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“Old man should have already been back. It’s fucking snowing, for fuck’s sake. The passes must be impracticable by now.”
Eskel took a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes and letting his nostrils flare discreetly in the icy air. It smelled of winter, biting cold and animal mane.
“I’m sure he’s on his way,” he said, but honestly? He wasn’t that sure himself at that point. Lambert stomped his feet. Whiny child. The ground was too wet for him to raise a cloud of dirt, but somehow he managed to smear sticky mud all over Eskel’s thick trousers.
“Remember the last time you spat out such bullshit? No? Well, let me remind you. We found Roderick dead in a fucking ravine come spring. Do me a favor and shut the fuck up,” he snapped back, clenching his fists.
Eskel had to make a great effort to remember Roderick, but he managed just in time not to irritate Lambert even more. Tall, well built, hair red as winter embers. He was slightly older than Lambert, though, but Eskel couldn’t recall how his voice sounded like, or if they had ever been close before his early demise.
Whatever.
He was about to say something - calmly, of course, because there was no point in beating back at Lambert when he was obviously reacting like that out of pure terror - but Geralt squeezed at his shoulders, his ungloved fingers trembling just so.
“Lashing out on us won’t help,” he simply stated, his eyes scanning the horizon. No trace of Vesemir yet. The snow fell gently despite the cold piercing through his woolen shirt, and Eskel pursed his lips tightly, feeling every drop of blood as it left them paper-thin and white.
“This doesn’t change the fact that Vesemir should have gotten back days ago,” Lambert retorted, vicious and cruel and straight to the point.
Typical Lambert.
There was no way for him to keep his temper at bay when he was dealing with so many conflicting emotions all at once. Eskel couldn’t blame it on him, but being aware it wasn’t directly Lambert’s fault didn’t make it any easier to tolerate such crap.
His fingers couldn’t keep still. He drummed against his thigh incessantly, trying to relieve the tension by doing anything, but there was no point in denying Lambert was right, though his methods were questionable at best. Geralt’s hand too kept twitching where it rested, atop of his shoulder, probably because Geralt needed someone else to steady him. It had always been like that; Geralt, relying on good ol’ Eskel to find his center. Some balance in the chaos. A solid presence that could carry the weight of his prematurely aged soul when he couldn’t. Except that this time Eskel too was feeling unbalanced and fidgety, dancing on the edge of a fucking cliff.
What if Vesemir was dead?
Dead. The reality of it all washed on Eskel like the coldest rain. Fat flakes of snow landed heavily on his hair and he didn’t bother to scroll them away. He had never thought he would have witnessed Vesemir’s death, though the old man was like a couple of centuries older than the three of them -- it seemed both surreal and inevitable at a time. It made sense, in the most awful way: the older a witcher managed to grow, the slower he got, decades of abuse taking their toll on his alchemically enhanced body. Joints became slightly more frail. Bones more prone to fractures and bruising. Healing came slower, even with the aid of potions. And so on, and so on. Which meant that Vesemir could be dead, and the thought was - though the sentiment could never have been conveyed fully with mere, mortal words - devastating.
Eskel didn’t remember his father. Vesemir had been the only figure in his life to resemble one. And Geralt too. Geralt had no memory besides the old master cradling him to his chest during the long winter nights, humming dissonant tunes under his breath until he fell asleep with his thumb in his mouth and the soothing, witcher-slow heartbeat chasing all the nightmares away. Lambert -- well. He did remember his father, although he wished the Trials had ripped the memory off his mind on a daily basis, and he had never needed any other father in his life. Vesemir, however, had never given up on him and, even if their relationship was strained and always hanging on a breaking point, Lambert looked genuinely concerned for his well being. Eskel felt nausea roil in his stomach, but he couldn’t tell if it had been triggered by the thought of having lost Vesemir for good or just by the haunted look in Lambert’s fever-bright, golden eyes scanning the Gwenllech valley.
Geralt’s hand squeezed again, this time a tad too hard for Eskel to be comfortable with it. He hissed through gritted teeth, tempted to shake him away, but he caught himself at the very last second. Geralt’s look of concern was all for him, no other. Lambert was gripping at the crumbling battlements of the western tower so hard his knuckles had turned stark white.
“You still with me?” Geralt asked, softly.
Eskel weighed the solidity of the hand against his shoulder. He could feel how cold it was even under the thick layer of wood separating his skin from Geralt’s.
“Yeah. Got lost in thought for a moment.”
Geralt nodded in utter understanding. Another feeling they shared.
“He must be alive, Eskel,” he whispered, low enough that Lambert couldn’t pick it up from where he had chosen to keep watch, putting some physical distance between him and the rest of the surviving Wolves. “It’s just...so unlike him to be unpredictable,” he tried to joke, forcing himself to curl his lips in a pale imitation of a lopsided, scoundrel-ish smile. Eskel shrugged. The cold had made the scarred half of his face go numb.
“You’re probably right. Maybe he’s just...you know how he is. Some fair maid has surely asked him to help her to stock firewood or refurbish her cart and he’s fallen for it like the soft, old man he is. Wouldn’t be the first time…”
Geralt grunted. He too recalled very well that time they had decided to meet up in a village not far from Vizima to celebrate Belleteyn together and Vesemir had showed up spectacularly late just because he was “helping a young widow in need to repaint her hut” after the storms that had plagued Temeria the few weeks before. Fuck, they could have drank to his good heart if that was the case. A widow in need. A child who could make good use of fistfighting lessons. A fair maid and her cart to fix.
Still.
Eskel shook his head. What use was it to sulk? If Vesemir was dead, no amount of brooding and grieving would have brought him back. If he was alive, brooding was completely useless, and grieving his loss moreso. He tried to shake the oppressing feeling of impending doom out of his chest, and he grabbed Geralt’s hand tight.
“Lambert. Enough with the worried patrol. Vesemir is probably coming home, and if he isn’t because the passes are already closed, we’ll hear from him soon. Old man’s predictable as fuck. He’ll be home,” he stated, trying to convey confidence as he spoke. Lambert dragged his gaze to him reluctantly.
“And what if he doesn’t?” He asked and, by the Gods, Eskel was sure his voice was shaking, even if he was doing his best to hide it behind his usual prickly facade.
It took Eskel a moment to recover from the blow and answer without showing too much apprehension himself.
“We’ll give him another day. If he isn’t back before sundown tomorrow, we’ll go look for him.”
Lambert bared his teeth.
“Do whatever you want. I’m staying here for a while,” he said, before shutting him and Geralt out, resuming his watch.
***
“He’s dead.”
Lambert didn’t mean to sound so final but, fuck, Vesemir had never failed to come back after a late trip to the villages down the mountains to restock their larder for the harsher stretch of winter. It happened rarely, of course, their provisions were always enough to last even well into spring if needed, but the first weeks after Saovine had been unusually warm for Kaedwen and -- well, old man had decided they needed some fresh grains, butter and whatnot.
Geralt poured some Gull into his cup, but just some. None of them was in a celebratory mood whatsoever and Lambert himself, for how much he liked to get high on spiked booze, could reckon it would have only soured the mood further if they had to smash their faces like that.
“Bullshit. He’s not.”
Lambert sneered. Eskel threw some sage leaves in the fire and watched them fold in on themselves before turning to bright orange, fleeting embers before atomizing into fine ash.
“How can you be so sure?”
Geralt shrugged slightly. It occurred to Lambert that sprawled on their furs like that, their legs touching and a bottle being passed in silence, made them look like giant children unable to sort out what the fuck to do with their future now that their master had - possibly - kicked the bucket.
“It would be anticlimactic for a witcher of such experience, Lambert.”
He shook his head, swinging his cup lightly so that Geralt could pour him some more.
“Freak accidents happen.”
Eskel turned to face him, gaze sharp and stone-cold.
“Stop being an asshole, Lambert. If Vesemir is…” He paused, uncertain, then he just spat the word out as if it was burning on his tongue, “ dead , we shouldn’t just speculate but...make arrangements. For us. For the School. For this place.”
Something hateful and angry burned in the pit of Lambert’s stomach. He ignited the spark with some Gull and snatched the bottle from between Geralt’s thighs, fuck dignity and shit. Fuck his own mood, already fucking bitter. Fuck Eskel and his arrangements.
“From my point of view, this place and your precious School can rot, ” he spitefully stated, throwing a ball of fuzzy dust in the fire. It crackled like a bonfire for the tiniest fraction of a moment and Lambert wished the fire could consume all that was left of the School of the Wolf the same way.
Eskel grit his teeth, his scar pulling horribly where it intersected his ruined mouth.
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Lambert.”
Lambert barely peeled his lip back. Eskel’s resolution wasn’t to be crossed, and it was very clear his patience was running thin. He couldn’t say he was afraid of him, not really, but managing to piss him off? Well. Lambert knew when he had crossed the line, and this time he had abundantly overstepped it. He nursed his bottle and shook his head bitterly.
“Then fuck you,” he managed, but not as heated as he had intended it to be. Eskel’s nails had dug in the pelts so deeply the fur was ruined, possibly without appeal.
Yeah, definitely crossed the fucking line. He hissed and, with a sharp jerk, he gave his brothers his back.
Eskel's voice, then, tuned down to a low, rumbling murmur.
"Geralt…"
"I know. But I think we should...wait. We should be sure before…"
He nodded. Of course. The scar on his face was itching but he hadn't scratched at it so far. Vesemir always scolded him like a wayward child whenever he saw him venting his concerns away by ruining his skin even more.
"Let's have a round with some civilized booze," he proposed then, knowing he wouldn't have suffered through the long, long night sober. "I'll get some vodka."
Geralt offered him an acknowledging nod. Unlike Lambert, he hadn't shut him off. Eskel was grateful for that.
He brought back two bottles from the pantry. The thing was homemade, but it didn't taste like cheap piss and the hints of fermented berries gave it a somewhat sweet aftertaste that stuck by the roof of Eskel's mouth quite pleasantly, heat pooling in his stomach with each sip. They sat in silence for a while, drinking until exhaustion took its toll and had them fall asleep on the pelts, next to the fireplace. Eskel couldn't help but think it was the most comfortable place in which he had slept in a while.
***
Eskel was the first to spot Vesemir, when his cart was slowly proceeding through the muddy, slippery path that cut from the woods to the main gate.
Geralt and Lambert were sparring in the inner courtyard, the song of their steel biting and colliding resonating through the castle, relentless vicious blows meant not to cripple, but to vent out the tension of the past hours.
Eskel let go immediately of his tools - he was trying to get a grip on how to remove some rust from the mechanism holding the ancient, damaged gate in place - and sprinted towards the barbicane, past the scaffoldings amassed against the walls that so desperately needed to be patched up. Geralt and Lambert were busy circling each other, both maintaining a low centre and a defensive stance, so Eskel had to whistle in order to gain their attention.
“Vesemir is back,” he said, almost gleefully, when the two turned towards him.
Geralt murmured something under his breath, letting his sword fall to the ground with a loud clang and rushing past Eskel as if he was made of inconsistent, thin air. Lambert frowned, pondering what to do, weighing the sword in his hand and wiping away some sweat from his brow.
“Fuck, you serious?”
Eskel shook his head.
“You think I’ll ever joke so cruelly? Come on. Even someone like you couldn’t reach such a low. Let’s go greet Vesemir, shall we? He’ll need some help unloading the cart.”
Lambert nodded, leaving his sword on a rack and following Eskel back to the main courtyard just in time to witness the old master entering the massive gate with a sneer on his usually so composed face and his hair drizzled with frost.
Vesemir’s eyes were dead serious as he scanned their faces, brows furrowed and a sheen of sweat clinging to his pale skin.
“What. Surprised to see me? Thought your master had kicked the bucket already?”
Geralt was the first to shake off the surprise and motion to take the reins of Vesemir’s young mare. The horse looked nervous and stompy, eager to be freed from the constriction of the cart she had pulled all along. When Geralt offered Vesemir a hand to jump off the wooden cart, the old master refused with a vigorous shake of his head. Geralt didn’t insist, focusing on the horse instead.
Of course, let’s have Eskel do the talking.
He rolled his eyes and Lambert nudged him in the side.
“You had us worried for a while. What took you so long?”
Vesemir shrugged. No one missed the pained hiss that accompanied the dismissive gesture, or the way the muscles in his face spasmed and twitched almost imperceptibly.
“Incidents along the way. Nothing to be concerned with.”
Lambert stepped in, always the impatient pup.
“Of what nature? Infestations? Roaming monsters? Asshole mages? What?”
Vesemir merely offered him a somewhat exasperated look.
“Asshole brigands,” he delivered dispassionately. “Now can we please unload the cart and get inside? The frost is setting. I had to take the longer route, for most of the passes were already too dangerous to cross with the provisions.”
Geralt’s nostrils flared in the frosty air.
“You’re injured,” he stated, flashing Vesemir an inquiring glare. Lambert and Eskel finally noticed the hint of fresh blood permeating the air. Lambert felt his guts sink at the sudden wave of rust and salt hitting his nostrils.
“Where?” He asked, rather rudely. Vesemir seemed taken aback by Lambert’s not so unusual lack of respect for his elders, and he reacted defensively, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders even more tightly and slowly - a tad too slowly to go unnoticed - hauling himself out of the cart. He lost his footing almost immediately; hadn’t it been for Eskel’s solicitude, he would have fallen face first on the irregular cobblestones of the courtyard.
Lambert didn’t wait for him to give an explanation whatsoever, he went straight for his raw wool cloak and yanked it open, revealing a large, bloody gash in the master’s armor and... well.
“Why is there a dagger in your side, you ancient ass ?”
Vesemir grumbled unintelligibly at the unflattering, disrespectful nickname, reaching out to grab Geralt’s arm so he could support him as he struggled to stand straight with a blade protruding from his stomach.
“Did I forget to teach you respect, Lambert? Mind your manners,” he scolded, visibly fighting against the urge of wailing in pain. “You’re not a common thug.”
“Ah, yes of course. He’s got a dagger in his fucking belly but Lambert must mind his manners. You know what, Vesemir? I hope you bleed out. Seriously.”
That was too much. Even for Lambert. Eskel, however, had no time to take care of his bouts of lambertness, and Geralt had even less. All the color had drained from his face and there was no way to tell where his forehead ended and his chalk-white hair began.
Predictably enough, Lambert stormed away, a stream of curses under his breath.
Nice timing for a breakdown.
“Have you taken something?”
Vesemir turned towards Eskel. Now that he could take a closer look at his master, Eskel noticed that his eyes were hazy, unfocused, his pupils slightly blown.
“Yes. I would have bled out long before reaching the Killer otherwise.”
“We have to extract the blade,” Eskel said, addressing Geralt. His brother nodded, half of Vesemir’s significant weight on his shoulders as he carefully wrapped a hand around his middle.
“Inside. Fuck, Vesemir, how did you end up with a dagger stuck in there?”
The old master managed to cackle humorlessly.
“Ha. I would very much like to know, thank you. There was some...ruckus, so to say.”
“How many of them…?” Eskel asked sheepishly, knowing well how it would have pained Vesemir to answer that most dreaded question. His already grim face darkened even more.
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure. As soon as I’ve incapacitated them, I’ve gone straight back for the horse. I knew the wound was bad. I haven’t paid attention to how many of them were still breathing.”
“You think it pierced a vital organ or a major blood vessel?”
Vesemir pretended to shrug.
“A blood vessel, probably. But it’s holding so far.”
Geralt bit on an irate growl.
“And you were planning on keeping it from us,” he said, his anger barely contained. Vesemir patted Geralt’s shoulder weakly.
“How many injuries you’ve kept from me, Wolf? And not only you. Besides, I’ve managed to survive just fine without being coddled up.”
Geralt knew it was pointless to put up a fight. When they reached the Great Hall, Vesemir was already out of breath, his face twisted in pain. Having to improvise - Vesemir didn’t look like someone who could manage a flight of stairs or possibly two - they piled up all the pelts in the hall and seated Vesemir there, camp style. Sure, they were home, they could have opted for a little more finesse to treat their wounds, but it was clear enough they were lacking time. Vesemir didn’t complain, though. He let his boys help him out of his gear until he was left in his blood soaked shirt and braies. Eskel sucked in a harsh breath as gave a first, sketchy look to the wound.
“It looks bad. Really bad.”
Geralt gave him a court nod.
“White Raffard’s and a lot of rags.”
Eskel wasn’t sure Vesemir’s body, already weakened by the wound and subsequent bleeding, could tolerate such a toxic concoction as Withe Raffard’s, but he could tell that Swallow wasn’t possibly enough to heal such an extensive damage. Hell, they could have overdosed him with Swallow before hoping to see a major blood vessel knit back together in time not to die of internal hemorrhage. He exchanged a brief look with Geralt, guessing his thoughts in a heartbeat; he, too, wasn’t sure about the outcome. White Raffard’s and faith in Vesemir’s ability of surviving a deep wound wasn’t exactly what Eskel called a plan .
Yet.
There was nothing else they could do, was it? Eskel shook himself back into lucidity and went straight for the lab, rummaging through the stocked vials until he found a stash of what he was looking for. White Raffard’s wasn't popular amongst them anymore, but they kept some vials just in case. Its side effects were nasty enough that the smell alone made Eskel’s stomach churn. On the other hand, though, it was a veritable life-saver. It worked through the system quickly, stopping the bleeding way faster than Swallow, and its regenerative properties had no equals. Most of the time, however, it had to be consumed long after a fight, for it left the witcher who had decided to resort to drastic methods quite prostrated afterwards. Eskel had dealt with it on numerous occasions when he was younger, and he remembered distinctly how terribly he had felt shortly after having gobbled down a vial of White Raffard’s, his stomach a burning pit and his insides all knotted and trashed.
When he went back to the Great Hall, Lambert was still hiding somewhere to avoid all of them, and Vesemir looked, if possibly, even in a worse shape than when he had left mere minutes before; his skin was damp and pale, and fresh blood was still spilling from his wound, now a little faster since the effects of the elixir he had taken were slowly fading away.
“Got the White Raffard’s. You got rags?” He asked, shaking the vial in his hand. Geralt scrunched his nose. Its toxic, bitter smell seeped through the hermetically sealed cork, and even Geralt - whose tolerance to toxins was heightened - couldn’t bring himself not to wince at the unpleasant memories it carried.
“Vesemir. Still with us?”
Vesemir nodded at Geralt, his eyes shining with stubborn determination.
“I’m ready,” he said, letting Eskel bring the uncorked vial to his lips. He chugged the elixir down with an impressive swig, then he nodded again, even if he looked on the verge of passing out. “Quick, before it starts healing around the blade,” he instructed, biting down on a strap of leather to avoid screaming.
Geralt let Eskel do the dirty work. He extracted the blade quickly and efficiently, careful not to damage Vesemir’s blood vessels, muscles and fatty tissues any further, and Geralt pressed a ball of rags over the bleeding gash immediately. It was a straight and small cut, but it was deep enough that the ball of rags got soaked in a handful of seconds, blood seeping through Geralt’s fingers, staining the soft pelts beneath.
It looked grim at first.
Fucking grim.
The wound didn’t seem to stop bleeding profusely. Vesemir looked dizzy, confused, and Eskel had to crouch by his side and hold him so the old man didn’t collapse. His heartbeat was uneven and weak. Eskel held his breath until his lungs started burning.
“Eskel-” Geralt whispered, his voice hoarse with panic. He didn’t know what to say. He watched the blood drip down Geralt’s wrists, hearing every single drop as it shattered on the old furs.
Plink, plink, plink.
The heavy bleeding lasted a lifetime. Geralt discarded the soaked ball of rags, replacing it with a clean one that got soaked too almost instantly. Vesemir was holding strong, though his eyelids fluttered close a couple of times. Eskel squeezed his shoulder, urging him to pull through.
“It should have already stopped bleeding,” Geralt pointed out through gritted teeth.
Eskel shook his head, disbelief crossing his features.
“I know. But the batch may be old as fuck for what it’s worth.”
“He’ll bleed to death.”
I know, Eskel would have wanted to say. The two words, however, remained firmly stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Slowly, though, the steady stream of blood began to relent. Vesemir’s head hung heavy against Eskel’s shoulder.
“Water,” he said, feeble and breathless. Eskel took over in applying pressure to the wound while Geralt went fetching some fresh water and when he was back Vesemir drank so greedily he almost choked, his wheezing gasps grating against Eskel’s ears.
“Easy, Vesemir. Please,” he eased, daring to run a hand through his master’s hair to soothe him.
Geralt peered under their makeshift compress, breathing out a sigh of relief at the sight.
“It’s knitting back together. It won’t be long before we can stitch it,” he said, his voice now steadier and a little more confident.
Vesemir gave Eskel a faint nudge.
“You youngsters...men...of little faith…” He joked, his humor as dry as ever. It could only mean that the old man could pull through. Yes, he looked a couple of steps from Death’s door, but at least he was joking, and that had to mean something, right? Besides, it wasn’t just by mere coincidence that Vesemir had managed to live long past the life expectancy of the average witcher.
Him. Eskel could put his faith in him. A faint smile curled his ruined lips.
“You really want to call us men of little faith when most of your blood is on the furs instead of running inside your veins? You’re incredible, Vesemir. Unbelievable.”
Vesemir’s hand found his. He gave it a slight squeeze and then he let go, exhausted.
“You did good, boys. You did...good.”
Geralt shook his head despite being intent at dipping a large needle into a cup of pure spirit, along with some thread.
Vesemir passed out sometime while being patched up. His breathing and heartbeat felt steady enough, though, and Eskel let him sleep the White Raffard’s off. The suture came out nice and straight, and Eskel helped Geralt dress the wound without jostling him too much. Carrying Vesemir to his bed, however, revealed itself to be no easy task. The master was a brick of a man, hard muscle sitting behind a healthy layer of fat, but both him and Geralt had strong arms and an even stronger will, so they ultimately managed to lay him comfortably on a bed upstairs, arranging the pillows so he could rest in a position fitting for someone who had suffered an abdominal wound.
They didn’t look for Lambert, afterwards. He behaved more like a stray cat rather than a wolf, and he liked to sulk alone. Broody asshole would have bitten them if they had dared drawing him out of one of his many hiding holes, and he would have bitched about it at least until spring. Eskel didn’t want to test his luck any further, and Geralt seemed to be of the same advice. They set some clean furs in front of the roaring fireplace and nested there, listening to the soft snoring sounds coming from Vesemir’s room mixing with the whipping wind that carried frost and blizzards from the highest peaks north. Eskel fell asleep quite early, right after dinner. Geralt, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep to save his life. He busied himself with reading an outdated history tome about cults and religions to steady his nerves and when he heard Lambert sneaking in from the back door, he didn’t wake Eskel up to tell him.
***
Lambert cursed under his breath as he stumbled inside, the empty bottle clinking loudly against the rough wooden surface of the counter. He caught a whiff of onions and beetroot soup, but his stomach rejected it and he gagged dramatically. A bottle of homemade rye didn’t sit well with a late supper of thick, fat soup and bread. He squinted in the dim, orange light cast by the massive fireplace and spotted Eskel and Geralt snuggling up like a fucking married couple in front of the fire. Eskel was dozing lazily as Geralt flipped idly through the pages of a book that, by the looks of it, was as old as the keep itself. Sometimes, Lambert envied them. How could he achieve the same level of intimacy with someone? No way he would have ever had the chance.
He groaned quietly and went for the stairs.
Vesemir’s breath was soft and distant, but he could easily find the room where he was resting by relying on the trail of toxins and blood Eskel and Geralt had left behind when they had put him to sleep.
He didn’t bother knocking, but he made sure to be as silent as a godsdamned ghost as he tiptoed to the edge of the bed and sat as gracefully as his mild intoxication allowed him. Which wasn’t graceful for shit, by the way. Vesemir stirred slightly, but Lambert decided to ignore it and snuggled close to his uninjured side, sighing softly when the old man started rubbing gentle circles in his back, his hand unsteady and a little too cold but, nevertheless, alive.
“Had an argument with your own bed, mh?”
Lambert heard Vesemir’s amusement quite distinctly. He shrugged, curling stubbornly on himself, and grunted a blunt “Perhaps. Leave me alone, I want to sleep” to which Vesemir reacted with a feeble chuckle.
“I didn’t bleed to death,” he stated, his hand ending up tangled in Lambert’s hair, combing weakly through the knots. Lambert felt a pang of regret, but for his own good he decided to ignore that too.
“Yeah, well, congratulations. Will you let me sleep now? I’m drunk. It’s in my rights to sleep it off.”
He felt Vesemir nod, his breath easing back almost immediately to a soft snoring. Poor old asshole must have been drugged out of his mind not to demand his most prized privacy. That was a good thing, though. Lambert wasn’t sure he would have slept at all without checking on him. Because, fuck, he was proud to call himself a bastard, but not of the heartless kind. A good bastard at best. And he had started regretting blowing Vesemir off in his time of need right after having stormed away.
At least he knew he had an attitude problem -- fixing it, though, was the hardest part.
“Hey Vesemir.”
It took the master several minutes to rouse back from his slumber and work his jaw enough to whisper “What, Lambert?” in return.
Lambert sighed. Why did it always have to be so fucking difficult?
“I owe you an apology. I don’t...I don’t wish to see you bleed out.”
Again, Vesemir chuckled, as surprising as it sounded.
“I know. And it’s true, you owe me one. That’s why you’ll help Eskel with the gate, tomorrow” He paused for a moment. Lambert opened his mouth to give him an outraged comeback, but the master was quicker. “I don’t want to hear any of your lame excuses, lad. Do what you’re told, for once. And sleep now. You reek like a distillery.”
Lambert grunted.
Now a part of him really wished for the old man to have kicked the fucking bucket.
The gate. Un-fucking-believable.
“You kidding me? Why can’t I just knead fucking bread? Goodnight, Vesemir,” he gruffly added, not wanting to be charged with some extra chores just because he needed to be taught discipline like a wayward pup. He was well past the appropriate age anyway.
Vesemir didn’t grace him with an answer, though. And he was the one talking about manners. Lambert ended up groaning again, quietly and out of sheer frustration, before commanding himself to relax just so, his back pressing against Vesemir’s side.
One day or another, he would have strangled Vesemir in his sleep. Luckily for the old relic, though, Lambert was too tired to set his murderous plan into motion just yet.