They Are Only Words (But They Mean Everything)

by EvanescentDreamer

Summary:

It has become common for the Witcher schools to enter agreements with the nobility. These arrangements have always been sealed with money or goods, but the nobles of Kerack request something more traditional from the Wolves- a wedding.

In an attempt to bridge the gap between himself and his future husband, and hopefully avoid complete disaster, Eskel decides to include a personal letter with the official missive. He struggles to find the right words, and is convinced he's going to make a terrible first impression.

Jaskier begs to differ.

Notes:

My muse was very fickle for this one, but has finally allowed me to finish. Thanks to LuckyPanda13, as always, for being my beta and for your suggestions to make this even schmoopier. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: My Words (They Carry My Heart)

Eskel has been staring at a blank piece of parchment for the better part of an hour, quill clenched so hard in his hand it’s in danger of snapping. This is more difficult than he expected it to be. What can he say to a man who’s both his fiancé and a complete stranger? Which words will put him at ease — assuring him Witchers are not the monsters so many claim they are? That Eskel is not? How can he shape an explanation of who he is with symbols and ink so that his fiancé might understand him? Might, if Eskel’s lucky, help him expect reality rather than fantasy or nightmare?

 

Eskel doesn’t know, and the not knowing is terrible.

 

Perhaps his brothers are right; maybe he’s overthinking this. Gweld told him to highlight his virtues, Geralt (the romantic) told him to write a poem, Gascaden shrugged, Voltehre told him to be honest, and Lambert told him to just “start writing and cross things out until it doesn’t sound like utter shit”. Advice that seemed flippant and a little mean-spirited, but truth be told, Lambert has more experience with an actual committed relationship than most of the other Wolves. He and Voltehre have been as inseparable as Eskel and Geralt since they were boys, well before the Grasses, but their closeness took a distinctly romantic turn after they survived the trials. Perhaps their way is best — just start writing words, honest words, with the hope that it will become something passable.

 

Eskel glances out his window and grimaces. He needs to start, no matter his reservations, or he won’t be done in time to send his letter with the school’s official response. Vesemir is already delaying for him as it is, no reason to push his luck.

 

He takes a deep breath, dips the quill, presses it to the paper, and lets whatever words occur to him flow along it.

 

 

Viscount de Lettenhove

Lord Julian

 

Julian, greetings hello.

 

I hope this letter finds you I wish that I hope you are well, and do not mind that I call you Julian, and are willing to simply call me Eskel. I much prefer it to stuffy formal titles, especially since we are engaged going to be married, but I do not wish to be improper give any offense make you uncomfortable. If there is something else you wish to be called, or you are not ready to call me by name, I trust and pray you will let me know when we meet, as I want you to feel as content happy and welcome as possible. I can only imagine the sorts of things you have heard about Witchers my people, and I hope that I can soothe some of the fears if any you no doubt hold.

 

First, the things that are true — we are stronger than humans normal men, as well as faster. Our senses are sharper, allowing us to effectively overcome the monsters that are our prey we were created to hunt. Our eyes, as you may have witnessed before if you do not already know, are like a cat’s eyes — slitted and some shade of yellow or gold (at least for the Wolf school). My brothers say mine are amber. They tend to scare people Many people find our eyes unsettling at first, so do not feel guilty if that is also the case for you. Though I hope mine will not bother you. We are immune, or at least resistant, to most poisons, a necessity since the potions we take (for hunts) are toxic enough to affect even us in large doses. Do not worry, you will never be there is no chance I would never allow you to be hurt you will be in no danger from my supplies or myself. Nor will any of my brothers offer you harm. You will be safe with us, this I swear.

 

Now, the things that are not true, of which there are too many to count at least what I can remember hearing. The most important one: despite the fact that we begin our training as children, we do not actually steal our trainees. We only accept children who want to become Witchers someday, and they are free to change their minds until the Grasses. The Grasses are It is a trial that At that point, they are Witchers, and are forever changed can no longer go back to their old life. Some will say we take children as payment, which is false not quite correct which is only half-true. If a Witcher is granted the Law of Surprise, and is rewarded a child by it, they are brought to Kaer Morhen, else Destiny or disaster will to prevent complications. However, they are given a choice just like all the other children, and are provided a place that suits them if they do not want to be a Witcher. The next popular rumor is that our mutations go beyond what I have already described to you, which is not the case — neither the ghastly nor the entertaining scandalous fantastical imagined changes to our bodies hold any merit. Nor do the mutations strip us of emotions. We are trained to suppress control them, but we still feel them. Something people don’t like ignore tend to forget in their reactions to dealings with us.

 

On a lighter note, these are some of my favorites that I have overheard. Maybe they will make you smile you will find them amusing as well: We gain our limited magical abilities by dancing naked in the moonlight in an ancient ritual. Some people like to add that an orgy is required to complete the ritual. This has never happened (the ritual, not the orgy, some of the other Wolves are quite adventurous) , though some of my brothers have been known to go streaking after too much White Gull. I have also been told that Witchers can hear the flap of a butterfly’s wings from the opposite side of a town, and smell a single drop of blood from miles away, which honestly sounds absolutely horrific. Can you imagine being able to hear and smell that well? I think I would throw myself off a cliff It would be miserable. Finally, one I wish was true — that we can shapeshift into our school’s animal (or according to others, a variety of animals). It is an alluring interesting prospect; one I would not mind testing if I had the ability. Have you ever wanted to be something else? What do you think?

 

There may be It is possible that I am probably forgetting something, but you are welcome to ask me as many questions as you like, and if I think of anything else on my way to Lettenhove, I will make a list.

 

 

Eskel pauses for a moment, skimming what he’s written while drumming his fingers against his desk. It’s not terrible he supposes, but it could still use some work. Approaching it like a conversation rather than a letter is making it easier, though he won’t receive any answers to his questions until he meets Julian. If Julian even wants to speak with him. Eskel sighs and rubs his forehead. Since this page is only a rough draft, he might as well write out the rest before making the final copy. He chews on his lip before dipping the quill again.

 

 

Allow me to I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself. Beyond my duties as a Witcher, I enjoy working with my hands — I have always been told I am good with them.

 

 

Eskel frowns at the page. Does that come across as suggestive? Eskel didn’t intend it, but it does seem like he’s trying to make a pass, and the last thing he wants is to make his fiancé uncomfortable. “Fantastic start,” he mutters before crossing it out and trying again.  

 

 

Allow me to I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself. Beyond my duties as a Witcher, I enjoy working with my hands — I have always been told I am good with them. I enjoy making things. My brothers, as well as some of the older Witchers, have been kind enough to teach me their own crafts over the years, and I have picked up a few more on the Path while traveling. I once even accepted a knitting lesson as payment. Do not judge me Please do not laugh I confess it is one of my favorite pastimes. It is very soothing, and Kaer Morhen is quite cold, so the things I make are often in high demand. Would you like me to make you something? What are your favorite colors? Aside from that, most of my free time is filled with reading or music. Speaking of, I understand you attended Oxenfurt, and were are a bard (forgive me, you do not stop being something simply because you are not actively using the skills you have learned). I am certain I am nowhere near as talented accomplished good as you are, but I can play a few instruments, and quite like to sing. Maybe we could play together here? I am sure everyone would enjoy it. Or just you, if you prefer. I will not deny that I am excited to hear you. Graduating with honors is no small feat. I am sure you are marvelous.

 

It has been many years since I have been to Oxenfurt, and I miss sitting in on classes and performances. If I stayed in the back people usually wouldn’t complain . There was one professor I was particularly fond of. He gave my favorite lectures, and would even speak with me after — about philosophy, and physics, and music all in one. I don’t know if he was still teaching when you attended (ah, and that is something I forgot — Witchers age more slowly than other people, more akin to elves in the olden days). His name is Augustyn. Who was your favorite professor? What were they like? Which classes did you enjoy? Do you like to read? If you do, what are your favorite books? I would appreciate any recommendations. especially poetry I have a personal collection and will probably need another bookcase soon because the majority of the books in Kaer Morhen’s official library are related to our profession. Most of mine are whatever I can find, and I try to get two of each, so I have a spare at home if I lose one during a hunt. I learned the hard way not to take any book with me that doesn’t have a twin on the shelf when I lost my favorite (the first published collection of Augustyn’s work). I have never managed to find another copy.

 

I will be honest, I have never attempted to describe myself before, and am finding it difficult intimidating. Listing positive qualities seems suspicious narcissistic self-serving, but I hardly wish to list out all of my shortcomings. After all, I am already worried you will not like me I wish to make a good first impression, if I can. I have never been a husband before, but I will try I promise to be a good one the best one I can for you.

 

I do not believe a single letter is enough to build a relationship on, but I hope I am wrong it is all we have for now. If I have made any grave errors, I only ask that you allow me to set them right when we meet.

 

Regards

Warm regards

Cordially

Sincerely

Yours

Why is this part difficult?

 

Sincerely yours,

Eskel

 

 

He sets the quill down and cracks his knuckles, shaking the tension from his hands and rolling his neck. He allows himself a brief respite, slipping into meditation for a few minutes until he feels settled enough to continue. He has just grabbed a clean sheet of parchment to write out the real letter, when Lambert bursts into the room, startling Eskel badly enough that he almost overturns his ink bottle.

 

“Oh, good — you’re finally fucking done! Vesemir was starting to get twitchy,” Lambert says, snatching the still drying parchment from the side of the desk.

 

Eskel makes a strangled noise of protest, but Lambert ignores him.

 

“Wait, why’s the ink still wet?” Eskel breathes a sigh of relief, praying that means Lambert will leave it be. His hopes are dashed when Lambert grabs a pinch of sand from the small box Eskel keeps by the ink, sprinkling it liberally over the page in his hand. “ Now it’s done! Can’t believe the damn ink didn’t have time to dry yet. You were really holding out ‘til the final second, huh? Let me get this to Vesemir before he has a conniption,” Lambert gripes, before dashing out of the room as quickly as he entered.

 

“Wait!” Eskel chokes, horrified. But Lambert’s already gone.

 

Eskel scrambles after him, down several corridors and flights of stairs, internally cursing his brother’s speed. He turns the final corner into Vesemir’s office to find the last thing he wants to see — Vesemir holding the letter, surrounded by several other Wolves, including one of their messengers.

 

“It’s not done yet!” Eskel exclaims, and everyone turns toward him, most with eyebrows raised. Lambert blinks down at the page, then gives Eskel an incredulous look.

 

“Looked done to me. You fucking signed it, didn’t you?”

 

“It’s only a rough draft, I still need to—”

 

“Pup,” Vesemir interrupts, “if our reply to Kerack’s marriage offer doesn’t go out today, it won’t reach Lettenhove in time and they’ll assume we’ve rejected it. Which means they’ll start looking to one of the other schools to make a bargain, as if they don’t already know all about it. Honestly, it’s like humans think we don’t talk to each other.” Vesemir shakes his head in annoyance before continuing. “Regardless, all this work will be for nothing, and I’ll have to listen to every other school head give me shit for at least a decade over it. So, either you send along what you already have, or nothing at all. Decide.”

 

Eskel winces, and Lambert now looks sympathetic, and more than a little annoyed, glaring at Vesemir. Nothing turns Lambert’s mood like any person in the world (aside from himself) giving one of his brothers trouble, or telling them what to do. It made their childhood training an interesting exercise in frustration and exasperation for every trainer, including Vesemir.

 

“I… I don’t—”

 

“Send it. I’m sure it’s fine,” Lambert says, still glaring at Vesemir like he’s daring the old Wolf to contradict him. Vesemir rolls his eyes, but is still obviously waiting for Eskel’s reply.

 

“Alright,” Eskel says reluctantly.

 

Vesemir nods and slides the letter into its own envelope, addressing it to Julian, before closing it with their seal, and laying it atop the official missive from Kaer Morhen. 

 

Eskel watches as Vesemir hands the letter off, emotions a mess, until Lambert drags him out of the office to find Geralt, Gweld, Gascaden, and Voltehre. They manage to distract him with an ill-advised, but enthusiastic, race across several of the obstacle courses in quick succession. It leaves them all sprawled out on the ground, breathing hard, hearts beating at an almost human pace from the exertion. Eskel has even started to feel calm again, until he realizes there’s something he failed to include in the letter. Something very important. He sits up in a panic, and all of his brothers sit up as well with worried noises.

 

“Eskel, what’s wrong?” Geralt asks.

 

“I didn’t tell him about my scars,” Eskel breathes, touching his face. Oh gods , how could he have forgotten about the scars?

 

*

 

Weeks later, and many miles away, the letter arrives at the Pankratz estate in Lettenhove, and Steward Henryk slips it carefully up his sleeve before the Count or Countess can catch sight of it. He passes it off with equal care to the maid, Olesia, on her way to serve their young master his afternoon tea. She looks confused, so Henryk points to the wolf’s head seal, places a finger to his lips, and winks conspiratorially. Her face brightens immediately, and she tucks it underneath the tray of sandwiches and hurries down the hallway. She brushes her fingers against the envelope as she pours tea for their sweet dandelion, making sure he follows the motion, before she curtsies and takes her leave.

 

After the door shuts, Jaskier reads it and smiles as he clutches it to his chest.

 

*

 

Another handful of weeks later, Eskel is standing next to his brothers and Vesemir, in the entrance hall of the Pankratz Estate, awaiting their welcome from the Count, Countess, and most importantly, Julian. He expects it will be a brief affair, since they arrived close to dark. 

 

Eskel wonders what Julian thought of his letter, if he even received the letter. It might have gotten lost, or more likely, been confiscated by one of his parents. He’s honestly not sure whether a personal letter would be considered appropriate by the nobility, and didn’t think to ask. Not that it matters — it’s far too late, after all. Besides, any good will the letter may have garnered will surely be lost the moment Julian lays eyes on him. Of all things to forget, it had to be the one most likely to send someone running without forewarning.

 

The doors swing open, revealing a poised and well-dressed couple — the Count and Countess de Lettenhove. They walk in perfect time with each other until they are only a few feet away from the Witchers, offering a bow and a curtsy, respectively. To their credit, neither of them flinches when Eskel steps forward to bow in turn, though the Countess’s gaze does flick worriedly to her husband then back. 

 

They welcome the Witchers to Lettenhove, and begin exchanging niceties with Vesemir. Eskel should probably be contributing to the conversation, but his attention is captured by the man who has appeared behind their hosts. His features mark him as their son, Julian, and Eskel’s breath catches in his throat, because he’s beautiful .

 

He has to fight the urge to touch his scars, or turn his face away so they’re hidden. It wouldn’t do any good. Better to get this over with, then maybe, by the time they get to the ceremony in a few days, Julian will be able to look at him without balking.

 

The Count and Countess usher Julian between them when they notice his presence, and introduce him to the Witchers, saving Eskel for last.

 

“Julian, this is Eskel of the Wolves, your fiancé,” the Count says, gesturing between the two of them.

 

“A pleasure to finally meet you,” Julian says warmly, looking Eskel directly in the eyes, with what sounds like a soft sigh, before tracing his face with what Eskel can only call interest. There is no hesitation or disgust, just a sort of friendly eagerness.

 

“It’s a pleasure for me as well,” Eskel replies, taken aback, and even more surprised when Julian shivers a little. It didn’t seem to be an un pleasant shiver. Did he imagine it?

 

“It’s lovely to be able to put a face and voice to the words,” Julian says, to the apparent confusion of his parents, since the introduction is technically over.

 

“Ah, yes, there wasn’t much but the agreement to go by, was there?” The Countess laughs, affectionately brushing a lock of hair behind Jaskier’s ear. She quickly turns her attention to ordering the servants to take the Witchers’ bags and prepare to lead them to their rooms, while the Count speaks quietly with Vesemir. 

 

Eskel isn’t sure if he is supposed to say anything else, and hesitates long enough that the Count and Vesemir finish their discussion.

 

“It is time for all of us to retire for the evening. A good night to all of you,” the Count announces. He offers his wife his arm, and they exit the room just as gracefully as they entered it.

 

“I hope you find that your rooms are to your liking, my lords. Sleep well,” Julian adds before following his parents.

 

Eskel is too tired to question the strange tone Julian used, simply following behind the servants with the other Wolves. He has to stop himself from taking his bags back. It feels wrong for someone else to be carrying them. At least he isn’t the only one who’s uncomfortable with it. All of his brothers are eyeing their belongings with concern, and Lambert’s fingers are actually twitching like he’s moments away from snatching them. Thankfully, they reach the suite of rooms set aside for them without incident, and Vesemir informs the servants they can sit their bags down in what appears to be the common room.

 

The servants bow and take their leave, and Eskel flops down into a chair with a groan. 

 

“Well, he didn’t run screaming. That’s a good sign,” Gweld says jokingly, but he’s watching Eskel from the corner of his eye.

 

“I’ll take it. Still can’t believe I forgot to warn him.”

 

“Nothing to warn him about,” Geralt says gruffly. 

 

“Fucking right, there isn’t,” Lambert agrees, and kicks at Eskel’s foot when he starts to point to his scars. Eskel huffs, but lets his brothers win the round. He’s worn out, and doesn’t feel up to arguing.

 

“We should probably all turn in,” Voltehre says softly. Gascaden punctuates the suggestion with an impressive yawn.

 

“You’re right pup. We don’t have any responsibilities until the ceremony, or unless the Count and Countess request our presence, but you should all be on your best behavior.” Vesemir pauses, then adds, “Lambert, I want you to be on Voltehre’s best behavior.”

 

“What?! That’s not–” Voltehre interrupts Lambert’s tirade with a kiss and a tug to his arm.

 

“Time for bed,” he reiterates. Lambert grumbles, but grabs their bags and lets his lover pull him into the closest of the four bedrooms. 

 

The steward informed them on the way here that every room has two beds, so the Witchers can share or not as they choose, though the steward also told Eskel to use the room furthest to the left. Eskel supposes it makes sense to assign him his own room, since he is Julian’s intended, but he’ll probably still share with Geralt so that Vesemir can have his own space.

 

His drowsy musings are brought to an abrupt halt when Lambert yells, “holy shit!”

 

Alarmed, Eskel and all the others jump to their feet, rushing toward the bedroom. They burst through the door ready to face whatever threat Lambert has encountered, only to find Lambert holding up a ribbon-wrapped knife.

 

"They got us fucking presents !" Lambert crows gleefully.

 

Eskel sighs and hears the others grumble as they all fight to release the tension in their muscles — made more difficult when there's nowhere to channel the rush of adrenaline.

 

"We thought something was wrong, you little shit," Gascaden complains, but strolls forward to get a closer look at the knife, letting out a low whistle. "Damn. This is nice."

 

Feeling calmer, Eskel studies the knife and has to agree with Gascaden. The sheath is fine leather, sturdy enough to last, but supple enough that it won't crack. The hilt boasts a wolf's head and crossed swords, the symbol of their school and profession in one. 

 

"How's the blade?" Geralt asks with obvious interest. Lambert draws it, and they all make soft sounds of surprise. 

 

It's silver.

 

"That cost a pretty copper," Gweld says.

 

"Yes, several times over," Voltehre agrees, holding up an identical knife. "I assume there's one for each of you as well."

 

His brothers share a look, then Gweld, Gascaden, and Geralt all head back into the common area and toward the other bedrooms. Vesemir remains, a contemplative expression on his face, though he remains silent even after Gweld and Gascaden return with four more knives. They inspect them all, and find them to be of just as high quality as the ones Lambert and Voltehre found.

 

Geralt comes in last with a fifth knife, though this one is balanced atop two cloth covered parcels. Two distinctly book shaped parcels.

 

"This was in your room, Esk," Geralt says, handing the small pile off to him before accepting one of the knives from Gweld with an appreciative sound.

 

Eskel stares at the gifts in his arms, heart rate kicking up when he sees a piece of paper tucked into the ribbon wound around the knife. He suddenly recalls Julian’s strange goodnight, and knows without doubt that these aren't from the Count and Countess. He passes back through the doorway, cradling his fiancé's offerings with care, and allows himself to hope.