Archive of Our Own

The old man’s words still ring in his ears, even now. As fresh spring winds whip around the mountain, keeping them company as they trek down along the paths that lead out on to the Continent, Lambert can’t quite shake off Vesemir’s endless ramblings. Lessons drilled into his head that he’s certain should be considered as one of the methods of torture used during the earlier days of their internment in the keep.

If Rennes and the other old bats run out of ways to wring their pups’ heads inside and out, just lock them in a library with a lecturing Vesemir about how all Witchers are to mind their own business and keep out of frivolous human skirmishes.

Not that he’s particularly interested in getting involved in any baron’s bitter bitchy fight over some land another lord is treading on. From all the stories that Geralt and Eskel have brought back to him from their own adventures, he really couldn’t give a fuck. It’s just nice to hear what those perched on the higher rungs of life’s ladder do to each other to make sure they stay where they are, while kicking others below them off of it completely.

He takes in what he can. The grey, rain-heavy clouds slumped over the mountain tops, that will tumble down along after them as they set out for the seasons. The trees which become less and less dense the further down they go, and the stones and rocks that have smoothened out and have allowed lush grasses to grow for herds of deer and elk to graze on.

He’s never been this far down the mountain. Seasons were spent waiting for the older boys to come back. As soon as Geralt or Eskel set foot back inside the keep, he would pester them for stories about their seasons away. Every hunt they were on and every corner of the Continent that they got to see. If Lambert was going to be kept sheltered away in some dusty, crumbling old keep atop a mountain, then he needed stories to pass the time.

His day eventually came. Every year, packs of pups would be turned out on to the Continent. The elder Wolves trained them as best as they could; what they did next in the following three seasons out in the rest of the world would be completely up to them. Some never made it back. They left one spring and never returned. Those who did came back with scars marring their skin.

And it never put him off. He wanted to go. Every season and month and week and day spent with Vesemir, the last old bastard atop of the Kaedweni Mountains, was slowly driving him insane. They were the last of their School, the last of their kind. Other Witchers remained but the Continent is such a grand and sprawling place, Lambert made peace with the fact that he might never see another Witcher from another School in his lifetime. Unless some stroke of luck graced his path one day, the only other Witchers he knew were those he had grown up around.

The man who had been the closest thing to a father to him was also the person Lambert would happily throw off of the highest tower if he ever had to sit through one more lesson on the differences between ghouls and aghouls. They have a...complicated relationship. The thought of Vesemir almost being lost to the pogrom against their kind nearly stilled his breath and made his heart give out. But, by all of the gods above, could both he and the old shit rip into each other. He’s surprised that the crumbling walls of the keep haven’t fallen entirely with how loudly they can scream and shout at each other when arguments really got going – and the arguments were always over nothing, things that were quickly forgotten about the next day.

And now he doesn’t have that. All he’s left with is the lingering lessons keeping him company as the village nestled at the foot of the mountain comes into view. Lambert can’t help but stiffen. The road forks and branches out. Each of them will take a direction and walk aimlessly along it, until the winds change and they can go back home again. He’s used to not seeing his brothers for months on end. But he can’t stop his hands from gripping onto his reins that bit tighter.

As they reach the village, nothing more than a handful of stone and thatched-roof houses, and their inhabitants well used to Witchers flowing through their worn dirt roads, Lambert lets out a shaking breath.

He’s going. Ample supplies in his bags, two swords freshly forged and run against a whetstone, enough coin to carry him as far as Ard Carraigh where, hopefully, more contracts will fill his purse again.

Leave the humans to their skirmishes.

Keep focused; don’t get distracted.

Keep your senses alert at all times.

Witchers hunt monsters, nothing more—

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Eskel murmurs as he joins his side. His words are almost lost as a new fresh breeze picks up and ruffles their horses’ lingering winter coats. Eskel’s stallion bristles and shifts underneath him, but the Wolf still wears a look that seems an awful lot like concern. “I can travel with you as far as Ard Carraigh if you want?”

Lambert just about manages to stop his eyes from rolling. “Gods, I’ll be fine,” he grunts, gathering his reins and looking down the long stretch of road that leads them out into the Continent and its lands and kingdoms.

The first time he’ll be heading out, alone, until autumn winds change and he’ll have to head home again. If he manages to survive the year, that is. As Vesemir saw the last of his pups off for the first season alone, it stood amongst all of them, unspoken – the very real chance that accompanies every single one of them that one of them could meet their end this year. He swallows, and hopes that the elder Wolf didn’t quite hear it. “I’ll be fine.”

Eskel regards him for a moment, but hums. He looks out onto the road. Geralt and his mare wait nearby. The elders already made a pact to follow the eastern road together as far as Vespaden, and they would split soon after. It’s better for him if he just leaves them now. It would work out better for everyone. He doesn’t need to spend longer than he needs to trailing after the older boys – he’s spent enough of his life hanging off of them.

Niels paws at the ground, just as eager to get going. Lambert takes a measured breath. “Alright,” he grunts, looking to the elder Wolves. Both of them watch him expectantly. They’ve watched others from his year go, and counted on each hand the number of them that came back. As emotionally constipated as Geralt tends to be, the barest flicker of worry blinks on his face. Lambert nods sharply, set to go. “I’ll see you both again in the winter; don’t do anything I would do.”

Geralt snorts, turning away to hide the worst of the smirk that crawls along his lips. Eskel’s worried-mother-frown softens slightly. He lifts his chin. “See you then, Lam.”

Turning out onto the road is difficult. It’s the furthest from the keep he’s ever been. The old bat atop of the mountain never let him come on journeys down the paths to the villages; apparently loading up a cart of fresh vegetables and dairy was just too dangerous for a wolf pup. But the same old bat has no reservations about turning his last pup onto the path. Maybe he’s calling upon every god he can remember the name of that Lambert comes back. That bit of divine intervention might just help him pass the year.

Vesemir’s words never dulled, even as the Blue Mountains and the keep perched on top of it faded into the horizon he left behind. Even as he took his first contract, clearing drowners from a local bog, it was as of Vesemir had followed him down the path and rumbled his incessant speeches against his ear.

It soon became a mantra, repeated over and over again until that was all that occupied his thoughts and dreams.

The second it stilled, leaving his mind deafening quiet for a brief moment, was weeks after leaving the keep when his eyes fell on to a man stumbling out of a tavern just beyond Daevon. His heart stuttered and threatened to still in his chest as he watched. The road wasn’t too busy, but the drunkard still managed to crash into and bump shoulders with whoever was in the way of his staggered and stumbling steps.

Lambert’s nose wrinkled. It had taken him a while to grow used to his enhanced senses. Lights that were now blinding and strong smells that almost have him gagging and emptying his stomach, and now, with the familiar sweet-sour scent of ale and mead clinging to the man’s breath and skin coating the roof of his mouth and threatening to smother him.

A familiar scent that has his breath quickening. Niels nickers lowly, pawing at the ground and pulling at the reins, trying to bring him away from this place.

A Witcher’s duty, first and foremost, is to kill monsters. 

Lambert tightens his grip around the reins laced through his fingers. As the man in the street staggers away, ambling further down the dirt road and bumping into people along his way, Lambert clicks his tongue, urging his mount forward.

Time drifted by on the mountain. Seasons were indistinguishable from each other because of ever-present wind and rain. Storms that rolled in, with no care as to whether it were the coldest night of winter or the warmest day of summer. Gods know how many seasons or years passed before he stepped out onto the Continent.

But enough time had passed for the nearby forest to start reclaiming the thatched cottage. Overgrown branches reach out and paw at the moss-covered and shoddy thatched roof, with ivy curling around the walls and piercing through the weakened mortar, ready to heave and pull it to the ground.

Lambert hops down from Niels’ back, leading the gelding over to a barely standing fence and tethering him there. Setting a gentle hand on to the bay’s neck, Lambert keeps his voice low. “I won’t be long, boy. Then we can rest somewhere. Promise.”

He nickers and presses his felt muzzle into his cheek. A quiet reassurance to settle the worst of his trembling breath and stuttering heart.

He never thought he would have to face the all too familiar outline of his old house again. He would never be as brazen as to call it his home. Kaer Morhen was more of a home to him – even if it was a place of mutagens and endless tests and trials and death. He’d still rush to the old crumbling keep atop of the Blue Mountains than even entertain the notion of returning here – to him.

His hand goes to the pommel of the sword kept to his waist. Silver, for monsters.

He’s bigger now; taller than he remembers the man being, but when Lambert was that young, and the man loomed over him, he seemed to be a giant. But now, he’s stronger. He was able to hold his own against the older boys in skirmishes. And the freshly forged and sharpened blades by his side would help him.

Blood rushes through his ears as he stalks towards the house, each step measured and silent. Even the wind seems to still around him as he approaches the house. The building doesn’t seem as imposing now; worn away with time and about to crumble under its own weight.

His eyes are sharper now. Golden irises tainted with mutagens, but allow him to see the faintest shadow amid darkness. Now, they’re drawn to familiar stonework in the walls. Stones that have been long-weathered by the rains that often plagued this part of Kaedwen. Even with most of the stone now mottled and eroded, Lambert spots a kerbstone near the foot of the door, barely a few feet off of the ground. His gaze lingers on the faint etched scrawl of a boy who had only just learned enough letters of the alphabet to spell his own name.

His throat bobs and the hold around his sword’s pommel tightens.

Not many pups survive their first run out into the wilds. Younger pups who did make it back weren’t the same from when they left. Something changed them out there, something that Lambert worried and dream about at night and startled himself awake. What kind of monsters roamed outside of their keep and their mountain that could frighten the older boys? The older pups like Geralt and Eskel, who came back year after year, helping him escape from his own dormitory to one of their rooms just to tell him stories of what they encountered on the path.

He understands now. Monstrous creatures roam the wilds. Drowners and wraiths and griffins who hunt and kill indiscriminately.

He’s been shaken, sure. Most pups returned with their golden eyes dulled. Nightmares returned for the winter, keeping most of the whelps awake and afraid of sleep. He understands. The world is really full of monsters.

If he returns to Kaer Morhen with his shoulders that bit more relaxed, and his head held higher, no one mentions it. Geralt is the first to meet him at the gate, having already returned and all but dragging the youngest Wolf down off of his gelding. Once Lambert is on the ground, he’s bundled into strong, familiar arms and the last of his breath is crushed out of him.

With his face buried against Geralt’s shoulder, his ears twitch at the sound of rushing footsteps almost skidding on the gravel. “Lam!” Eskel crows, colliding into the back of Geralt and bundling his arms around all of them. Lambert manages to free his face, craning his head back so he can take in a deep lungful of crisp mountain air. It stings his lungs and sends a shiver through him; he’s forgotten about the cold.

Warmth blooms through his clothes and cloak right through to his skin from the other Witchers. They’re not that keen on letting go, even as Lambert starts to wiggle out of their hold. Someone’s hand reaches out and ruffles his wild mop of curls. He’s due for a long soak in the baths underneath the keep, and he’ll have to ask someone to help and trim back his hair, but all things that can be dealt with later.

He hears more measured footsteps along the gravel. Footfalls in a particular rhythm that he knows all too well. Vesemir.

Geralt and Eskel both slip away from him as the Old Wolf walks towards them, hands held behind his back and expression utterly unreadable. Lambert’s heart almost stills in his chest as a pair of amber eyes regard him for a moment.

Without the other Wolves around him, it’s bitterly cold. Winter is tumbling in quicker than usual, and he just managed to get back to the keep before the worst of the winds could start lashing the mountain and blocking his path back up.

Lambert bundles his cloak around him, staving off the wind suddenly start to blow through the courtyard. “Vesemir,” he says, inclining his head slightly. He might fight with the Old Wolf, old arguments about nothing in particular but they would be ripping each other’s throats out, but Vesemir is the last of his pack and a father to all of them. He’s to be shown the proper amount of respect.

The Old Wolf’s lips thin. “Lambert,” he says. Glancing at the two other Wolves nearby, Vesemir’s eyes glint. He nods back to the keep. “Come with me, boy.”

He’s only been away from Kaer Morhen for three seasons, but as he steps back inside of the keep, it’s like he never left. Every crack in the stones and every line of mortar he knows off by heart. He knows what stones will trip him if he treads near them and which hallways never get any warmth from the baths within the lower levels.

Following Vesemir is familiar. As his class began to dwindle, Vesemir kept what pups did remain close to his side. Other instructors might have hissed and snarled that he was getting too close and attached to his newest litter, but he still had them stick to his side all the same. They were the last Witchers to ever be made – not that they knew it at the time. Some of the instructors might. Vesemir definitely did.

Lambert regards the elder for a moment. “No welcome back, glad you’re not dead?” he tries, lips curling into a smirk because he knows how much he can poke and prod at the old wolf without getting bit. He’s been quiet since turning to head back into the keep. Even as Lambert tried to lure something, anything, out of him, Vesemir’s jaw stayed tight and his eyes forward as he brought his pup further into the keep.

But as Vesemir turns around, Lambert’s smirk drops from his lips. The elder looks furious. “Can you explain to me,” Vesemir says steadily, “why you felt it necessary to take the life of a human, unprompted and without reason?”

He can feel his heart starting to pick up. His tongue starts to swell in his mouth. Afterimages of a house entangled in tree branches and roots blink in front of him. “What?” The word bumbles out through numb lips.

Vesemir leans back against his desk, folding his arms over his broad chest. Even now, only a handful of seasons out of the keep, it’s like he’s a pup again being scolded for raiding the kitchen’s pantry before first light. Vesemir can stare right through stone, and it takes everything in Lambert not to try and scurry away and out of the man’s field of view.

The old wolf takes a steady breath. “Was he afflicted with lycanthropy? Had he been leading villagers or townspeople out into bogs or swamps for drowners or kikimora to graze on?”

Lambert’s throat bobs. “No,” he croaks, wincing at how tight and rasping his voice sounds as his throat starts to close in on itself. “No, I, I—”

“No,” Vesemir nods, jaw tightened and golden eyes glinting. “You took the life of a man, a human, without any reason. I know all about it, you whelp. You think that once you leave here, you can do whatever you like? That I won’t hear about it?”

No, I had a reason, I promise—

Vesemir pushes away from the desk, stalking over towards Lambert. For a brief, panicked second, Lambert has to stop his shoulders from stooping and his hands coming up to his chest. “You wear that medallion around your neck,” Vesemir growls, pointing at the snarling wolf’s head, “so you represent our School. Our guild. A guild that already has trouble with existing in this world, without stray, feral whelps going out there and killing humans nonsensically.”

Some sort of sound rips out of his throat. “I had a reason!” Lambert cries out. His words almost echo around the chamber. Some small part of him is thankful that the balcony doors are closed. He’d hate for the other Wolves to hear this.

Lambert’s throat bobs. “I had a reason,” he says, quieter now, and words beginning to shake as tears sting the backs of his eyes.

Vesemir’s scowl doesn’t soften. There’s a moment when silence sits between the two of them, something that stretches on for longer than it should and gods does Lambert hate it—

“You must be tired from the Path,” Vesemir says stiffly, turning away and stalking towards his desk. He fidgets with an old quill for a moment. “Go to your room and get some sleep. You know what time dinner will be held at.”

Lambert’s breath shakes out of him until there’s not much left. His fingers curl into his fists, numbed and tingling. He can’t remember reaching the door, or stepping out into the hallway, or getting back to his own room, but when the door clicks shut behind him and he falls face-first onto his bed, burying his face into his pillows, dry, heaving sobs wring out of him.

“So,” Eskel says cheerfully, bursting into Lambert’s room with Geralt close on his heels, “you got years of our stories; what have you been up to?”

The question is met with silence. If anything, Eskel’s mood drops the second he spots a familiar mound curled on the bed, turned towards the far wall and utterly still. A familiar sight. When they still slept in huge rooms with more bunks than boys, pups curled into themselves to stave off all sorts of things; shakes and tremors from a fresh trial of mutagens, nightmares of a past life, or the cold that never seemed to go away despite the season.

Even though he’s facing away, Lambert can hear their steps turn softer as both of the Wolves ambling towards his bed. He’s not living in the dormitories anymore. He hasn’t slept among his littermates in years. Once the last handful perished, and more rooms from past instructors became available, Vesemir didn’t see any reason why the younger boys couldn’t be in rooms of their own. Geralt laid claim to his old potions instructor’s room – a ponderous and daft old shit. Eskel had the same instinct to claim his bestiary teacher’s room, though, more for the joy of having to watch the man’s ghost balk at all sorts of things Eskel was doing to it.

The mattress shifts as two Wolves perch on the foot of the bed. “Lam?” Eskel tries, having always been the better one at trying to ease tensions. “Are you alright?”

No.

The word catches in his throat; tight and sore since staggering away from Vesemir’s room, rushing to his own and letting the door slam shut behind him. His cheeks are still reddened and blotchy from tears and his eyes hurt and strain against the light shining in through tall lancet windows lining the walls.

Enough silence has stretched out for it to be enough of an answer. Lambert’s ears twitch at the sound of linens moving and the bed shifts underneath him. Before he can muster enough energy to look over his shoulder, a broad familiar body settles behind him. Eskel doesn’t reach out, but he lies close enough for the warmth of his body to be felt. Out of the corner of his eye, Lambert spots Geralt walking around the bed and perching on Lambert’s side, curling up by his feet. A pile of pups that would often come together during the worst nights within the keep. When nightmares or stimulants and mutagens wracked through their bodies and broke them out in sweats and shakes

His eyes sting and throat bobs as both of the Wolves near him settle, only an arm’s reach away if he needs them. They know what works with Lambert; how he doesn’t like to be coddled like some of the other whelps from earlier years, who preferred to wail like wraiths throughout the night. Lambert just needs...someone there.

He burrows his nose into his pillow. Soft fresh linens that have been washed recently, awaiting his return home.

He watches the light slowly dim as clouds fall away from the peaks of the mountain and block out the sun. Gods only know how much time passes, and if he falls asleep or not, until there’s a curt knock at the door.

“Dinner,” the familiar gruff voice of Vesemir calls through the door. Lambert winces. He listens to the Old Wolf stride away from his room, down along the hallway until he can’t hear him anymore.

Eskel sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He might have dozed off too. “Are you coming down, or will we bring you up something?”

Older rules suddenly whisper against his ear. If pups and whelps didn’t come down for dinner in the great hall, then they got nothing. Even those writhing and cramping with mutagens from fresh tests and experiments; somehow, they needed to find a way to stagger down to the great hall and not collapse or lose their stomach or bowels along the way. The last thing anyone wanted was to clean up their own mess while mutagens made the smell smothering.

But those rules belonged with older Wolves. Vindictive bastards who are long dead, and whose rooms are now taken by their students. Vesemir would allow Lambert to stay in his room. Vesemir would allow an ample plate of dinner to be brought up to his room, because that’s what the old man always did. Even as the elders scorned it and threatened to punish him for it, plates did manage to find their way into the dormitories.

Lambert curls around himself. “Bring something,” he mumbles, words mostly lost into his pillow.

Eskel must hear him just fine. The Wolf nods and parts with one lingering hand set on to Lambert’s upper arm. “We’ll be back soon,” he promises, before sliding off of the bed.

Geralt doesn’t talk much. He never did. He talked too much as a child and now has clearly run out of things to say; but the older Wolf regards Lambert for a moment, standing awkwardly at the foot of the pup’s bed. His lips thin and he lowers his eyes. When he does speak, his voice is low and barely above a murmur. “It’s good to have you back,” Geralt rumbles, hands fidgeting at his sides. “We—uh, we missed you.”

Lambert’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Missed you too,” he murmurs, and Geralt nods. All the older Wolf can manage to do is hum before turning and following Eskel out. The moment the door clicks shut, Lambert’s eyes sting.

He fades in and out of sleep. Every time he cracks his sore eyes open, he finds his room getting darker and darker. The sun outside has long since fallen behind the nearby ridges, and dark, rain-heavy clouds have settled over the mountain.

Lambert winces as he uncoils himself. His muscles ache and injuries sustained from the road remind him of where they are. Cuts from falls and a handful of new scars dotted around him from where kikimora and manticores have bitten or slashed him. He’s seen older boys with their bodies marred in marks. That awaits him. Geralt already has a mosaic of scars on him, mostly on his chest and arms. Every winter when he returns home, a few more had been added.

As he sits up, perching on the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers through his hair and winces at how many knots have formed. A bath would do him some good. He’s sure his clothes are still here, fresh and clean and kept in his dresser and wardrobe. But the thought of having to walk down a seemingly endless flight of stairs to the baths only has him more tired.

He stands, teetering on his feet for a moment. A hearth, with an ample supply of cut logs and peat bricks already stacked nearby, is easy to light with a quick flick of his wrist. Fingers practised in forming Signs quickly have sparks erupting from the kindling and soon, as Lambert starts to toe off his boots and shed his tunic, a fire starts to crackle. A plume of warmth starts to ease into the room; just as the first patter of rain hits the windows.

He pulls on a clean tunic and breeches, kicking his road-worn ones to one side of his room. He’ll deal with them later. A plate of food sits on his desk. Roasted venison and winter vegetables, a thick gravy pooled over the plate, and a crusty roll of bread. Vesemir always kept his pups well fed.

His stomach trembles at the sight of it. He might be a grumpy old bastard who can harbour a grudge like no one’s business, but Vesemir won’t have a pup under his care starving. The venison must have come from the forests around the keep, and Lambert knows that Vesemir himself deals with a few monsters around the outskirts of the villages nestled at the foot of the mountain. In return, he gets to fill the keep’s pantry and stores with vegetables and fruit and caskets of cheese and milk.

He brings his plate over to his bed, nestling among the rumpled sheets that still smell of himself and of his brothers. Being home settles the worst of the tightness in his chest. The venison is still pink, how Vesemir cooks it best and how his pups like it, and the vegetables have been seasoned with salt and honey. It’s the first proper meal he’s had back at home, within the walls of the keep, and he savours every mouthful of it. Even though he aches to open his jaw as much as he can and inhale the plate itself, he takes his time. He has a whole season to lounge around the keep, soaking in the baths and repairing his body from the past year.

And trying to gauge if Vesemir will throw him out of every room he encounters him in. The keep is big enough to house the both of them, and Lambert knows where the old man likes to spend most of his time. Even thinking about crossing Vesemir’s path in some hallway or stepping into a room he’s in has his chest tightening.

Just as he finishes his plate, uncoiling his legs and wincing at the slight groan in his muscles and joints, the rain gets worse. Lashing against the windowsill and winds starts to howl down the chimney of the hearth.

He’s always hated storms. Some of the worst ones were spent huddled in the older boys’ dormitory, where the instructors and elders would try and drag young pups out by the scruffs of their necks to separate them from the whelps, but it happened so often that they couldn’t keep on top of it. It was easier sleeping with someone else nearby. The bunks were so small, it used to be a challenge trying to fit both of them in it. He often woke up entangled in Geralt’s or Eskel’s arms, or legs hanging off of the edge of the bunk or elbows in faces or sides.

As another harsh wind whips at the stones outside, he tries not to shudder. Maybe he can sneak into someone’s room tonight. His own bed is freshly made and soft, and the room is wonderfully warm from the fire, but he needs someone with him.

His footsteps barely shift the stones underneath him as he treads down the hallway, heading for the kitchens to bring his plate back. As soon as he eyes the stores and pantry, he regards a wooden bucket of fresh fruit for a moment. Just as he reaches out for an apple, he freezes in place as his name is spoken.

“Didn’t think you would come down,” Vesemir notes from the door of the pantry, arms folded over his broad chest and an unreadable expression settled on to his face.

Lambert’s hand withers back down to his side.

The Old Wolf sighs. “Take it, boy,” he says, waving his hand at the bucket. “You’re all skin and bones. I’m going to have to spend the winter putting some meat back on to you.”

Lambert looks between the Old Wolf and the fruit, but quickly snatches a fresh, crisp red apple. The stores have been recently filled, he notes. Dried and cured meat sit away from most of it, but Lambert spots crates of vegetables and wheels of cheese, as well as bags of flour for bread. He’s going to fill his stomach with as much as he can before he’s turned out on to the Continent again.

As he takes his first bite, he feels the Old Wolf’s gaze lingering on him.

Vesemir thins his lips and hums. “Come with me, son,” he says after a time, nodding towards the door out of the kitchens and back into the main keep. As he steps away, noting that Lambert’s feet are still firmly rooted into the ground, the Old Wolf sighs. “I’m not going to skin you alive, pup. I just want to talk to you.”

Talk. Lambert’s brows knit together. He chews on his apple for a second. As soon as Vesemir steps away, he knows to follow. But it’s a struggle to will his feet forward.

It’s a slow climb up through the keep. The stones are warmed from the baths in the lower levels, steam rising up through the walls. The further up the climb, the more the heat struggles to reach the levels, but they rely on hearths in rooms instead.

Lambert knows his way to Vesemir’s room, and he knows that’s where he’s heading. He watches the Witcher’s back, his measured steps up through the winding staircases and long hallways. Vesemir holds his shoulders square and his steps almost silent along the ground.

By the time they reach Vesemir’s chambers, Lambert’s hands are already starting to fidget. With his apple chewed down to its core, he has nothing else to play with to release some of the tension starting to wind through his shoulders.

The door creaks as it opens and shuts, and Lambert lets his eyes roam around the room. He’s been here only a handful of times, mostly during bad storms when he was barely able to hold a practice sword in his hand. Other pups and whelps stayed with the older Wolf too, knowing that in a keep of strangers, he would be their only friend – and a father to some of them.

Lambert’s throat bobs. He crosses the room to toss the apple core into the fire and watches the logs spark and crackle for a second. It’s easier than looking at the Old Wolf settling down into his usual armchair perched in front of the fire. He listens to Vesemir grunt softly as he sits down, running a hand over one of his thighs at the usual tightness that aches through it when he sits down after a long day. Two centuries are starting to creep up on the old man.

When he does turn to look at Vesemir, the man gestures to a chair near his own. “Sit down, son.”

It’s not an order. It’s not something that would have come out of other elders’ mouths. It’s not something he hears from another man, towering over him, with something hidden behind his back. But even knowing all of that, Lambert still winces.

Something softens Vesemir’s expression. “Pup,” he tries again, “we’re just talking. If you want to go back to your room, you can go. I won’t make you stay.”

He won’t sleep in his room. He’ll go and find the others. Geralt or Eskel won’t mind him sneaking into their rooms and burrowing under the blankets with them.

He wills himself to move. Vesemir is a friend. He’s the closest thing to a parental figure he has. The faint memory of a weak man drenched in ale and mead was replaced by Vesemir long ago. His footfalls are shuffled and light as he pads over to the chair, tentatively sitting down and fidgeting with his hands on his lap.

Vesemir takes a steady breath. “Now,” he says after a time, “I was short with you earlier. I apologise. I should have let you say your piece on what happened outside of Daevon.”

Even hearing the name of the city threatens to send a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He gathered his things, set out on the Path, killed his first monster, and became a Witcher. The human he killed was a monster. Why can’t the old man accept that and leave it behind? Lambert certainly did. He made it half a mile down the road before he felt his shoulders beginning to loosen and his head held that bit higher.

Why bother even having a steel sword if they’re not meant to touch humans with it? When is it an acceptable time to kill someone? Questions for philosophers huddled in stuffy, candlelit rooms in Oxenfurt, not for what he was made to do – hunt and kill.

Vesemir regards him for a moment, letting the heart crackle and the rain pelt against the windows. When he speaks, it’s nothing more than a gentle rumble. “Where would you like to start?”

The moment he was born? When he realised what was happening? His mother telling him that, if she ever came into enough money, they would go far away; to somewhere like Nazair of all places, and leave him behind?

Lambert’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I was angry,” he manages. “I—I remembered what he did. The trials—” he voice cracks. “The trials were nothing compared to what he did to us.”

Vesemir’s brow furrows. Something shadows across his face; a look that tells Lambert that if the Old Wolf wasn’t bound to the keep, he would have gathered his swords and his horse and travelled out to that village outside of Daevon long ago and taken care of Lambert’s nightmares himself.

The Old Wolf sits slouched in his chair. This is a chat between a wolf and a pup and nothing more. As Lambert starts to curl into himself, Vesemir slackens into the chair. All he’s missing is a goblet or tankard of White Gull and it could be any other evening for him. But he’s listening. The heat blooming through one side of Lambert’s face tells him that the old man is watching him, quietly taking on everything he’s saying and measuring his own words carefully. “You were angry,” he repeats slowly, tasting the words on his tongue. “I understand. A lot of boys felt tremendous anger once the trials were done, for a lot of reasons.  I can guarantee you weren’t the first to head on to the Continent for the first time with the ideas of revenge in your mind. You were stronger now, weren’t you? Taller, older?”

Lambert nods. The man sitting in his usual worn chair, almost at breaking point with age, didn’t even know who he was until he looked for long enough. Granted, Lambert doesn’t look like he used to anymore. His eyes aren’t their usual shocking blue. His hair is a wild mess of curls somewhat tamed into a bun; his shoulders and chest are broader, and he towered over that man in his chair. For the first time in his life, Lambert saw fear strike into the man’s irises when he realised who had returned.

Lambert looks down at his hands. He picks at his nails, a habit the instructors and elders never quite managed to get out of him, but it’s better than looking at anything or anyone else. He hears the chair beside him groan as Vesemir sits forward. Out of the corner of his eye, and through a curtain of red curls that have fallen to shield his face, he watches the Old Wolf set his elbows on to his knees, clasped hands in front of him, as he watches Lambert closely.

“You were angry,” he says steadily, “so you dealt with it. Tell me, pup; are you angry now?”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. Lambert shakes his head.

Vesemir hums. “Are you sleeping better? Able to sleep through the night and not have night terrors wake you up?”

He chews the inside of his lip and cheek, but Lambert nods.

Vesemir makes a quiet noise. The fire crackles and, if the winds outside didn’t lash at the windows, rattling them in their frames, Lambert would almost have forgotten about the storm outside. He watches the fire instead, logs breaking and embers jumping up and hovering in midair.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vesemir sits back in his chair, arms set on the rests and back straight. “A long time ago, there was a School full of angry young Witchers too,” the Old Wolf says stiffly. “Young Witchers, newly made and ordained and sent out into the world. And as they banded together, they agreed that they hated what those who had plucked them from the streets had made them.”

One of Vesemir’s many stories, but not one he’s heard before. Usually, Vesemir’s tales go on for hours and end up going in circles. This, though, Lambert knows to listen to – even as he finds it difficult to lift his gaze from his fidgeting hands or the cobbles of the floor.

“Do you know what they did? When a group of young, strong, angry Witchers found out they had a common enemy?” Vesemir asks, levelling a stern look at his pup.

Lambert’s throat bobs. He shakes his head.

When the Old Wolf speaks, his voice is low and measured. “They murdered every single one of their instructors,” Vesemir says sternly, and Lambert listens, even as blood rushes through his ears. “Regardless of whether they had any part in any of the trials, they didn’t care. Every person within Stygga Castle found their heads mounted on the walls of the keep, while their bodies were flung into the lake it looked over.”

He’s heard whispers and nothing more. There are so few Witchers left that it’s rare that he’ll even cross the path of another one while they’re all out on the Continent together. He knows all about a Cat’s penchant for violence – how hot-blooded they all seem to be, and the screech of a blade being drawn is enough to set them off.

Something flashes across Vesemir’s face. Hardened by age and the weather of Kaedwen, but something manages to break through it all the same. Amber eyes soften slightly. “I don’t want you to carry that same mantel,” he says firmly. “We’re already monsters in the eyes of the humans. They can’t think of you as a murderer too. You’ll be alone out in the wilds, son. You can try and walk the Path with Geralt or Eskel or both of them, but I know you. You looked to be let out on your own. And...I’m afraid. I’m afraid that some lord or baron, who would have heard all sorts of terrible things about you, whether they are true or not, will get frightened too and order your death.”

Lambert listens to the chair beside him shift, and suddenly, a familiar veined hand settles on his knee. Lambert blinks at it. “I know you had your reasons,” Vesemir says that bit quieter, almost mindful of the ghosts of old instructors that might still be haunting the keep. Vesemir squeezes the pup’s knee. “Gods, boy, I know you did. But you need to be careful. I can’t—”

Lambert looks up. The old man’s voice cracks and he winces, turning away for a moment to take a steady breath. When he turns back, Vesemir’s eyes are tinged with red. “I can’t lose any more of you.”

The backs of his eyes sting, but Lambert blinks, willing tears to stay where they are and not fall. Afterimages of the start of his season flicker in front of him. The tight grip on his sword, with the leather lines of the pommel etching into his palm. The sharp smell of ale and whiskey lingering in the air within the house. The slumped man on the chair in front of an empty fire, almost hidden from view by broken furniture and the darkness that has clouded the house with the windows being lined with grime and smoke. The man’s clouded eyes widening as he suddenly realised who had returned for him.

Lambert’s breath catches in his throat. “He was a monster,” he blurts out, even as something stuck in his throat tries to stop the words. “We kill monsters—you said so! He deserved to die. He, he killed my Mama. I—I left her there with him, it should have been me—”

Vesemir clicks his tongue. “Sweet boy, shush now, you’re safe,” he says, drawing his chair closer and bundling Lambert into his arms. “I promise you: you’re safe.”

Sobs rip out from his throat. Chest heaving and breath stuttering, he hasn’t cried like this since he was a child put on the back of a Witcher’s horse and the last thing he saw of his home was the back of his father’s head.

He buries his nose into Vesemir’s shoulder, into the soft fabric of the tunic he’s wearing. Every breath he manages to suck in brings with it familiar scent. Fresh mountain wind and the faint scent of pine from the trees. A smell that’s unique to the keep and that Vesemir wears on his skin.

He’s not in that small cottage outside of Daevon anymore. He’s here, in Kaer Morhen, with his family—

He clutches at what he can. Vesemir’s shoulder and his tunic, grappling on as if he could fade away.

He cries until his eyes are blurred with tears and his throat is tight and bobbing. Every breath is heaved in and shuddering on its way out. Vesemir’s arms bundle him close. He was always around after the trials. When nights went on for too long and the hallways were too dark and quiet, or when pups were sick from their new course of mutagens, he always came and saw to them. Fuck the instructors and elders who threatened to throw him off of the keep’s walls. Their future was in the pups, and Vesemir seemed to be the only one who understood. Of all of the Wolves to be left after years of pogroms, he’s glad Vesemir is the last of his pack to be left.

The man rubs a hand along Lambert’s back, hushing him when sobs start again and rip out of Lambert’s throat. It comes in waves. Memories of his life before Kaer Morhen; what he went through with other pups during their trials; what he promised himself as he was strapped to one of the benches, veins pulsing and body seizing in on itself. He would go back to that forgettable, vile village outside of Daevon. He would kill his first monster there. He would stand over that piece of shit while he bled out on his own floor, and Lambert would leave him there. The nearby forest would reclaim the house, branches reaching through the walls and roof, while moss and roots would take the body down into the earth.

No one would remember that monster. No one would ever wonder what happened to him, because no one gave a shit. The second the last of his blood pooled at Lambert’s feet, he could breathe that bit easier.

He clutches at Vesemir’s shirt, burying his face into his shoulder. “I hate him,” he sobs, words wrangling out of his throat.

“He’s gone, pup,” Vesemir assures him, holding him close. “He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

How much time passes, he’s not sure. The front of Vesemir’s shirt is drenched in Lambert’s tears, but the Old Wolf doesn’t seem to mind. He only lets Lambert pull away from him when the pup wants to, breaths shuddering and shaking as he tries his best to breathe. The crackle of the hearth across from them, the patter of rain on the windows, it’s all noise that he manages to hear even through the rushing of blood through his ears.

Vesemir brushes the back of his fingers over Lambert’s cheek, wiping away the last of his tears. He doesn’t shy away from the touch. It’s nothing like what he was used to. The years that he can remember, only being as tall as his mama’s hip, clutching on to her skirts any time something crashed or banged, or a voice was raised. He remembers her bundling him into his room, assuring him that everything would be fine.

She’s gone now, and Lambert’s eyes brim with tears again. His last memory of her is faint, almost an afterimage. Stood on the steps of their house, clasped hands in front of her lips as she murmurs a prayer, blue eyes reddened with tears. And after that, it’s dark.

Vesemir smoothes Lambert’s hair back from his face. “Listen to me, son,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry with you. No one would ever be angry at you for what you did. Please, be careful. That’s all I ask. Alright?”

Lambert nods. His throat is too tight to speak. Even thinking about trying to push words through his throat hurts. A fresh hot trial of tears streaks down Lambert’s blotchy cheeks.

Vesemir clicks his tongue. “You’re here for the winter,” he assures. “You’re home, with us. If you want to stay a bit longer, you’re welcomed to stay. Rest. Get your strength back.”

All assurances that he’s alright, he’s somewhere familiar and safe, and he can breathe.

Lambert manages to draw in a shaking breath, wincing as it hurts his chest. Vesemir settles his hands on the pup’s shoulders. “You’re exhausted. Get some sleep. Don’t worry about waking for breakfast tomorrow; I’ll set something away for you to eat whenever you get up.”

The pup nods. Anything he would want to stay is staying stuck in his throat and difficult to swallow back down. Vesemir stands with him, watching him almost teeter on his feet for a moment as the world swirls and shifts around him. But he wills himself forward. He wants to sleep. The storm will swell and eventually subside, and the paths around the mountain will be flooded until the sun can dry them off again. And he doesn’t want to move.

Vesemir walks him to the door. “You always have a home here, son,” he assures one last time, setting a gentle hand on to Lambert’s shoulder.

He knows. Kaer Morhen and those within it are his home. There’s been nothing else for him anywhere, nowhere he can feel safe and let himself settle.

Leaving Vesemir behind in his own room, cold starts to prick at Lambert’s skin. Even as he bundles his arms around himself, trying to stave off the child, his skin bubbles into gooseflesh.

It’s a numbed walk back to his room, all staggered and fumbling steps and reaching out to set his hand on the wall, steadying himself as he walks. His chest is tight and his throat bobs with every breath he manages to take. And he’s exhausted. By the time he reaches his room, he blinks at the sight of the door slightly cracked open.

Murmured voices are inside, too quiet for Lambert to hear what they’re saying, but he knows who they’re from. The door creaks as he pushes it open. Two Wolves perched on the foot of his bed, both wide-eyed and silent as he steps inside. Whatever they had been murmuring about is long gone.

Colour starts to warm his cheeks. He’s sure his skin is already ruddy and flushed, and it doesn’t take a Witcher’s keen eyes to notice that he’s been crying. His own eyes might still be rubbed red and bloodshot.

Eskel’s brow furrows. “There you are,” he says after a moment. “Where were you?”

Lambert’s throat bobs. “Vesemir,” he rasps, wincing at how his voice sounds.

It’s enough for both of the Wolves looking at him. Eskel’s furrowed brow smoothes out and Geralt nods, his lips tight and curled down in the corners. He’s not sure of what to say, and that’s not new. Eskel speaks for them both, and Geralt can just nod along.

The door shuts behind him and Eskel fidgets with his hands. “We, uh, we can go, if you want?” he asks, not looking entirely sure of whether to stay where he is or stand. Taking in the sight of their younger brother, he’s not surprised that both of them don’t know if they should run away or not.

Something manages to fight its way out of Lambert; some indistinguishable noise that is half a sob and a cry. Two pairs of golden eyes blink at him. “You can stay,” he rasps. “Please stay.”

His feet carry him over to the bed, into two pairs of arms that coil around him and bring him down onto the mattress and rumbled sheets. Warmth blooms through him the second Eskel and Geralt cover him, knowing where to lie and fit themselves and how tightly they need to hug the pup to get him to settle. He doesn’t care that they’re on top of the sheets, or that the storm outside is starting to pick up and howl through the keep, or that it’s late and he’s exhausted and he needs to sleep.

Eskel bundles him to his chest, and Geralt presses his forehead in between Lambert’s shoulders. All firm pressures against him, reminders that he isn’t alone. Fingers card through his hand and skim over his back and shoulders, and he doesn’t know what belongs to who, but he couldn’t care less. Every breath he manages to take brings in the lingering and combining scent of all of them, and it loosens his chest.

He’ll tell his brothers about it later. When he’s rested and ready, he’ll tell them about what happened. Vesemir won’t. What is spoken about between them stays with them, and doesn’t dare venture beyond the walls. All Vesemir will do is keep his eyes trained on Lambert throughout the winter, noting his mood and how much he eats and sleeps, and if his nightmares return.

But that’s beyond him now. Sleep starts to tug at him, luring him further and further down. He can’t keep his red-rubbed eyes open as he drifts down to sleep. Distantly, through the haze, he listens to the familiar sounds of a fire and rain and someone humming underneath their breath. Eskel and that mountain song he always sings when they’re together like this. No lyrics, just a gentle melody hummed into his mess of wild curls, slowly easing him down to sleep.

By the time he finally goes, darkness washing over him, he’s warm and safe and he can breathe.