marlene for meals. Geralt told her explicitly that she didn’t have to - they manage well enough on food without the help - but Mignole insists on repaying a debt Geralt assures her she does not have. Mignole splits her time between the cottage and her home in Novigrad, but Geralt knows that, in the long term, she will retire here with Vesemir.
In the times Mignole is gone, Vesemir simply...relaxes. As the weeks pass, Geralt gets the privilege of seeing his mentor during the most content moments of his life. Something about the place makes Vesemir smile more, offer affection more often, let his guard down for the first time in centuries. Vesemir fills out a lot more around the waist, seeming well-fed and taken care of. Geralt can’t help smiling in return. After so long of Vesemir taking care of them, the pups are past due to return the favour.
“You look good,” Geralt calls out as he approaches where Vesemir sits on a blanket by the lake. Mignole left for Novigrad a few days before, and they don’t expect her back for at least another week. Geralt takes it upon himself to keep his mentor company. No one likes being alone.
Vesemir chuckles. “You can thank Marlene for that.”
“And here I thought I would get some thanks, too,” Geralt huffs good-naturedly, making himself at home beside Vesemir.
The old wolf hums, raising an arm to rest over Geralt’s shoulders. Only a few years ago, they wouldn’t have indulged like this. Geralt wouldn’t sink into Vesemir’s embrace or wrap an arm around the other witcher’s waist, absentmindedly taking note of how much weight Vesemir’s put on. He wouldn’t have rested his head on Vesemir’s shoulder or kept up a lighthearted conversation. Now, though, on this peaceful estate, they can do that without fear of judgment from ghosts of the past.
“Thank you, my boy,” Vesemir whispers.
Geralt scoffs. “Ves, I was joking. I don’t actually expect-”
“You should.”
Vesemir keeps his eyes on the lake, watching the blue water shimmer in the sun, waves lapping at the shore. The sound washes over them, and with the wildlife fluttering around them, they can settle without fear of harm. They feel safe here. That’s all Geralt has ever hoped for.
“You and the others,” Vesemir continues, voice rumbling in his chest but without the sharp edge of stress like Geralt’s used to, “have done so well these past few decades, and I never told you that enough.”
“You told us plenty,” Geralt reassures quietly, not wishing to disturb the peace.
Vesemir shakes his head. “No such thing. We wouldn’t have this if not for your efforts, Geralt. Everything I once believed witchers couldn’t have, you managed to receive it. Instead of hoarding it to yourself, you have graciously offered for others to leech off your success. I know about the letters you sent off.”
Geralt sighs. “It’s not leeching. You’ve all put in your work, too. Especially you. If any of you had gotten the same opportunity, I know you would have done the same as I have.”
Vesemir squeezes Geralt’s shoulder, taking a deep breath. He still doesn’t look at Geralt, but when Geralt glances at him, he can see something shining in Vesemir’s eyes. Maybe one day, Vesemir will feel comfortable enough to let that emotion go in front of him.
“I would have, pup,” Vesemir agrees, swallowing thickly. “If I could have given you boys the world, I would've done so. Would the other instructors have approved? No, most likely not. But they’re gone now, and you’re all I have left.”
Geralt hears the sentiment without the words. He wishes he could say them for the both of them, but he’s not sure if they’re ready for that yet. It seems like they’re talking in circles, approaching those three words and stepping away at the last second. He thinks they’ll get there soon, just not now. Geralt doesn’t think it matters, though. They’ve never needed words with each other. They just know.
“You’re all we have left, too, Ves.”
If that means Geralt has to protect Vesemir until the old wolf’s dying days, then Melitele be damned, he will. They’ve earned this, and it’s only a fraction of what Vesemir has sacrificed for them. Geralt may not be able to give Vesemir the world, but he will damn well try.
Lambert and Aiden arrive next. Honestly, Geralt’s surprised Lambert didn’t get here before Vesemir did. For as long as Geralt can remember, Lambert has hated the witcher life, always silently wishing for a white picket fence and a family. Well, Geralt might not have a white picket fence, but he can offer something close to family.
Geralt doesn’t build a separate house for them. Lambert and Aiden vehemently expressed that it wasn’t necessary. In a way, Geralt’s glad they didn’t want it. He’s not sure if he had the room for it, and deep down, he doesn’t want to split from them yet. With Vesemir, it’s different. The old wolf has always valued moments of privacy, but the pups never really spend time away from each other if they can afford it. Call it pack dynamics, but Geralt craves their presence.
He gives them the spare room down the hall from the master bedroom. The two of them make good use of it for the first week, setting down their bags and lavishing themselves in the hot springs Geralt specifically requested to be built, if not to reconstruct their beloved one in Kaer Morhen. Just a few days after arriving, Geralt can hear them...testing out the bed, and he smirks into his glass of wine as he turns the page of his book in his own room.
It takes a little while, but Lambert starts to settle into a routine. For someone who always claimed to hate being a witcher, Lambert bounces off the walls, locking himself in a makeshift basement alchemy lab, brewing potions they’ll likely never use. Geralt watches him flounder for a little while, sharing exasperated looks with Aiden, but he understands. It had been hard for Geralt to find a way to redirect his stored energy somewhere, too. When Lambert nearly blows up the basement, he calls it quits and drags Lambert out.
“Here’s the deal,” Geralt starts, pushing Lambert into a chair. He ignores the younger wolf’s scowl and continues, “you need to settle the fuck down.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Lambert snarks back, petulantly crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “I’m doing fine!”
“You nearly blew up my house. Our house. I don’t think Ves is ready to take us back in so soon.”
“Well, what do you suppose, pretty boy? “Lambert snarls. “Unless you have something for me to do-”
“I’m sending Marlene on vacation in a couple of weeks,” Geralt interrupts, talking as if he never heard Lambert speak. “Before she leaves, I want you to learn what you can from her. You’ll be cooking for us while she’s gone.”
Lambert squawks indignantly. “I’m not your chef!”
Geralt raises an eyebrow in response, dropping his voice to a whisper and pointing upstairs to where Aiden is taking an afternoon nap in their bedroom. “No, but you love him, don’t you? You’ve noticed how he tends to be a bit thicker during the winter?”
A moment of silence passes between them, a constipated look descending over Lambert’s face as his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Eventually, he settles on, “Did you just call my boyfriend fat?”
It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes now. “Eskel gets the same way. Right now, Aiden looks thin as hell, and you can fix that by cooking for him.” With a smirk, Geralt adds, “And I know how much you like him with a bit of meat on him.”
The flush that creeps up Lambert’s neck while the younger wolf grumbles curses at him tells Geralt all he needs to know. With a pat on Lambert’s head, Geralt dodges the jab to his side with a laugh and walks off. When dinner rolls around, he finds Lambert bringing out the food with Marlene. Lambert glares at Geralt when he walks in, but when Marlene comments on how well the roast duck came out, Lambert preens. Vesemir sends Geralt an amused glance, only making it harder for Geralt to hide his satisfied smirk.
Geralt sits on the left side, leaving the head of the table for Vesemir. He may run this estate, but in his mind, Vesemir will always sit in that seat, Mignole on his right-hand side. He prefers it this way, and it provides some semblance of normalcy in this new life they’ve carved out for themselves. Aiden takes a seat next to Geralt, watching as Lambert heads back into the kitchen with Marlene to grab drinks.
“How’d you manage it, wolf?” Aiden asks, smirking and keeping his voice low as Vesemir converses with Mignole.
Geralt snorts. “Lambert’s always liked cooking, baking mostly. He just needed...incentive to do it.”
Aiden raises an eyebrow. “And what did you offer?”
“It’s not what I offered.” At Aiden’s confused look, Geralt grins and pats Aiden’s thigh companionably. It takes a moment, but he knows it clicks when Aiden lets out a startled laugh.
“Oh, fuck you,” Aiden chuckles. “I regret telling you about that.”
Geralt shrugs, still smiling to himself. “What? You like food and Lambert likes all of you,” he responds, sending Aiden a suggestive wink. The Cat snorts. “It seems like a win-win to me.”
“Bastard,” Aiden fires back, but the affection in his voice is unmistakable.
Humming, Geralt says, "You're not so bad yourself, kitty-cat."
Aiden rolls his eyes, the amusement evident on his face, even as Lambert sits down across from them. The youngest witcher narrows his eyes at them sceptically, as if attempting to read their minds instead of asking. When neither Geralt nor Aiden answers, he scoffs and drops the subject.
The next few moments pass relatively quickly, light conversation passing between the five of them as they pile food high onto their plates. For all Geralt teased Lambert, the wolf pup does have a knack for cooking, and the roast duck is quite possibly one of the best things Geralt has ever eaten. Where he would have given Lambert a backhanded compliment, Geralt comments on it with an honest,
“If this is how the food’s gonna taste while Marlene’s gone, I think we’ll be okay.”
It’s not the best compliment someone can receive, but for them, it's certainly something. Lambert dips his head down, keeping his flustered face hidden as he stabs at his dinner. “Yeah, well, whatever.”
He visibly bites his cheek then raises his head. He doesn’t quite look at Geralt, but it’s enough that Geralt braces himself for whatever Lambert wants to say next.
“Not to, uh, dampen the mood or anything,” Lambert mutters, yet it still grabs everyone’s attention, “but aren’t we missing someone?”
Geralt quiets at that, letting the atmosphere turn uncomfortable and sombre. They are missing someone, and for as happy as they are here, it’s hard to pretend like something’s not crucially wrong. His bed feels far too large, too empty. While he’s happy that Lambert and Aiden have each other, he wishes he could have his partner, too.
Vesemir clears his throat lightly, breaking the silence. “You invited him, yes?”
Geralt wants to take offence at that, but he knows Vesemir only asks for his own peace of mind, not as a slight against Geralt. “Of course I did,” Geralt murmurs. “I sent him an invitation the same day I sent one to all of you. He just...hasn’t responded.”
“Well...can’t you just send him another?” Aiden suggests, eyes flickering around the table as he searches for someone to agree with him. Only Mignole meets his eyes with a nod.
“I don’t want to pressure him,” Geralt sighs. “He should want to come here.”
Lambert scoffs. “Well, he should at least have the decency to tell us if he’s alive!”
“Settle down now,” Mignole soothes, reaching out a hand to place over Lambert’s. The pup stills at her touch. “You’re all witchers. You know how busy your lives can be. Perhaps the letter simply got lost.”
Geralt shakes his head. “The raven was enchanted. He would have gotten it. He doesn’t want-”
“What he wants isn’t for you to decide,” Mignole chastises lightly. “It doesn’t hurt to send another letter and actually express something you feel to him. Melitele knows you likely didn’t do that the first time.” Geralt ducks his head at that. She isn’t wrong. “I’m sure he needs some time. This is a tough adjustment for you all. For now, let’s eat. He will come when he is ready.”
The rest of dinner is silent after that, but Geralt’s mind races. He lays in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and listening to Lambert and Aiden breathe in unison within the confines of their room. After over an hour of nonstop thinking - hoping, wishing, praying - Geralt heaves himself up from bed and shuffles over to his desk. With a short cast of Igni, Geralt sits in the candlelight and writes the letter.
No, he begs Eskel to come home.
Two more months pass and Geralt feels foolish for even trying. He doesn’t know how he could have expected Eskel to give this up. Eskel has confessed to him time and time again how much he loves being a witcher. Where Geralt tolerates it and Lambert loathes it, Eskel embraces his abilities, seeking pleasure in helping those in need. He may not have dreamt of being a knight like Geralt did, but he still has a kind heart. It would be cruel of Geralt to take that away from him.
It doesn’t stop Geralt from dreaming, though, and it seems like he’s not the only one.
He spots Lambert up at dawn sometimes, sitting at the front steps of the manor and overlooking the trail. For the first few days, he lets Lambert have his peace, pretends not to see this clearly private moment. After that, he can’t help himself, and he sits beside the youngest wolf.
“You think he’s gonna come?” Lambert asks, voice raspy from disuse.
Geralt exhales deeply through his nose. “I hope so,” he whispers, and it’s all he can offer.
Aiden spends his time in the stables, grooming the horses and constantly cleaning the spare stall like he wanted it prepared for someone. Geralt watches him for a bit, but before he can address it, Aiden speaks first.
“Mignole is right,” he says, brushing down his horse’s mane. “Eskel might not be ready yet.”
“It’s been months,” Geralt argues, but he’s not really trying to. He has come to terms with it already, even if it doesn’t make sense to him.
Aiden shrugs. “Could be years. Time doesn’t really exist to us, you know.”
Geralt understands that. Time is a hard thing to follow when witchers live as long as they do. In what seemed like a blink of an eye, Dandelion had aged and could no longer follow him on the Path like he used to. They still visit each other, keep in touch, but time has lost value to Geralt, and he wonders if it has lost its value to Eskel, too.
“Just remember that you’re not alone, wolf,” Aiden carries on. “You might miss him, but so do we, and we care for you just the same.”
It’s a bold declaration, especially from a witcher, but Geralt treats it carefully all the same. He swallows thickly and nods.
“I know. Same to you.”
Vesemir sits by the lake more often, watching the water ebb and flow. He looks lost in thought constantly, and more than once, Geralt thinks he might have seen Vesemir’s eyes closed and hands pressed together in prayer. Never has he considered Vesemir as a religious man, but Geralt supposes everyone has their breaking points.
“He’ll come home to us,” Geralt promises, staring into the lake.
“I know,” Vesemir says, and that’s all they need.
Another month passes, and Geralt is ready to throw in the towel. He can’t sleep in his room anymore, too acutely aware of how empty it is. It’s disturbing, cold, and lonely. He hates it. So he spends his nights in the library. It’s not like Kaer Morhen’s, and Geralt craves that loss, too. Kaer Morhen may have been rundown and filled with bad memories, but it was still his only home for decades, and they managed to make plenty of good memories there also. Geralt wonders if he’ll ever go back, if he’ll ever brave the Killer to stand in the west tower one more time to relive his and Eskel’s first kiss.
Geralt doesn’t think he would want to if he could just have his first kiss with Eskel in Corvo Bianco.
The candle melts beside him, wax dripping onto the pewter holder as Geralt flips the pages of a book he’s not really reading. He leans his head back against the chair and stares at the ceiling. With a soft exhale, he wonders where Eskel is and why he won’t come back. Geralt would do anything in his power to wipe the stresses from Eskel’s shoulders if the other witcher would simply let him try, but Eskel hasn’t granted him that chance. Geralt’s starting to think he never will.
Footsteps in the hallway grab his attention. It’s not one pair, but two. Two very familiar sets of footsteps head in Geralt’s direction, and he springs to his feet. He knows those gaits like the back of his hand, and while he wants to know why Vesemir is up so late, he’s more interested in the second set.
Before Geralt can leave the library, the door swings open, revealing Vesemir’s gentle smile. Geralt’s eyes move past his father’s face and to the figure standing behind him. His chest clenches, his eyes burn, his breath catches, and he nearly collapses with relief.
“Look who I found,” Vesemir murmurs, stepping aside to allow a better view.
“You’re home,” Geralt whispers, not daring to speak any louder in case it breaks this daydream he has put himself in.
Eskel quirks a soft smile, eyes shining with something akin to hope and yearning. Geralt knows. It’s all he has felt for several months.
“I would like it to be,” Eskel says, and how Geralt has missed that rough, baritone voice. How he has missed the soothing tone that whispers those three words to him, the same three words Geralt can’t bear to say to anyone else unless he hears it from Eskel first.
Vesemir leaves them be, exiting the library to grant them privacy. Geralt hardly notices, throwing himself at Eskel without shame. Time may have lost its meaning to them, but that doesn’t mean it stands still. With each passing second, it’s another moment Geralt can spend in Eskel’s arms, and he doesn’t dare lose out on any more than he already has.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” Eskel breathes, a hint of a sob sitting in his words. “I wasn’t ready. I still don’t think I am. But I wanna try. I’m sorry, Geralt.”
Geralt gives a watery laugh, shaking his head and burying his face into Eskel’s shoulder. He feels tears drip into his hair, strong arms tightening around his waist and Geralt returns the gesture. “You fool,” he chuckles wetly, “I’ve waited this long for you. I’m not letting you go again.”
Geralt leads Eskel to their room and helps strip his lover out of his armour. Eskel’s thin, and Geralt hates it, but if he gives Lambert enough time, he’s sure the pup will fix that. Eskel has a few more scars marring his body, and Geralt’s determined to put an end to that collection. He hands Eskel a change of clothes, silk to soothe his skin. Eskel accepts it gratefully, changing and lowering himself into bed with an exhausted groan. Geralt doesn’t hesitate to curl up beside him, pressing close and basking in Eskel’s warmth.
A moment of silence passes, and curiosity gets the best of him. Geralt opens his mouth and asks, “What made you change your mind?”
Eskel hums tiredly, eyes already closed. “The letter you sent. You...you sounded like you really wanted me to come back, and it reminded me of what I had waiting for me. I was an idiot to ignore it.”
“You were,” Geralt agrees, and Eskel huffs a laugh. “You have a lot of making up to do.”
Eskel turns his head, opening his eyes to seek out Geralt’s. His lips turn upwards into a smile as he whispers, “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
Geralt tips his head up, capturing Eskel’s lips in a sweet kiss, and he loses himself in the moment of it. For months, he’s dreamed of having Eskel here in his bed, just like this. Now he has it, and he won’t ever let it go.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Eskel confesses, amber eyes clouded with uncertainty and fear. It’s not something Geralt’s used to from Eskel, but he’ll never let his lover drown.
“Neither did we,” Geralt soothes, “but we’ll teach you. You just gotta trust us.”
Eskel doesn’t hesitate. He simply nods, drawing Geralt closer and closing his eyes. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to follow suit. Time can pass them by, but Geralt doesn’t care about the seconds, minutes, or hours. He only cares about the memories he can make within them, and with that, he thinks they’ll be okay.