Chapter Text
Eskel can’t remember the last time he and his mates experienced such a difficult season.
The towns they’ve passed through have all offered contracts aplenty, but every single one has had complications. Ones that have cost them precious potions, damage to their equipment, and multiple injuries, with no extra coin to make up for the trouble.
They've just completed their most recent contract, and Lambert actually has to resort to threatening the Alderman with a knife to give them anything at all. That’s after they went to the trouble of dragging an entire forktail carcass in front of his house as proof. Eskel suspected the man was going to try to cheat them out of their pay when he negotiated their fee, especially when he realized the only reason they had a forktail problem at all is because the Alderman was attempting to reopen an abandoned mine in the mountains. A mine that previous Witchers warned him to leave be, unless they wanted to disturb the monsters that had no doubt made their homes in and around it.
Eskel knows he shouldn’t be surprised by the idiocy brought about by greed, not after walking the Path for so long, but he finds himself astounded, regardless. What is the point of hiring Witchers if you don’t bother to trust their knowledge of the creatures they hunt? So, he made certain his pack's success was indisputable.
Despite the freshly dead forktail leaking ichor all over the dirt, the Alderman tries to argue that it's a trick, and then that it's apparently too small to be the creature that has slain many of the villagers he's responsible for.
It’s enough to even get a rise out of Eskel, though a small one. He doesn’t need to do anything, though. His mates have it covered. With how worked up Lambert gets, it’s frankly a miracle that they aren’t followed by a mob when they leave with the meager purse the Alderman gave them, only reluctantly parted with when Geralt joined in on Lambert’s snarling.
Even the most hatefully stubborn humans balk when faced with two furious Alphas, especially when those Alphas also happen to be Witchers. Apparently, the Alderman’s idiocy doesn’t extend quite that far.
When they finally make camp that evening, it takes Eskel hours to calm his mates. A Beta’s scent and soothing words will only go so far when an Alpha believes their pack has been wronged, and for a Witcher, that feeling is further amplified by the mutagens until their reaction is blown out of proportion. When they can’t funnel those instincts into combating a threat, they have a bad habit of snapping at the nearest available target. Which, for their pack, usually means the other Alpha.
Eskel’s mates love each other as much as they love him, so they don’t truly fight, not with all of their strength, but their wrestling matches can get brutal when they’re both worked up. Most of the time, Eskel can easily tempt them away from violence with the promise of sex – an option they all vastly prefer and enjoy. Tonight, though, he has to physically pull them apart and pin them beneath his weight before they catch a whiff of his arousal, and fall in line.
After several very intense, enthusiastic rounds, the Alphas are a purring, satisfied heap, much to Eskel’s significant relief. He hates seeing his mates upset, even knowing how often it is bound to happen on the Path. Any time he can coax them back to at least contentment is a victory in itself, and one he relishes.
Once the Alphas have recovered enough, they insist on making dinner and handling the other camp chores while Eskel lounges on the bedrolls. They offer gentle touches, and quick kisses any time they pass by Eskel, doting on their Beta as much as they can without abandoning their work completely. It’s their way of apologizing, and they’ve done it for decades, despite Eskel’s assurances that he understands. Instincts are useful, most of the time, but occasionally they are a hindrance. Even with a Witcher’s training, they can’t always be controlled. If that means Eskel needs to spend some days pulling them back from the brink, then so be it.
He is more than happy to do so.
And, if on bad nights like this one, he drifts off to sleep wondering what it would be like to have another Beta, or, impossibly, an Omega, to help wrangle his beloved Alphas, he is careful to keep it to himself. There are so few Wolves left after the Pogroms, and all of them already have packs of their own. The odds of meeting a Beta or Omega from another school willing to join them is so unlikely it’s laughable, and there’s not a drowner’s chance in a desert that anyone other than a Witcher would ever consider them as mates. No, Eskel has to accept that it will be just the three of them for the rest of their lives, and thank all of the gods that he is lucky enough to have them.
The next morning brings lighter moods with the sun, and they all mount their horses, ready to face whatever the day might bring. After the streak of bad luck they’ve had, they all agree they need to change direction.
On an impulse he doesn’t entirely understand, Eskel suggests they head for the coast. The Alphas agree easily. After all, there are enough monsters that prefer the climate that they’re guaranteed to find work, and most of those hunts are more straightforward than what they’ve been dealing with. Both Alphas are in high spirits when they reach the next crossroads and take the proper fork, and Eskel finds himself hoping they can stay like that for as long as possible. Witchers are never foolish enough to plan for a true break, but Eskel prays to any god that will listen that the change in routine will provide a small respite.
They have only been traveling for three days, and are nowhere near the coast yet, when they hear a loud shriek, and an equally loud, if slightly less shrill, scream in response. The first was definitely a griffin, and the second, its intended prey. Likely a human in this area, unless it’s a traveler very far from home.
So much for a respite.
They all push their horses to a gallop immediately, Lambert already preparing his crossbow. Eskel can hear Lambert cursing under his breath as he makes adjustments, and he knows it isn’t because the mechanisms are giving him trouble. Lambert could set them in his sleep. No, he’s worried about whoever was screaming, and Eskel can’t blame him. Unless they manage to find cover, it’s likely they’re going to find the griffin preparing to fly off to its nest with a corpse already held in its talons.
As much as Lambert plays the prickly asshole, he’s as soft-hearted as they come, and he always takes it hard when they arrive too late to save someone. And Geralt is much the same, though he shows his grief differently – going stone-faced and solemn while Lambert lashes out. For the sake of his mates, Eskel hopes this ends with a rescue rather than a burial.
Geralt whistles to get their attention, and points up and ahead. Eskel follows the direction of his arm to see the griffin in the air, circling slowly, looking agitated. It bodes well for whoever it’s hunting that it needed to fly to get a better look at its surroundings.
Without a word or signal to each other, they all twist and vault off of their horses. Scorpion, Roach, and Sable are all well-trained, and used to following the clicks of their rider’s tongues, and the series of quick whistled orders they give the moment their boots hit the ground. The horses circle back around, away from the griffin, and under the nearest stand of trees. Sable is the newest of the three, and she paws at the ground in irritation, but stays put. They’ll be safe from the griffin there, and if anyone is foolish enough to try to steal them in the short time this hunt should take, they’ll get a kick to the chest or head for their trouble.
Eskel puts the horses out of his mind as he and his mates sprint forward, splitting up as they near where the griffin is hovering. If Lambert can ground it, it will be surrounded, and they should be able to kill it quickly.
He frowns and ducks behind the cover of a nearby tree when the griffin shrieks again. After a few moments, Eskel risks a peek around his hiding place to see what has the griffin so frustrated.
The small clearing is littered with broken branches and claw marks. There are a few large boulders in the middle, surrounded by a broken lute, a spilled inkwell, and scattered pieces of paper. The ground beneath the largest of the boulders has eroded away enough that it’s created a slight overhang. Eskel can barely see a man curled up under it, holding tight to his own legs to make himself as small as possible.
The griffin dives, its talons raking the dirt, and scraping along the stone with a sound that makes Eskel shudder. When it can’t quite reach its prey, it shrieks again, and swats beneath the boulder, coming dangerously close to the man.
The man lets out a blood-curdling scream, and then Eskel hears the soft thump and thrum of Lambert firing. His crossbow has been altered, courtesy of a dwarf they befriended in Mahakam, allowing it to handle more than standard bolts. The one that flies at the griffin’s side looks more like a bundle with a stick shoved into it, until it makes contact. It seems to break apart, wire bursting in every direction, wrapping around a leg and a wing. The griffin rears, and thrashes, attempting to get it off, but the more it moves, the more tangled it becomes. Eskel raises his left hand, and casts Aard, putting enough power behind it to knock the struggling griffin to the ground.
Geralt comes sprinting from the trees and leaps across the clearing, bringing his sword down in a beautiful arc, severing the griffin’s head with a single, clean strike.
The clearing falls deathly silent for long moments, until the smaller creatures begin to tentatively resume their normal calls now that the griffin is dealt with. Eskel makes his way toward Geralt, Lambert mirroring him, and the two of them share a quick grin at the thundering heartbeat and harsh breathing that mean they got here in time. Geralt flicks the blood from his sword and sheaths it before kneeling down, offering his hand to the man still cowering under the boulder. Eskel can see how hard he’s shaking when he hesitantly reaches out, allowing Geralt to grasp his arm and pull him into the sunlight.
Eskel almost groans in exasperation when he catches his scent, and gets a good look at him. He reeks of fear, but it isn’t quite enough to hide the sharp Alpha smell. He’s wearing very fancy clothing, silks and shiny black boots that Eskel suspects were relatively spotless before his mad scramble for safety. He has short, dark hair, and a perfectly maintained beard and moustache that speaks to someone who is either very vain, or depends on their appearance for a living. Eskel eyes the broken lute consideringly.
A bard. They’ve rescued a bard; a noble one at that, if he’s any judge. He seems far too young to have made enough for those clothes by plying his trade, and the poor rarely make it to Oxenfurt to study at all. Though, if he is noble, he’s probably a younger son if he was allowed to go to the academy, rather than stay at home to learn how to rule.
So, a newly graduated, spare Alpha noble, then?
That seems the most likely explanation, and unfortunately, it also means they aren’t likely to get anything in return. At least they can harvest the griffin for parts. It will help to replenish some of their potion stock, and anything they can’t use they can sell to the next alchemist or apothecary they come across, provided it’s before everything starts to rot. If they’re lucky, they can find a few pristine feathers to pack safely away until they reach a larger city. Griffin feathers make excellent quills, and Eskel has found that quite a few scribes will pay absurd prices to have one of their own. Something to mention to his mates.
For now, they have a human to calm.
The man is alternating between staring at the three of them, and the beheaded griffin, chest still heaving like a bellows. Then, suddenly, he shakes out his limbs, takes a deep breath, and flashes what is unmistakably a performer’s smile at them. “Forgive my rudeness, gentlemen!”
“Gentlemen?” Lambert repeats dubiously under his breath. Eskel shares the sentiment, but doesn’t comment. Geralt just grunts.
“My name is Valdo Marx! And while I’m sure you’ve heard of my talents upon your travels, I realize my fame is hardly the focus of the hour. I, and all of my adoring fans, are in your debt.” The man sweeps into a theatrical bow that makes Eskel more uncomfortable than anything.
Eskel has spent a surprising amount of time at Oxenfurt, attending lectures and performances when he isn’t browsing the library, or the bookshops in the surrounding city. Sometimes his mates indulge him by tagging along. Other times they run their own errands, and then share amused smiles with each other while Eskel spends the evening telling them about all of the things he learned that day. He’s met plenty of entertainers of all kinds over the years, and while he doesn’t begrudge them their stage personas, knowing intimately well as a Witcher that putting on an act is sometimes very necessary, Valdo’s false, cheery smile is still disconcerting.
He suspects that they’re being buttered up before Valdo admits he can’t pay them. That Valdo is desperately hoping that if he makes himself seem as friendly and non-threatening as possible that the two much more intimidating Alphas won’t rip him to pieces in anger. Not that Geralt and Lambert would, but Valdo doesn’t know that.
“Valdo,” Eskel says, nodding slightly. “My name is Eskel, and these are my mates, Geralt and Lambert.”
Valdo’s eyebrows twitch like they want to rise before he regains control of his face. It happens a lot when Eskel speaks for the pack instead of one of the Alphas. Nobles have particularly strong opinions about it, but the few times they’ve insisted on speaking with one of the Alphas instead, they have quickly regretted it. Geralt just levels them with his best glower, and growls, which means Lambert is usually the one that has to take over. Lambert feels that being as abrasive as possible drives home the point that they should have been respectful to Eskel when they had the chance.
To Valdo’s credit, he keeps whatever opinions he may harbor to himself.
“Well met, Eskel,” Valdo says smoothly. “Truly, even I do not have the words to express the depth of my gratitude, which is saying something indeed. Bards are rarely at a loss for words, as I am sure you know.”
“We’re learning that, yeah,” Lambert mutters too quietly for Valdo to hear, and Eskel has to fight down a chuckle. Geralt is less successful, but manages to hide it by clearing his throat.
Valdo must not notice, because he continues speaking without pause. “You deserve to be showered with coin to repay the great deed you have done for the Continent, and all the people within it who would have been deprived of my works and talent. What a tragedy it would have been for my life to be cut short in its prime, never able to reach the dizzying heights of my ability, to awe the populace with my – ”
Lambert’s patience finally runs out. “For fuck’s sake, just admit you have no coin, and be done. We don’t have all day to listen to you suck your own cock.”
Geralt barks a laugh at Valdo’s strained expression, caught somewhere between mortified, frightened, and indignant.
Eskel offers Valdo a rueful smile. “My mate isn’t wrong. If it’s true that you have no payment to offer, my pack needs to know sooner rather than later.”
Valdo swallows whatever he was going to say, eyes darting around desperately, his scent thick with nerves as his façade slips. “I see. It is regrettably true that I have no coin, and the griffin you so generously slew destroyed everything I was carrying with me. However, we are close to my family’s seat. In fact, I am expected there within the hour for a feast in my honor. Perhaps you could accompany me, and we can negotiate an alternative payment with my parents?” Valdo suggests warily.
Eskel is careful to keep his face neutral when he glances at his mates to see how they feel about it. While the offer is reasonable in theory, it also means they will be negotiating with higher ranking nobles on their own estate, surrounded by armed guards. They’ve found that nobles dislike parting with coin even more than commoners do, despite having much more of it at their disposal. And there’s nothing they like less than giving it to Witchers, even when they’ve just saved the life of one of their children. So, they risk spending precious time in a meeting, only to be run off with nothing.
Alternatively, they could let this go. Send Valdo on his way without payment. They’ve done it before after rescuing unfortunate innocents from monsters, though they try not to make a habit of it. Witchers without coin won’t last very long on the Path, even in a pack as strong as theirs. Alongside that concern, while Valdo has been careful to be polite, something about him rubs Eskel the wrong way, and he is disinclined to let him off the hook entirely. But then they are still faced with the issue of his parents, and whether they will be cooperative.
The question is whether his Alphas are willing to settle for harvesting the griffin and call it even. Eskel weighs their options, along with the almost unnoticeable shifts in his mates’ faces. There is tension in Lambert’s brow, and the corners of Geralt’s mouth are turned down slightly more than usual. The griffin is not enough, then. Lambert taps lightly at his own thigh, fingers barely moving, and Geralt does the same. Neither of them like the idea of depending on Valdo’s parents, either.
That only leaves one option. The Alphas tilt their heads, only just, letting the decision lie with Eskel. If he dislikes their choice, they will follow his lead. But, no matter his personal opinion on the matter, Eskel’s mates are right, and he is not going to allow the past to affect the well-being of his pack in the present.
Eskel breaks the silence. “Then, we claim the Law of Surprise. You say your parents are having a feast in your honor, so we shall take whatever you have at home which you do not expect.”
Valdo’s eyes widen with shock before he can get his face back under control. Not a very good performer under stress, it would seem.
“Of course! That is your right, and I am pleased to abide by it,” Valdo claims with another ridiculous bow, his scent all over the place.
No doubt he is relieved he will not be coaxing his parents into parting with something of theirs, but is also dreading what it is he might lose, and excited at the prospect that it might be nothing much at all. The Law of Surprise is a risk for everyone involved, and not one Witchers usually rely on, especially after the Pogroms destroyed any hope of making new Witchers. Eskel’s pack is even more wary of it after the last time. Sometimes, though, it is a choice between taking a risk or failing to care for his mates, and there is no risk intimidating enough to overcome the love he holds for his Alphas.
At Valdo’s acceptance, Eskel has another quick, silent conversation with his mates. With subtle gestures, quick glances at the griffin, and raised eyebrows, they determine that it’s best to split up for now. They want to avoid making the other nobles more defensive than necessary, and all three of them arriving unannounced will thoroughly destroy that hope. Besides, someone needs to harvest the griffin before scavengers get to it. The Alphas can catch up later, and will come to the rescue if something goes wrong.
Eskel nods, and turns back to Valdo, who is just now rising from his bow. “I will come with you to claim our reward while Geralt and Lambert take care of the griffin’s remains. They will catch up with us once they’re done,” he explains.
The smell of Valdo’s relief is almost overwhelming in its intensity. While Eskel understands, he also can’t help but feel affronted on behalf of his mates. They are good men, and don’t deserve the added mistrust piled upon them for being both Witchers and Alphas. Even with the enhanced potency of their instincts, they are much more level-headed than human Alphas, and less prone to start fights over posturing. Honestly, Witcher Omegas are more dangerous by far, though humans rarely believe it until coming face to blade with them.
It is admittedly satisfying to witness though; the few times Eskel has had the privilege. Gweld and Gardis are both quick to laugh, but they are just as quick to pull a sword on anyone who threatens their own packs.
As it should be.
Valdo dredges up some more of his performing skills, and smiles. “So be it. I am honored to have you as my escort, Eskel. Shall we set out? I shudder to think of my mother’s overreaction if I do not reach the estate on time. She’s likely to send half of the guards out to comb the woods.”
“She’s done that before?” Geralt asks curiously.
Valdo jumps a little. Geralt’s voice is low and rich enough to be felt in your chest even without any Alpha rumble or growling behind it. Eskel and Lambert both adore it, but most people find it intimidating, treating it as a threat no matter what Geralt actually said. It’s one of the reasons he avoids speaking to anyone besides their pack outside of winter. Occasionally, though, he lets a comment loose, and Eskel loathes the way he curls in on himself a little when it startles someone. The way it startled Valdo.
“She has. Usually when I’ve lost track of time composing,” Valdo replies, a slight stutter in his voice.
Eskel snorts quietly. Valdo must intend to be a court bard, rather than a traveling one. He’d never manage to perform in taverns if the simple sound of another Alpha’s voice can have him shaking in his boots, without even a hint of a threat. Eskel suddenly recalls that heckling isn’t allowed at any Oxenfurt sponsored performances. Anyone causing a disturbance is quickly ushered away from the stage by academy guards. It’s obvious that it was a detriment to Valdo’s ability to stay calm under pressure. Though, admittedly, a rude audience isn’t quite the same as nearly being griffin food and having to negotiate with Witchers.
Eskel still struggles to empathize, though. Valdo hurt one of his mates, unintentional as it might have been, and Eskel is becoming less and less impressed with him by the minute.
“I see. Let’s get moving, then. No use inviting more trouble,” Eskel says. He doesn’t mention Geralt’s reaction, but he will ensure the sweet Alpha gets the attention he deserves when they camp later.
Eskel lets out three sharp whistles, waiting patiently as their horses trot up. Scorpion heads straight for him, snuffling at his shoulder as Eskel strokes his nose. Roach and Sable move past him until they are beside their own Wolves. Roach starts lipping expectantly at one of the pouches around Geralt’s belt, trying to get at the slices of dried apple hidden away there. Geralt makes an exasperated noise, and Lambert snickers. Eskel hides his own smile by putting Scorpion between him and his mates.
It’s Geralt’s fault for spoiling the mare so much; he can’t seem to help himself, though. He’s always had a soft spot for horses, even when they were children.
The trainers caught Geralt slipping treats to the horses often, and Eskel was usually there to keep him company, and listen to him ramble about all of them. The trainers even found them napping in the stable more than once, which led to some unpleasant punishments. Lambert took it upon himself to keep an ear out, and if he heard one of the trainers say they were looking for Geralt and Eskel, he would rush off to the stable to get there first and warn them. It saved them from a considerable amount of extra chores, and likely some beatings. The habit eventually turned into them pulling Lambert up into the hayloft so they could all cuddle together, Lambert keeping drowsy watch while Geralt and Eskel drifted off.
Those are some of the most pleasant memories Eskel has of growing up in Kaer Morhen, only overshadowed by the sheer joy of waking from the Grasses to find that the two amazing Alphas he knew were going to be his had survived as well.
Valdo gives Scorpion a wary look, and Eskel suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “Would you prefer to walk or ride, Valdo?”
“It’s far too lovely a day to give up walking!” Valdo says with false cheer.
He’d rather walk than have to share a saddle with a Witcher, more like.
“Fair enough.” Eskel swings up onto Scorpion’s back with ease, trying not to smile at Valdo’s poorly hidden gawking. People always seem surprised by how gracefully and nimbly Eskel can move, despite his size. It’s a nice change from them flinching away from his scars. “Lead the way.”
Valdo nods weakly, and with one last baleful glance at his broken lute, and the ruined pages, sets out into the woods toward the road.