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The Novelty of a Viscount
Landing on the ground with a harsh exhale of air, Lambert sprawled out painfully.
He was still reeling from his fight with a wyvern, one that had been craftier than he had expected. At the end, though he had killed it, it had gotten a swipe in with its claws, barbed as they were, and had torn his chest wide open, even through his armour. Everything had remained in place – lungs, heart, the lot – as the tear was only to his muscle, but still it screamed agony at him, slowed him.
This distraction was what had led to guards surrounding him, getting the best of him. The pain of the wound had been such that he hadn’t been able to swing his sword, hadn’t been able to free himself. Trapped in a ring of armed men, Lambert had had no choice but to comply, no choice but to allow himself to be dragged to the near-palace of the land and thrown harshly before the lord of the house.
Laying where he was, blood dripping through his clothes, pooling on the flagstones like water on a bath-house floor, Lambert scented the air. There was the nearby tang of iron, the smell of his own sweat and the rotting bile of wyvern saliva. Beneath that, under the stench of his hunt and the pong of so many human bodies thronging together, guards and servants alike in the hall, there was something familiar, something that almost had him relaxing.
It was that desire to relax that riled him so badly, had him growling under his breath.
At his growl, the guards fell silent and the servants stopped working, all of them turning to watch him. Only one person moved; the lord of the house, the one who had been sitting down to eat, alone at a vast table.
Still looking at the floor – he didn’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, simply because he didn’t want to make the consequences worse for himself if he did – Lambert listened as supple leather boots drew nearer on the stones, the soft tap-tap-tapping of shoes only a witcher could hear, indicating he was someone who knew how to hunt. Lambert wasn’t surprised by that; most young lordlings were taught in the art of killing, after all.
“Who have you brought to me?” the lord asked. To Lambert’s surprise, he had quite a pleasant voice, one that was clearly used to commanding a room. Then, to his even greater shock, the lord showed interest in his well-being. “Why has he not been treated?”
“It’s a witcher, my Lord,” one of the guards piped up behind Lambert, sounding incredibly proud, for reasons only known to himself. “We caught him, just as he finished off that wyvern you posted a contract for.”
“Well, the idea about that,” the Lord practically drawled, coming forward further still, until he was standing with the tips of his boots a hair’s breadth away from the puddle of ruby on the floor. “Was that a witcher came to deal with it. I suggest he is to be treated, not tossed on the floor like so much rubbish.”
“But Viscount de Lettenhove,” a seemingly brave guard spoke up, impressing Lambert. Particularly, because Lambert could smell the irritation boiling in the Viscount’s blood, blood that was altogether not quite human. If Lambert were right – and he usually was – he could smell undertones of the fey in the man, a bitter, wild scent, hidden underneath flowery perfumes. This nature of his presumably made him a wicked, dangerous creature to cross. Almost bad enough, Lambert suspected, that he would have been given a contract against him, were he of common blood. “Your father, the Earl de Lettenhove, ordered that witchers were not to stray in Lettenhove.”
“Did he stray?” the man asked. Lambert tilted his head just far enough back that he could see the odd head-tilt the Viscount was doing, almost bird-like in its movements. Cornflower blue eyes, almost glowing with intensity, were fixed upon the guard who had spoken, the one who smelled like cheap ale. “It was to my understanding that the wyvern was outside the town.”
Behind Lambert, a guard who must have been near-suicidal muttered into another’s ear, mockingly wondering why, if the beast were outside the city, the Viscount had even put out a contract for it at all. If it wasn’t hurting city inhabitants, only those poor enough that they had to live in the surrounding villages, then why did the Viscount care? Biting back the pain in his chest, Lambert had to wonder if he had, perhaps, misjudged the little lordling.
“Are you unwilling to answer my question, or can you simply not?” de Lettenhove asked, what appeared to be a pout rising to his lips.
Nobody answered him still, and his expression darkened.
It was almost comical to Lambert, particularly when looking at the Viscount, a man who looked more like a performer than a man of high rank. While he wore fine silks, they were far from the muted colours of the gentry. Instead, bright purple breeches clung to his legs, while a matching doublet with golden trim was fully fastened to his throat. Lacy cuffs peeked out of his sleeves, and boots with gaudy buckles planted themselves firmly in place, despite the fact that the Viscount was now literally standing in Lambert’s blood.
Yes, he had to declare mentally, this man is at least part fey. Perhaps a changeling, entirely.
“In that case,” de Lettenhove began, his voice brooking no argument. “You will treat him with hospitality while he is staying on my estate. So long as he does not leave, he is not straying into Lettenhove, and the Earl’s—” he sneered when mentioning his father, “—wishes are complied by, are they not?”
Clanking armour and irritated grumbles met Lambert’s ears, telling him the guards were bowing low behind him. Reluctant footsteps sounded, the men retreating, and Lambert felt much more comfortable, enough to push himself to his feet.
At first, his fingers slipped against the blood-slickened floor, causing him to crash forwards again. Hissing through his teeth, wanting nothing more than to take his healing potion and lay down and rest, Lambert struggled up to his knees, then to his feet. To his surprise, he was met with a shoulder under his armpit, the lordling splashing through the scarlet pool to help keep him upright.
“I appreciate the help,” Lambert bit out, hoping it didn’t sound too much like ‘drop dead’ when he did. From the expression on the Viscount’s face, side-on as Lambert viewed it, he didn’t think he’d made too successful a job of it. “But I really must be leaving.”
“No,” again, the changeling used a voice that suggested arguments would not be welcome. Lambert resolved himself to try, anyway. “You are going to lie down in a chamber upstairs, and you are going to rest.”
“Why?” Lambert found himself mocking, the pain in his chest muddling his mind, igniting rage at the unfairness of his existence. All he wanted was to lie down, to sleep, but here a bratty faerie was, telling him he was going to bed. What was he, a child? Through gritted teeth, he asked cruelly, “So you can have the bragging rights of saying you housed a witcher?”
“That, my friend,” for some reason, the bright little lordling was chuckling, urging Lambert forwards by tugging on his arm. Lambert held himself in place, refusing to move. “Is not a terribly interesting claim, nowadays. There are a great many nobles who have housed witchers, after all.”
Letting out a huff, Lambert allowed de Lettenhove to move him one step forwards. For being a faerie, he didn’t seem terribly interested in using his greater strength to his advantage. There wasn’t even that tell-tale scent of burnt sugar in the air that suggested fey magic was being used. No, the little lordling was trying to shift him using only human strength, only human stamina. With that, he would get nowhere against a witcher.
The pain burning in his chest was a great wave that threatened to scoop him up and smash him back down, like a lost sailor against the rocks, but there was a brief flicker through it, candle-light in the dark. Amusement danced, just out of reach, the image of a noble Viscount – no matter how out of place he looked – trying to shift a witcher, a man so much stronger than he, while his guards and servants watched on.
To his own surprise, Lambert let out a startled laugh, everything beginning to shift hazily around him. Blinking stickily, he swung his head to face the Viscount, squinted at the man digging his shoulder into Lambert’s armpit, and opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out, other than an odd clicking sound. Running his tongue over his upper lip, trying not to yell at the pain burning, burning, burning on his chest, Lambert closed his eyes, opened them to swirling darkness, and let the dark consume him.
……………………………
Waking up was a chore, his eyes stuck fast together. It took what felt like hours to peel them apart, wincing at the pain as he did so. Cursing himself internally – he was a witcher, he was meant to be strong enough to ignore a slight sting – he wrestled himself upright, groaning loudly when he felt the pain blooming bright like a flower across his chest.
Surprising him further, gentle hands reached out, grasping his shoulders and urging him back down. A familiar voice hushed him, soothing him back into the pillow, and in his confused, hazy state, Lambert let them. It had been so long since anyone had touched him so soothingly, so kindly, and it was hard to resist their directions. Even healers, people who took a vow to heal, to do no harm, often treated witchers with only the bare minimum required of them by their profession.
Pressed back against downy pillows, propped further upright than he had been against the headboard, Lambert took the opportunity to peer around the room.
It was dark, lit only by a few candles and a crackling fire, its amber glow fighting the shadows of night off. Dark wood panelling covered every wall, and all the pieces of furniture were also made out of that same dark wood, carved with interesting depictions. Most of them seemed somewhat unpractised, an unskilled hand using only a dull blade to hack them into the woods. All of them featured, as far as Lambert could see, some depiction of notes, hoofprints, lutes, an eclectic collection of shapes that were probably meant to be faces, and cat-eyes, their pupils ranging from slit against the sun, to wide against the dark.
Rubbing his chest, Lambert let his gaze slide to the only other occupant in the room, perched beside his bed. More awake now, though still woozy from the ache in his chest, Lambert could recognise him. It was the Viscount de Lettenhove, the man who was some sort of fey creature, the one who had helped him, for reasons Lambert would very much like to know.
Opening his mouth, he made to ask, but a cold compress slapped against his forehead like a wet fish, making him blink in confusion.
“Before you go back to insulting me,” the Viscount said brightly, going to wipe his wet hands off on his thighs, before thinking better of it and wiping them on Lambert’s bed, instead, “Just know that I stitched your chest back together, and gave you one of your potions – your horse is lovely, by the way – so I’d think carefully about it. I might not let you stay in the only bearable chambers in the house, if you’re rude.”
“What?” Lambert found himself asking, reaching up to try and take the cold compress away. “When did I insult you?” Bold hands slapped his back, while the Viscount recounted news of what he had been up to in his fevered sleep, leaving Lambert to blink at the man, stunned.
As he talked, referring to himself as human often, and with no hint of fear that would belie a, well… a lie, it became clear to Lambert that the man had no idea about his changeling heritage.
For a man who believed himself to be fully human, he was acting incredibly familiar with Lambert, as if he weren’t scared at all. Lambert had never seen a human acting so normally around him, and he had to admit it was startling. So much so that he found himself asking, “These chambers are bearable?”
“Come now,” the lordling grinned, leaning his chin on his palm and his elbow on his knee. “It isn’t that bad. I’ve been practising my carving skills since I got back.”
Got back? Lambert mouthed to himself, before shaking that thought off. He didn’t need the details of a Viscount’s life, filled with luxury as it would be. They lived and operated in two very different circles, and Lambert had no intentions of getting caught up in the affairs of nobles. Instead, he asked, “What are they meant to be of?”
“You don’t recognise your humble host?” the man put a hand to his chest, splaying his fingers wide. Lambert could just make out some flakes of blood around his nails, missed when he had cleaned the rest of it off of his hands. “I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, am horrified by this, and aim to rectify the situation immediately.”
To Lambert’s shock, Pankratz then reached down, fishing into the side of his boot and bringing out a wicked dagger, steel blade shining golden in the firelight. Scrambling back, he forced back a wince as the movement pulled at his chest wound. There was an amused laugh from beside him, the lordling shaking his head, reassuring Lambert that he wasn’t going to hurt him.
Embarrassed by his own fear, he turned his snarl-bared teeth towards the man, who was placing the dagger on the side table, just out of reach of Lambert.
Smart man, Lambert noted, but not smart enough. Working with only human reaction speeds will mean that I would still get that blade before him.
Shaking that thought off, not really wanting to plot the murder of the first person he had found in a very long time who wasn’t a witcher or a sorcerer that wasn’t scared of him or disgusted by him, Lambert refocused on Pankratz.
“You mentioned my horse,” Lambert began, allowing himself to relax back into the pillows. “Where is she?”
“In the stables, don’t worry,” Pankratz patted his thigh, leaving Lambert to shoot a narrow-eyed look at the man. It wasn’t so much a glare as a confused stare, but Pankratz removed the hand anyway, hovering it awkwardly near his own chest instead. “What’s she called?”
“Um…” Lambert didn’t have a good answer to that. He’d only bought her recently, and he was still unsure over whether he was going to keep her. “Horse?”
“That’s a terrible name for a horse!” Pankratz cried, throwing his hands up in the air. Eyes sparkling in the firelight, or maybe from mirth, he declared, “Honestly, what is it with witchers and their horses? Not one of them can name them properly. Roach, Scorpion, Earwig – which was the worst, by the way – Worm. I’ll tell you what, I’ll name yours for you.”
Lambert was still reeling about the lord naming other witchers’ horses, from Geralt and Eskel’s, to Coën’s, and even, to his shock, a Bear School witcher’s, one Lambert himself had met only once, a man named Villel. Just how many witchers did this Viscount know? Why did this Viscount know so many?
Still shocked at that revelation, no matter what it meant, Lambert found himself tuning back into Pankratz’s spiel of words pretty late in the game, late enough that the lordling had begun rambling, moving his fingers on his thigh in an almost plucking motion as he did.
“…Or Bluebell,” he was saying, cocking his head to the side, lips pursed in thought. “Buttercup? No, that’s too self-aggrandising. Dandelion? Too fragile, once they turn to seed. Your horse needs a good strong name. Pegasus? Can’t be. My horse will be called Pegasus, when I get one. I suppose I always wanted to name a horse Greg, too—”
“You are not,” Lambert cut in, making sure to keep his voice as threatening as possible. “Naming my horse Greg.”
“You’re right,” Pankratz agreed, waving a hand lazily as if an angry witcher was of no consequence to him. Judging by how many he appeared to have met, Lambert supposed that it probably wasn’t. Hell, Pankratz had survived a grumpy Geralt. What was his own scathing tongue compared to that man’s gruff, well… everything? “She’s a lady. But what’s a strong enough name for her? Thistle? Too spiky. Ivy? Too… poisonous. Toadstool?” The Viscount wrinkled his nose, curled his lip in distaste. “Yuck.”
“No, I like it,” Lambert cut in, reaching up to tap the side of a crooked index finger against his chin. “Toad.” He nodded, feeling a grin rising to his face despite himself. “Toad it is.”
“Oh no!” Moaned Pankratz, pressing his palms to his cheeks. “That’s worse than Worm, for fuck’s sake!”
Chuckling to himself, set at ease by the lord’s extensive ramblings, Lambert reached up, peeled the material of his shirt back. Under it, thick bandages lay, not even a single speck of red seeping through. Knowing that was only partially due to his accelerated healing and the potion Pankratz said he had administered – though how he knew which one to use was a pressing question – Lambert had to praise the man for his neat work. Silently. He was hardly going to put himself in a changeling Viscount’s debt, even if the Viscount didn’t seem to know of his own heritage.
Mustering a darker tone than the mood he actually felt, Lambert bit out, “How do you know how to patch people up, Pankratz?”
“Please, call me Julian,” the man requested, eyebrows raising hopefully. “We’re friends now, are we not?”
“Fuck off, Lordling,” Lambert found himself saying, regretting it just a little when the man’s face crumpled. How the man had managed to worm his way past Lambert’s defences in such a short amount of time was beyond him, but he had. Furious with himself – witchers didn’t need people, certainly not friends, but now Lambert felt himself wanting that closeness he’d had with Aiden once before, wanting it because of Pankratz of all people – Lambert growled, “If you’re not going to answer my question, I’ll be on my way.”
He moved to do just that, and despite the hurt expression still spread across the Viscount’s face, Pankratz reached out and cupped his palms over Lambert’s shoulder, urging him down into the pillow with considerable force. It wasn’t enough to stop a witcher, nor an action that prevented Lambert from throwing the sheet covering his legs to the side, but it did surprise him. Not many people took liberties such as Pankratz was doing, not with a witcher at least, and the novelty of it held Lambert fast where he sat.
Drawing closer to him, bringing that scent that reminded him of home somehow – not that he had one, not that any witcher had one, really – Pankratz reached for the blankets. Spreading them back across Lambert’s lap, he smoothed them out, removing any wrinkles.
All his friendly touching made Lambert uncomfortable, made him want to wriggle away and lean in at the same time. It confused him, wedged an odd feeling into his chest, wrapping around his lungs and tightening.
Was this what it was like for Geralt all the time, he wondered? Was this how it felt to his brother, who travelled with a human bard?
“If you just sit back and rest, I’ll answer your questions, my good witcher,” Pankratz told him, patting his forearm. Lambert snatched it back, mostly because something was niggling at the back of his brain, telling him that he didn’t want to snatch his arm back. The warmth of the Viscount’s palm through the thin material of his sleeping shirt was soothing, and Lambert wanted to sink into that touch. He couldn’t let himself. “But first,” the Viscount rose to his feet then, peeling the compress from Lambert’s forehead and dropping it back into the pail it had come from with a splash. Picking the bucket up, he turned towards the door, throwing back over his shoulder, “I shall fetch you something to eat and drink. I imagine you’re rather hungry, after your ordeal.”
Lambert had to concede to that, so he said nothing, just watching the Viscount go.
With the brightly clad man no longer in the room, he managed to shift himself into a proper sitting position, then swing his legs out of the bed, the sheets still pulled over his lap. Only a hiss, smothered by the clench of his teeth, spoke of how much pain he was still in. Pressing a palm gently against his chest, he glanced down, the bandages just visible through the vee of his neck-line.
If Pankratz hadn’t been there to patch him up, his survival would have been much more hit-or-miss. Truly, he suspected ‘miss’ would have been more likely.
Shrugging that thought off – there was no use dwelling on it, when he very clearly had survived – Lambert hauled himself out of bed, using one of the amateurly carved posts as leverage. On his feet, he swayed unsteadily, trying to catch his balance, then took a few shuffling steps forward. His chest screamed at him to stop, but he ignored it, instead loosening his muscles as much as he could, before taking off to inspect the room he was in.
There was very little of interest in it, save for a large collection of books on the opposite wall. A window was set back, cushions and blankets of exceedingly vibrant colours covering the deep sill, creating what Lambert suspected was a very comfortable, if obnoxiously bright, reading nook.
Near to that, a desk was set up, quills littering it, along with half-filled notebooks and pages with half-scribbled out phrases. In one corner of the desk, official looking documents were stacked neatly. Flicking through them briefly, keeping his senses attuned to the world outside the room, straining to hear the Viscount returning, Lambert noted that they were all signed or amended as Pankratz saw fit, and all seemed to be particularly fair notices. It was almost as if he knew the plight of the people.
But, Lambert questioned, turning his cat-like gaze out of the window, studying the vastness of the estate in the sliver of moonlight afforded by its waning form, how could that be? Someone who lived in such a palace of a house should surely not understand the people, simply through superiority of rank, though a lack of interacting with the commoners.
Pushing that thought from his mind, Lambert turned back to his exploration of the room. As he had noted before, there was very little of interest, save from a few snippets on the scribbled-out papers, phrases familiar even to Lambert, as if from popular songs. Probably just the Viscount writing down lyrics he had stuck in his head from whatever ridiculous bard – Geralt, at least, was under the impression that no bard save his was worthwhile listening to, though having never heard Geralt’s bard, Lambert couldn’t comment – had played at his last enormous feast.
At least, that was what Lambert assumed, until he almost tripped over something in the dark. Squinting into the shadows, frowning at the leather case that was almost the exact same shade as the blackness it lay in (the fact that he hadn’t spotted it was a testament to how out of it Lambert still was), Lambert discovered something very interesting. It was an instrument case, one made sturdy for travels, not just for show. Bending down, he picked it up, brought it over to the desk and laid it down on the already crumpled papers.
Attention directed almost entirely to the case – he didn’t like to play, but he did love the music a master could create with lutes, even if he always told his brothers that he couldn’t stand string instruments – Lambert flicked the latches open, opening the lid of it with care.
There, nestled in pale blue velvet, was the most beautiful lute Lambert had ever seen. Not that he had seen a lot up close, but still...
It looked almost elven in its creation, winding patterns gracing the front. Almost reverently, taking care not to damage it – there was no way he could afford to replace this beauty – Lambert lifted it from its bed, marvelling at the light weight of it. Turning it over, he inspected the back, only for his eyes to widen further in shock, his pupils contracting with it.
There, scratched into the back by an inexpert hand, was a very familiar symbol. A wolf, carved in the likeness of those on the medallions worn by the witchers of the Wolf School.
“It’s impolite to rifle through your host’s personal belongings,” a voice murmured, startling Lambert enough that he jumped. All his senses had been so attuned to the instrument in his hands that he hadn’t registered the door opening, nor the soft footsteps of Pankratz returning. “A witcher, with the benefit of age, and therefore wisdom, should certainly know better.”
“Where did you get this?” Lambert asked, rubbing his thumb over the jagged carving. There was only one bard he could think of who would add something such as that to an otherwise marvellous lute. When Pankratz didn’t answer, Lambert raised his head, a snarl curling his lips, anger lowering his brow. “Where,” his voice was low, threatening. “Did you get this? Answer me!”
“It’s mine.” That startled Lambert, but not as much as the lack of fear still in Pankratz’s voice. That, and the fact that he could hear the steady beat of Pankratz’s heart, the level thrum of his pulse, and he knew he wasn’t lying. Which, Lambert figured, was right. If Pankratz was a full changeling, he couldn’t lie. “I got it in Dol Blathanna.”
“The Valley of Flowers,” Lambert murmured, turning the lute so it was face up again, strings facing the ceiling. The Viscount took careful steps forward, rounding the desk and lifting the instrument gently out of Lambert’s hands, before placing it lovingly back in its case. “There’s only one bard I know of, who got a lute from there…”
“Jaskier, at your service,” the man sketched a bow, his now-undone doublet falling askew as he did so, revealing an off-white shirt and a fair scattering of chest-hair. “Master bard, and Professor at Oxenfurt.”
“And, apparently, a Viscount,” Lambert pointed out, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Geralt forgot to mention that part.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Jaskier muttered, sounding annoyed about something. With the lute in its case, he swung it off the desk and over his shoulder, before leading the way back past the fire, over towards the bed. “Besides, I’d all but renounced my title while I was travelling with him.”
“While you were traveling with him?” Lambert asked, stumbling somewhat behind the bard.
Jaskier didn’t reply, but in the flickering light, Lambert could see his shoulders had tensed up. By the time he had drawn level with the bard, then passed him to sit on the edge of the bed, he saw the way Jaskier’s lips were pressed together in a thin line, the way his cornflower blue eyes – eyes too blue to be fully human – were angled away, fixed to the side. He wasn’t meeting Lambert’s gaze, even when the witcher tried to catch it, and so he knew something was wrong.
“Something happened between you and that idiot, didn’t it?” Lambert asked, allowing himself to be ushered back against the pillow by the fretting bard. His lute was resting on his lap, the strap pulled strangely and tight, still hooked over his shoulder as it was. “You’re upset with him.”
“So would you be,” Jaskier pointed out in as light a voice as Lambert suspected he could manage, finally pulling the strap off his shoulder, and setting the case down at his feet. “If you had followed a man around for twenty-two years, and he blamed you for every little thing that went wrong for him, because he can’t make a good decision to save his life.”
“Twenty-two years?” Lambert asked, incredulously. The bard nodded his head morosely, a faint tremble in the set of his lips. “How old are you?”
“Forty, dear,” Jaskier replied distractedly, reaching out to take the steaming tisane from the bedstand, handing it over to Lambert. Fingers wrapped around it, Lambert couldn’t help but flex his sword-hand, surprised at how stiff it was. “It was over half my life, I followed him.” Jaskier sobered a little, adding off-handed, “Well, with a few breaks here and there. We can’t just follow one man all the time now, can we? Even if he is—”
Lambert let the bard ramble on, instead focusing on the information he had been given.
While it was very sad that the bard had been tossed aside after over half his lifetime of following Geralt, Lambert had to admit to himself that that wasn’t what he was surprised over. Geralt was an idiot, after all.
No, what surprised him was that the man sitting in front of him was claiming to be forty, yet still looked like he was in his late twenties. How did he think he was entirely human, exactly? He didn’t smell it, he didn’t look it (for his age), he didn’t even have the nerves that most humans had around witchers. Yet, there he was, sure in his humanity.
As was Geralt, Lambert realised, who had always claimed he couldn’t bring Jaskier to Kaer Morhen because the pass was too dangerous for humans to cross even just nearing winter. Or, so Geralt claimed. Lambert was pretty sure that a sturdy human could make it. Eskel was, too, and liked to point out that a bard that followed a witcher would surely be at least somewhat adapted to travelling difficult roads.
“—but yes, he left me,” Jaskier was still lamenting, reaching into his other boot to remove another dagger. This one, Lambert realised, was made of silver, perfectly matching the other dagger still discarded on the bedside table. It seemed that Geralt had been giving his bard gifts, and expensive ones at that, before getting rid of him. Perhaps there was more than friendship between them…? It was an idea only strengthened by Jaskier’s muttering of, “—Stupid, handsome witcher, who has the emotional awareness of a rock, I tell you! Leaving me there, on a mountain, all alone. Can you imagine?”
Shoving his wonderings about his brother’s true relationship with Jaskier, Lambert chuckled awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck, admitting to the bard, “Yeah, that sounds like something Geralt would do.”
“Does it?” Jaskier asked, intrigue lightening his tone. “Do tell me how you figure that.”
“You’ve known him for over twenty years,” Lambert pointed out, gesturing with a vague hand in the bard’s direction. “Surely you’ve worked out he’s a fool, by now.”
“That I have, my dear witcher,” Jaskier grinned a conspirator’s grin at Lambert, and to his surprise he felt the corners of his own lips turning up. There was something about Geralt’s bard that was just so likeable, something so friendly and warm that Lambert couldn’t help but find himself enjoying his company. “Now, I think dinner is in order, don’t you?”
With a one-sided smile, Lambert nodded his head, then allowed Jaskier to place the tray on his lap. There, well-cooked meat with actual salt and real herbs stared back at him, just waiting to be devoured. Finding himself almost drooling, Lambert tucked in, letting out a bark of laughter when Jaskier reached onto his plate with his bare fingers and picked up the thigh of a pheasant, bringing it to his lips and taking an enormous bite. How he had ever thought this man hadn’t spent time amongst common people was beyond him.
He might have been a Viscount, but he certainly had travelled with Geralt for some time. Lambert could tell.
Glad to be in trustworthy company – anyone who Geralt allowed to follow him for two decades (and realistically, he had to have allowed it. The man had a horse, he could just gallop away if he really wanted) couldn’t be anything but a decent fellow – Lambert bent his head to his food and ate, ignoring the pain in his chest as it slowly dissipated, as his body recuperated.
Soon, very soon, he’d have to get back on his way, back on the Path, but for now he was in a warm room, with someone who was, if not a friend, at least a good acquaintance, and to Lambert’s surprise, he felt safe. It was most likely the familiar smell arising off of Jaskier that was doing it, but still. It was hardly something to turn his nose up at.
Hiding his smile in his own pheasant leg, Lambert let himself enjoy the company.
………………………….
The next morning dawned bright and early, and Lambert knew he would be on his way, his chest no longer smarting. Creeping out of bed, moving warm limbs very carefully, hoping not to disturb the Viscount – Jaskier had insisted upon sharing the bed, claiming he wanted to keep an eye on Lambert’s wound for one more evening – Lambert dressed and rearmed himself hurriedly, then snuck to the door.
Once out of the room, he let his footsteps fall heavier, avoiding the frightened gazes of the servants. Having spent so much time in Jaskier’s friendly company the previous evening, it was jarring to be met with the usual awful looks he got amongst humans. A faint pang of loss welled up in him, but he shoved it down. He was a witcher. He had to go on the Path. He couldn’t just hang around on a Viscount’s estate for the rest of his days.
Tacking up Toad (it was a good name for a horse), he found Toss a Coin stuck in his head. Groaning to himself, he finished his task, then lead Toad out of the stables and towards the front of the house. To his surprise, Jaskier was waiting there, hands on his hips.
“I can’t believe you were about to leave without saying goodbye,” he announced, his red velvet doublet hanging open, swaying in the breeze, a lacy shirt visible beneath. Throwing his hands up, he declared, “Witchers. Honestly, you’re all the same. Leaving a poor bard like me behind, with nothing to do but run an estate I don’t want.”
“You could always come back on the Path,” Lambert found himself offering, keeping his eyes fixed firmly down as he checked through his saddle bags, noting with a pleased hum that Jaskier hadn’t left a mess when he’d gone through them for the potions the night before, and then another, when he found his re-filled coin purse. “I’ll be heading to Kaer Morhen soon,” he added, wondering whether that would sweeten the deal, or worsen it. “You could tag along, talk to Geralt.”
“That’s a wonderful offer, darling, and I thank you—” Jaskier began, but Lambert didn’t let him finish, not wanting to come across as needy in any way.
“I’m not offering for you,” Lambert huffed, fastening the buckles on his bag, before putting his foot in the stirrup. Swinging himself up onto the saddle, he added, “I’m thinking I’ll get more coin if I you tagged along. That, and the look on Geralt’s face when he sees you at the keep would be priceless.”
“Still a tempting offer,” when Lambert turned to Jaskier, instead of seeing hurt, he saw amusement twinkling in those blue eyes, fondness softening his features. Refusing to acknowledge the way his own face wanted to curl into a smile, he faced ahead, not letting himself look back at the bard. “And you would make more coin, that’s for certain. However, I’m already committed at Oxenfurt this winter, and I shan’t put them through the difficulties of finding a new professor at such short notice.”
“Suit yourself,” Lambert shrugged, voice gruffer than he would have liked.
He was just about to spur Toad on, when Jaskier called out, “Lambert?”
“Bard?” he asked, surprise coursing through him. He hadn’t told Jaskier his name at any point last night, he was sure. Twisting as much as he could to look round at the brightly coloured man, he saw him standing looking very alone at the foot of the steps to his house. It didn’t sit right. Something about the bard demanded an audience, a crowd, and a grumpy shadow in the corner. Seeing him with nobody at his side was odd, even if it was the only way Lambert had ever seen him.
“Spread word, would you, that while the Viscount de Lettenhove remains at the estate, it is a place welcoming for witchers.”
Nodding at Jaskier, Lambert vowed to do just that. There were many other witchers, he knew, that were just like he was. They found the rigors of their life unfair, had never wanted to be witchers and had hated all the ordeals it came with. More, they were incredibly lonely, having only other witchers to give them a truly helping hand, a genuinely friendly face.
Yet, here Jaskier was, a man who wasn’t human but didn’t seem to know it, offering all that and more. A place to sleep, good food to eat, company and a friendly touch, something so many witchers didn’t know, or at least, not without paying, and not without the stench of fear still very much present.
So, of course Lambert was going to spread the word that the Viscount de Lettenhove was welcoming of their kind. A respite from the harsh world was offered here, and Lambert was certainly going to take it up often, should he hear that the Viscount was in.
Urging Toad into a trot, Lambert had to stop again when Jaskier called out once more.
“Oh, and Lambert?” he asked, skipping up alongside him and wrapping his fingers around his booted ankle gently, not restraining, merely touching. “When you next see Geralt, send him my way, would you? He and I are going to have words.”
“I bet you are,” Lambert found himself laughing, nudging Toad back into movement when Jaskier’s calloused fingers slipped away. Waving, he tossed his words over his shoulder as he left, “See you around, Bard.”
“Be careful,” Jaskier called after him, voice bright, enthusiastic. “If you’re not at Kaer Morhen next winter, I shall be very cross. I might have to hunt you down, dear witcher. See if I wouldn’t.”
Unable to hold back his delighted laugh, Lambert continued up the road, taking the fork that would lead him away from the city of Lettenhove when he came to it.
Having met Geralt’s bard, Lambert felt as if the world were just a little bit brighter for it, and he honestly had to wonder why Geralt had ever pushed him away. But then, as he had often thought, his brother was a thrice-damned fool, through and through. One that hadn’t thought to bring such a spot of light to Kaer Morhen once, not once in twenty-two years, despite the friendship he could, and very obviously would, offer to Lambert and Eskel as well.
Shaking his head at his brother’s stupidity, Lambert vowed to himself, then and there, that if Geralt wasn’t appropriately cowed by his bard into apologising, into bringing him to Kaer Morhen next winter, he would take the bard there himself.
Plan in mind, mood much improved from when he had ridden into Lettenhove, Lambert rode out, a message to spread, and a new contract to find.