#ace witchers

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A/N: Many decades after the Purges, the remaining members of the Witcher brotherhood gather together to restore Kaer Morhen and build something of a home for themselves. As the younger generation forge a new way of life, the three remaining relics of the old system have only each other to turn to when the demons of the past trouble their dreams.

Guxart stretched lazily over Vesemir’s legs. He’d been dozing on and off for the last two hours, occasionally listening to snippets of the novel the old wolf was reading. Their shared quarters were pleasantly warm, with scents of cinnamon and clove curling from the candle on the nightstand. In reality, Guxart was far more interested in the hand that scratched through his hair; the sensation coaxed a purr from deep in his chest, eyes blowing wide in the dim candlelight. 

The rest of the castle was silent but for Kaer Morhen’s usual sorrowful song, but even that was muted now that the remaining members of the Witcher order had gathered together to rebuild her ruined walls and make themselves a permanent home. Together. Like it always should have been. His senses stretched down the corridors anyway, keen ears listening to the quiet scurry of mice through the rafters, the cracking of the fire… and the soft footfalls arriving outside their door. He looked up before the knock.

Vesemir blinked awake - the old boy had dozed off halfway through a paragraph, his hand wound through Guxart’s hair - and cleared his throat. “Come in.” 

The handle dipped, the hinges creaked, and Keldar’s greying head popped around the side of the door. “Sorry to disturb you, I - umm, I have a peculiar request.” 

The old griffin had arrived several months ago from what remained of Kaer Seren. Upon seeing Kaer Morhen’s library - slowly rebuilt as more and more Witchers descended on the keep with what they’d salvaged from their own schools’ destruction - he’d fallen to his knees and wept. 

With each new arrival, Vesemir had taken their books, scrolls and other documentation, placed it in the library and closed the damned door. Keldar was a librarian, a hoarder of knowledge and a fastidious organiser; he was exactly what Vesemir needed to bring some order to the chaos. What did a fencing instructor know about conservation and the appropriate storage of academia? Keldar took to his new purpose with gusto. It would take him years, but he was determined to contribute to the salvation of his brethren in his own way.

Vesemir raised an eyebrow. “Of course, come in, close the draught out,” he murmured, adjusting the blankets that weren’t pinned by Guxart’s bulk. The old griffin slid through the small gap he’d created and closed the door behind him. He was wrapped in a thick woollen cloak, his bare legs visible beneath the hem.

“It’s - uh, the mountain,” Keldar stuttered out, tugging at the material of his nightshirt. It wasn’t hard to see the shame embedded in the lines of his face. “I can hear it.”

Such a statement would have sounded insane to an outsider, but Guxart and Vesemir both gazed upon their friend with concern. There was a reason Keldar listened to the movements of the mountain. The mages had buried Kaer Seren under one in retaliation when the griffins had refused to share their arcane knowledge. Everything Keldar had ever known - ever cherished, ever loved - was swept away by an avalanche. The deep, guttural rumbles of the Blue Mountains were a harbinger of death that his mind simply couldn’t ignore. 

“I thought, perhaps, I would find some company… helpful,” - comforting, he meant comforting - “I can sleep on the floor, of course; by the fire is perfectly fine, more than acceptable, but I understand if it’s a bother.”

It took a lot of courage to seek help and Keldar had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t very well join the piles of much younger men snoozing in the various rooms of Kaer Morhen; they were once his students. Vesemir, Guxart and Keldar all occupied the same uncomfortable niche in the new order. They were relics of the old system, uncomfortable reminders and sources of knowledge all at the same time. If they each sought comfort from their demons - the ghosts of those they’d lost - the only comfort to be found was in the company of just two others. 

They’d grown close very quickly. Both Guxart and Vesemir harboured great affection for the third member of their lonely triad. Offers of more intimate company had been politely declined each time, and it hadn’t taken long for either of them to realise that Keldar didn’t have an appetite for such things. That was absolutely fine. There were so many different ways you could demonstrate your love for a person.

“The floor, huh,” Guxart sniffed. “Come here. In bed with us.”

“I didn’t want to intrude, I - .”

“We all did it as boys, Keldar,” Vesemir chipped in, nudging Guxart over so that he could make some room. “Come. Just like when we were young.”

The griffin walked over to the edge of the bed and gazed down at the warm spot made for him. Guxart patted the mattress expectantly, and Keldar dropped his cloak from his shoulders to climb in. There was a little bit of residual awkwardness; he turned inwards towards Vesemir, who looked back to his book in search of the paragraph dry enough to send him to sleep. Guxart, who’d never been one to withhold affection, spooned around Keldar’s back, one arm draped over so that he could still rest a hand on Vesemir, and purred. 

The change was gradual. A slow release of tension as Keldar melted into the comfort of Guxart’s purr and the reassuring proximity of the wolf nearby. His eyes closed and his shoulders relaxed; the distant rumble of the mountain muted by the presence of the only two men in the world that understood… everything. 

Eventually a new sound joined Guxart and the crackling-snap of the fire; a quiet, bubbling coo of pure contentment.

* Picture 1 (Keldar) and 2 (Scoia’tel Witcher/Guxart) are from the Gwent Cards/Witcher Wiki; Picture 3 is a fancast of Vesemir from Reddit.

With thanks to the Continent Cake Shop; you guys rock.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A/N: Keldar adds a new arrival to the library’s collection and his two lovers prove that age doesn’t lessen a penchant for mischief. Warnings: kissing, a very brief reference to smut but nothing explicit; just love and soft. Keldar is ace. He has learned that he does enjoy kissing (previously he had avoided it because he believed his partner would see it as a gateway to more, and he didn’t want to disappoint them), and sometimes he likes to be there while his two partners make love, but this is rare and dependent on how he feels at the time.

More Guxart/Keldar/Vesemir here.

Keldar ran his finger down the booklist. After two years, he had finally organised the library into something resembling order. The younger Witchers, some of whom had never had access to such a wealth of information in one place, were growing more confident in navigating the rituals of reading and borrowing, which made his life a whole lot easier.

The catalogue was arranged roughly by subject, with each book given an abbreviated title in Elder Speech, because he was old-fashioned like that. The composite manuscript in his arms had belonged to the School of the Bear. He’d removed the curse bestowed upon it by the anathema written on the inside of the cover—originally to prevent stealing, you understand—because Witchers were a superstitious bunch, and now it had to be placed in its new home.

The inscription on the spine read ‘Master Tybalt’ſ Annalſ on Changing Gakrain Migration Habitſ & Behaviourſ. VI. LIBRI. T.7’. The T7 indicated that this had been the seventh work of Tybalt’s to exist in the library at Haern Caduch but, by the good grace of Melitele, Keldar had eleven of Master Tybalt’s works stored away in a chest under one of the long windows. This book would now join its brothers in that chest. Keldar opened the front cover with tender admiration, shifting his ink pot a little closer. The press-mark would be simple enough: ‘in armario nostro magister Tybalti’; in the chest of our Master Tybalt.

The door of the library opened, allowing a sharp gust of cold air into the room, and then closed softly. The footfalls were soft and measured, betraying a fluid grace that had come to be the envy of every witcher—school of the cat. The new arrival settled by the fire and the saccharine scent of a peeling orange wafted past Keldar’s nose.

A peeling orange.

“Grandmaster Guxart,” the old griffin sighed, “I know that you couldn’t possibly be eating in my library, because you are fully aware of the rules and the resulting ban if I catch you.”

He received a soft hum in acknowledgement and decided to finish his sentence before he turned. The moment he entertained Guxart and his mischief, he knew he’d get nothing more done that afternoon. The wily old cat had a way of sucking people in—sucking Keldar in. Guxart was fascinating, debonair and far too damned handsome for his own good. No witcher should be allowed to maintain such a roguish countenance into his senior years. It was entirely unsporting.

Keldar placed the quill back into the inkpot, left Master Tybalt’s composite manuscript open to dry, and turned to reprimand his unruly guest. There was no sign of the orange flesh or peel, but Keldar could definitely scent it on the air. Yellow eyes narrowed, he tucked his hands behind his back, and strolled over. Guxart’s pupils blew wide, and with every step closer, Keldar could hear the rumbling purr grow louder. It was all part of the trap, Keldar knew. That purr lulled him to sleep every night, made him feel safe and adored; Guxart wielded it now like a shield against Keldar’s wrath. It was working.

“Where is it?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” said Guxart airily.

“I have work to do.” Keldar tried for reason, but they both knew it was too late. Guxart had sprawled himself on the long couch by the fire. There were two armchairs at either end and a low table. The latter still held a couple of candle trays from the night before; Keldar had rather lost himself in a story about one of the Elder Gods and lost track of time. He sat stiffly on the cushion at Guxart’s side, the smell of orange growing stronger.

They didn’t speak. Guxart held up his arms to present himself for the search, and Keldar puffed an exasperated sigh through his nose before reaching forward. He ran his palms over the soft linen of Guxart’s shirt, and down his sides, patting lightly in search of bumpy peel or squashed fruit flesh. The body beneath his hands was firm, warm and comforting; the scent of citrus underlaid by the deeper, softer musk of the man’s natural smell. Keldar leaned in to pat around Guxart’s belt and trousers, palms working up his back. Where was that damned orange—?

Gentle fingers brushed over his jaw, calloused tips rasping across the stubble to the soft skin behind his ear. He looked up through silver lashes to meet those big eyes, and surrendered immediately to the gentle mouth that closed over his lower lip. “Vagrant,” Keldar sighed, but it was no use. He’d fallen into this trap willingly. Strong hands guided him closer, one resting at his waist while the other carded slowly through his hair. The pleasure of such a simple act of intimacy licked up his spine, coalescing in a well of warmth and affection around his heart.

With Vesemir, Guxart was firmer, hungrier. They tugged, and pushed, and nipped at each other; wolf and cat at play. It was always playful and Keldar enjoyed watching it, but they both treated him with more reverence. A lesser man might be insulted by such tender care—he was not weak, nor broken—but Keldar revelled in it. There was no room for tenderness in a Witcher’s life, so to have such easy access to it in his winter years was a delight.

Keldar rested one hand on Guxart’s chest, that deep, indulgent purr rumbling up his wrist and tingling under his fingers. He tugged the linen of Guxart’s shirt aside and rested his other palm against his bronze skin. There was a scar that ran over his hip and beneath the waistband of his trousers, and Keldar teased a fingertip over it, following the grooves and ridges until the man in his arms shivered. Their mouths parted briefly, Guxart laced teasing, nibbling kisses down the line of Keldar’s jaw, and Keldar hummed. “You’re a menace.”

“Mmhm,” Guxart murmured. “I missed you last night.”

“Did Vesemir not wear you out enough?”

“He did. But I dislike the space in our bed after.”

Keldar’s heart swelled, body clenching briefly in thrill, and then Guxart’s mouth returned to his. The kiss was just as languid, just as affectionate as before. Their tongue brushed together, soft lips closing over their partner’s as they tasted and worshipped. Kissing hadn’t been something Keldar had enjoyed before Vesemir and Guxart, because it always had to lead to something. No one kissed for kissing’s sake. It was a precursor to more physical intimacy. Intimacy that Keldar simply could not give.

But that wasn’t the case with his wolf and cat. They never pushed. They asked, of course. Both men were very plain speaking; they liked to know the boundaries, they liked to be clear. But when Keldar had carefully—painfully—outlined his reservations and… proclivities, they hadn’t debated him. They had accepted it all; accepted him, accepted his boundaries and his feelings, accepted that there were other ways for them to demonstrate their love, should they have any to spare.

Keldar melted into Guxart now, because he could do so without fear. The kiss was their intimacy. The slow, sultry joining of their lips and tongues, the gentle stroke of Guxart’s hands around Keldar’s neck, his jaw, through his hair. Every part of Keldar glowed in adoration of this charming, roguish cat that loved and respected him in return. They parted for air, and Keldar tilted his head back so that Guxart could nose around his throat, the warm tip running beneath the curve of his jaw to his ear with a contented rumble. “I love you, silly bird. Must I lure you into my arms with citrus fruit every afternoon?”

“No,” Keldar chuckled. “The arrival of that retinue of the bears has kept me busy. I sometimes forget that Haern Caduch was more or less untouched. I dread to think what damage the ice and snow has wrought on their collection though, I—.”

“What we have now will always be better than before,” Guxart whispered, lips brushing the slow thrum of the pulse in Keldar’s neck. “No use worrying over things you can’t control.”

“Hmm.”

They lounged together in silence, listening to the crackling snap of the fire, until the door to the library opened and closed again. This time the iron bolt slid across moments later, and both looked at the new arrival expectantly. Vesemir had finished training with the wolves and the cats in the courtyard. The scent of soap and hot springs meant that he’d stopped off to bathe before seeking out his mates. “You need to have a word with Gaetan,” he grumbled. “If he keeps antagonising Eskel like he is, he’s going to get himself blasted off the comb.”

“He finds Eskel attractive,” Guxart said, adjusting so that he could wrap an arm around Vesemir’s shoulder when the old wolf fell in on his other side. “It’ll last as long as it takes to get him into bed or an outright rejection.”

“Ahh,” Keldar grinned. “So, he’s pulling the big wolf’s proverbial pigtails, hm?”

Vesemir grunted. “Must be a cat thing.”

“I never pulled your pigtails,” Guxart threw a leg over Vesemir’s lap, making himself a little more comfortable. Keldar noted the swell of an erection in the front of his trousers and made plans to look for some refreshments in the kitchen while his wolf and cat rutted it out of their system. They were gentlemen and would go no further unless he left, or gave his consent to do so in his presence. Sometimes it was nice to cradle one of them while they fell to pieces; the looks of pleasure, the soft mewls they made, all beautiful. It happened most often in the weak light of the early morning, when the bed was warm and their bodies still loose and sleepy. Keldar cradled Guxart’s head while he moaned softly, Vesemir working into him lazily.

“No, I do recall you kicking my backside in the training fields though, and taking a kind of sadistic glee in it.”

“Sadistic,” Guxart tutted. “I’m wounded.”

“Spade’s a spade.” Vesemir leaned over to bump foreheads with Keldar, before slumping into the cradle of Guxart’s arm. Keldar basked in their company for a little while, accepting lazy kisses from Guxart as they all spread their senses into the castle beyond the library’s walls. The griffins were practising signs in the courtyard; the vipers were working in the stillrooms alongside their three manticore guests. The wolves, the cats and the bears were too distant to tell.

Finally, his stomach growling pointedly, Keldar began to extract himself. “I’ll head to the kitchens and find us some lunch.”

“If you’re hungry,” Guxart said, his grin mischievous, “you could always eat the rest of my orange.” It appeared at Vesemir’s shoulder, partially peeled and perfectly round. A truly impressive sleight of hand.

Keldar blustered and dug his fingers into Guxart’s ribs for revenge. The cat squirmed and yowled, trapped against Vesemir, who was more than happy to keep him secure for Keldar’s retribution. “You blaggard!” the griffin squawked. “You’re worse than the youngest members of your damned school, you tomcat, kittens like grandmaster, I see. You deserve this!”

“Keldar, mercy! Have mercy!”

Keldar did not have mercy. In fact, he ‘attacked’ until Guxart was breathless, wheezing. Agile fingers skittered over ribs, beneath arms, relentless and expertly aimed. With his prey subdued, sprawled over Vesemir’s lap and panting, the griffin left with a gentle peck to his nose. “I’ll bring some wine. Don’t soil the couch.”

Keldar cast one final glance over his shoulder as he left. The two men he’d grown to love so ardently wound together in a deep kiss; Vesemir slid a hand beneath the ties of Guxart’s trousers and he moaned softly. They were beautiful, wise and loving. And they were his.

Additional notes: Keldar was the librarian/archivist at Kaer Seren. He has had to build the library at Kaer Morhen up from, well... ashes. As the new schools arrive, they bring him what survives of their own collections. It’s a truly mammoth task. I’ve referenced medieval monastic libraries in this (not in huge detail). And yes, he writes in Latin, not Elder Speech, but there is limited availability of Elder Speech for my purposes.