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Fate can, sometimes, be a veritable bitch.
Lambert has taken this for granted since he was too young to sit properly on his fat toddler ass and, apparently, he has always been right in thinking that the Gods, provided that the Gods exist after all, do not like him one bit.
If they found him even remotely likable in character - which is ultimately the crux of every problem Lambert has ever faced - he wouldn’t be here, shackled and tied up in a damp cell, honored guest of a mage who likes to dab in alchemy and genetics and has a taste for torture, considering how long Lambert has been going on without food or water – or beer for what it’s worth. Even root beer. Or rye or whatever at this point, he’s not picky.
He pushes the thought aside. The less he thinks about liquids, the less he’ll have to fight the thirst that’s making his throat bob up and down in a frenzy, consuming what little spit has built up in his mouth as the mage - Dagmar? Dagomir? He can’t even remember his name, he hasn’t bothered to learn it - was pouring an acidic solution all over the raw, scraped skin of his wrists to see how long would it take for a witcher to heal naturally, without the aid of “those vile concoctions you gobble down so eagerly in battle” , as he has called the elixirs, from acid burns. Which, surprisingly, isn’t the worst that Lambert has endured, considering he has emerged from the Trial of the Grasses alive. But fuck. At least the torturous bastards making witchers out of children in Kaer Morhen were sensible enough to force some water down the candidates’ throats once in a while.
Lambert grunts, tugging at the chains, rattling them like a restless ghost in one of those novels wealthy wankers seem to be so fond of these days. Predictably enough, the ancient stones of the dungeon don’t give in, and even the rings of the chain seem to be laced with some alloy that makes them nearly unbreakable, at least with the use of brute force alone. He wonders if his sword could help in such a predicament, but he has been stripped clean of any blade long before being tossed into a cell.
Funny as some stories go, he’s the one who has made this bed, and he’s the one who’s laying in it. He was drinking his sour beer in a backwater inn near a withering village on the Redanian border and then – well, nothing. Because the beer was laced with something and merry good night to him. How bloody ironic.
He groans, frustration and exasperation thrumming through his bones, giving him that sort of antsy energy that would make him pace if only he wasn’t chained to a godsdamned wall. Besides, that spiked beer is the last thing he has had to drink, and the more he thinks about it, the more he longs for the aftertaste of horse urine it left on his tongue, which would be a welcome change on his diet of humid air that smells so strongly of mildew and rotting wood and nothing at all, not even some hardtack or stringy dry meat.
“Oi, asshole!” He yells, hoping the mage has got good ears. “Can I have something to drink or what? I’m thirsty!”
The understatement of the century.
He’s been down here for, like, four days? Five? Not even a witcher could come out unscathed from so many days without a single drop of water, no matter how perfectly fit his body is, or enhanced and performing. Counting down the days, he has taken his last piss yesterday morning. Today he has…tried. There’s no mistaking he’ll suffer some freak complication in the kidneys if Alzur’s self-appointed heir won’t come down with a jug of water in the next few hours.
He sighs, defeated, sparing another harsh tug for the chains binding his wrists before sitting down on his knees in a mock meditative stance and trying to meditate, for once, for a lack of any better things to do. If he settles for meditation voluntarily, it means that something decidedly grim is going on with this mad, loathsome world, and he almost loses his newfound focus on a bitter laugh he catches between his teeth at the very last second.
Time passes disappointingly slowly. Meditating, though, helps him going through an undetermined number of hours without losing his mind, but his concentration is tainted by his need of water, possibly fresh, possibly an entire fucking pond shoved down his throat.
The asshole mage neglects him, coming downstairs only to watch him meditate - Lambert detects his heavy gait and slow, relaxed heartbeat even while shutting the world out, he has never quite grasped the concept of deep meditative state really well - and scribble down some notes, only to disappear upstairs again without having left a cup of water or - for fuck’s sake! - even a spoonful.
Lambert wastes the vast majority of the day away. When night comes, a nasty migraine starts pounding behind his temples, and he knows already it’s one of the early signs of dehydration slowly working his body to its limits.
Truth to be told, he has always known he would have died a horrible, if not downright gruesome, death, but dying of thirst? That’s absolutely cruel, even for a prickly bastard like him. If the Gods do really exist, Lambert will personally twist their saintly necks one by one, once he has reached the Great Beyond.
Assuming that a Great Beyond exists, after all.
He scowls inwardly. Philosophizing about the existence of an afterlife when he is, most likely, dying, is pretty stupid. If he dies, he dies. Back at Kaer Morhen, when he won’t be back for winter, Vesemir and Geralt and Eskel will light up an empty pyre for him and mourn their loss, and then they’ll go on, because that’s what witchers do, from the dawn of time.
Depressing, but true.
Somehow during the all too long night, Lambert manages to slip into a dreamless slumber, only to wake up to a pounding head and a very unpleasant sensation of having swallowed broken glass, his throat sand-dry and scorched and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth in a way that makes him sick. It’s like biting down on old, uncured meat, and it doesn’t even taste remotely close to something palatable. His stomach rumbles and he feels nauseous, other than bloody fatigued.
The mage fetches him to run some of his accursed tests - speed, reflexes, heartbeat check, lung capacity - and when Lambert calls him colorful names and asks for some water, the old fucker dismisses him with a vague wave of his hand and feeds him poisonous mushrooms that make him even more dizzy and irritable, other than being completely insufficient at sating the hunger that’s literally making him live off bile and gastric juices, always taking notes in that fucking leatherbound notebook of his. Lambert is so famished he’ll surely find the artificially colored leather a veritable feast if he could take a bite. As it turns out, he can’t, and as much as his body is built to resist poisoning it’s extremely hard to function while severely dehydrated, hungry as hell, and even mildly intoxicated. His migraine is only worsening, and walking straight counts as a heroic effort as the mage pushes him through the narrow staircase back to his cell, where he uses magic to shackle him even tighter and shoos away the many rats scurrying around the packed dirt, lest Lambert tries to bite some rat’s head off and make a banquet out of it. He wouldn’t even risk sepsis, so…
The thought seems so ludicrous he chuckles under his breath. The mage takes note of that too.
***
“Are you still thirsty, witcher?”
The mage’s voice comes from a distant, distant place somewhere. Lambert peels his eyes open carefully, wincing at how irritating the slight gust of wind blowing down there feels against his sore pupils.
“Fuck you,” he says, trying to sound casual, but the slightest crack in his voice betrays him. He knows he’ll have to ask for water soon. Possibly beg. Lambert never begs. He’ll gladly let himself be devoured alive by a swarm of hungry nekkers before begging for anything. He can’t deny that dying thirsty is going to be painful and slow and agonizing. Puls, he’ll die a fucking madman, and how he loathes the sole idea of being less than lucid as he dies.
Fuck it.
The mage sighs, muttering some grand words in Elder Speech and summoning a bubble of water that floats fat and wet over the palm of his hand. Lambert’s eyes grow three times bigger.
“Sure, witcher? Not even a sip?”
Telling the mage to stick his lovely bubble up his fat arse physically hurts.
He wants it.
He’ll even lick the wet surface of the stones in his cell, if they weren’t so inexplicably dry despite the place being so humid he could sip the air like a fine wine from a silver goblet at a fancy party. Mages. They always find a way to look even more despicable than their usual.
“Don’t you have anything better to do? Like torturing puppies or whatever it is that you do when you lock me down here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous witcher. I don’t torture puppies. I gave enhanced rabies to a bloodhound once. A very bad idea.”
When the mage chuckles and sucks his teeth, Lambert feels like smashing his skull in with a kick. Yet, when he works his leg to generate momentum enough to break a bone, the asshole flicks his wrist and Lambert’s legs are suddenly too weak even to support his own weight, let alone to kick anything.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The mage smiles almost serenely at his vitriol, at the blunt edge in his voice. The bubble of water dissolves, the air crackling with barely contained static as the pressure grows back to a normal level when the water gets released where it belongs.
“You’ll be nicer tomorrow. And the day after that. And also, I may flay you alive one of these days. I’ve heard from a colleague in Novigrad that one of his specimens is still alive after having had every inch of his skin removed. Alzur’s journals have failed to mention how extraordinary your lot is, witcher,” the mage states, impressed, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, his threadbare but still luxurious robes swinging about his ankles dramatically. Ban Ard boys love a good show.
“You’re sick in the head.”
Shocking Lambert is almost impossible, but the thought of being flayed alive, strip by strip of skin removed is appalling to say the least. He gags on his own spit, barely managing to keep his bile down not to humiliate himself any further.
“I am a scholar, witcher. There’s no right or wrong in science, don’t you agree?”
Lambert does not, in fact, agree. Instead of wasting his precious breath, he stomps the mage’s foot, holding his gaze steadily as he crushes his toes one by one.
He welcomes the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness that follows with surprising ease. At least, if he’s passed out he won’t crave water.
***
Lambert doesn’t turn into a docile pup overnight. Nor during the next day, or the day that follows. But his thirst, well, that’s a whole other story.
The headache doesn’t relent. The dryness in his throat is making it difficult for him to swallow, even if he’s got no more saliva to gobble down when his oesophagus spasms involuntarily. It’s exhausting to stand, and walking feels like veritable torture. All he wants to do is to sleep, but the more he naps, the more he gets all hazy and confused when he wakes up.
He wonders if he’s dying. The answer he can give himself is by no means encouraging or optimistic. And, again, it sucks to die of thirst, really. If he thinks about water, he chokes on inarticulate grunts and moans, because if he dared speaking he might seriously damage his throat, which is so raw he tastes blood on his tongue all the time.
Time blurs in a confusing haze in which he can’t understand whether he’s dreaming or awake, because focusing on his thoughts is difficult, sometimes even impossible, so he just – sleeps it off.
He likes being knocked out, at least he gets to dream, and his dreams are unusually pleasant these days. There’s one in particular that’s sweet and vivid, and it occurs on a brutally chilly day in which he shivers so much his teeth clatter while he’s simultaneously burning from the inside, his head pounding so hard he’s sure that some tiny little trickster creature is hammering nails in the back of his skull.
Anyway.
This dream smells like freshly spilled blood and slashed guts, the smell of a fight or a war, and - it doesn’t surprise Lambert one bit - Eskel. Eskel’s smell is distinctive even if it’s almost drowned out by that of the bloodshed. It’s always been Eskel, after all. So, even in his extremely weakened state, Lambert manages to smile when the Eskel of his dream - a real knight in a shining armor, all covered in blood and conquering, so heroic Lambert would like to write him a ballad himself - frees him from his restraints, drops their foreheads together and talks a mile a minute, a hint of concern making his voice huskier and even more pleasant to the ears.
Lambert doesn’t understand a single thing he’s being told, but this is a dream, right? In dreams instructions are something that can be easily waved off, in his humble experience. And in his dream, he feels free to stare at Eskel’s face as much as he likes, even if his mouth has fallen slightly agape and he looks like a dumbass and whatnot.
“Oh. The fucking cavalry”, he hears his own dreamself saying. His voice is so rough he barely recognizes it through the filter of his own ears. Eskel helps him on his feet and, shit, the dream is fucking vivid. Lambert chuckles slightly and slumps against Eskel’s side, all burning lungs and aching chest, feeling his own feeble heartbeat reverberate through Eskel’s leather armor.
Can someone fall asleep in a dream?
It feels weird for sure.
Yet, he’s so tired that even keeping his eyes peeled open is becoming increasingly harder, almost straining. He can feel his feet being dragged on the dusty floor as if he’s weightless and floating, but-
Oh, everything is so fucking confused and confusing.
“Lambert. You’re still with me, yes?”
He tries to smirk. Maybe even cackle. Then, the darkness swallows him again, his weak fingers tangled in the bloodied mess of Eskel’s overgrown hair.
***
Water.
Lambert forces his eyes open with a start, regretting it almost immediately when the beating light of the late summer sun blinds him, making him jerk abruptly and turn on his side to shield his gaze and whimper.
But there was water on his lips, was it not? He can taste it, fresh and inconsistent, over the huge cracks in the chapped skin of his lips.
“Lambert, please, look at me. Let me help you.”
Eskel?
Well. So he wasn’t dreaming after all. The cavalry has come, and he is free at last. He could bolt upright and kiss Eskel senseless if he wasn’t sure he would vomit, pass out and then die if he only dared to move faster than a bedridden grandpa with his back broken in several places. He forces himself to turn slowly, then, trying to flash Eskel a smile and opening up all the cuts in his mouth in the process.
“S…kel…” he utters. He doesn’t mind the metallic taste of his own blood anymore. Eskel curses, dragging his sorry form on his lap and bragging about dehydration and broken bones. Broken bones? That would explain the weird numbness in his fingers. If the mage has smashed his hands, he doesn’t remember any of it.
“Don’t speak, you utter idiot. Here. I’ve got water. I’ll feed you spoonfuls at first, I can’t risk you choking.”
Lambert shrugs. Yet, when the first sip of water hits the back of his abused throat, Lambert feels like breathing again. And he coughs, of course, like a rabid dog. But that’s irrelevant, because he is drinking and, Gods above, he would drain a river if he could.
Eskel meticulously feeds him spoons of water for what it seems like an eternity before deeming his body to be strong enough to tolerate half a vial of Swallow, mostly to mend the broken bones in his hands and the three ribs Lambert has just found out he had, somehow, bruised.
“How?” He croaks. “How did you-”
Words die on his mouth. Nevermind. Eskel is insightful enough.
“It’s a funny story. I picked up your scent along the way and I thought it would be nice to casually run into you and maybe spend some time together. But then I happened upon this village, heard a bunch of crazy stories about a mage who was keeping a witcher locked up in his crumbling mansion and…well. There you were, alive by a fucking whisker, kicking your foot against the bars of your cell while muttering nonsense about beer.”
Lambert groans.
“The fucker…”
“Dead, yes.”
“Thirsty.”
“I know. But fluids must be introduced slowly. I’ll give you something to eat and then some more water, all right?”
Truth to be told, Lambert is in no position to argue whatsoever.
It takes him another full day - and another half vial of Swallow - to recover enough strength to sit up. If he tries to stand, he wobbles and falls on his ass, so no standing for the time being. But Eskel is gentle, caring, he sees that he stays hydrated, feeds him, he even brews him a hideous herbal to soothe his throat and permanently rumbling stomach. Lambert drinks a lot. He can hear the distant sounds of a stream somewhere, but he can’t detect where. Shit, he would be glad to dip in, drink some more water and then wash the grime off his skin and hair, though borrowing Eskel’s clean clothes is already making him feel slightly better about himself.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he finally says, once Eskel has settled down next to him, huddled by the fire, handing him another waterskin to empty and making a meal out of his provisions and some freshly picked mushrooms and roots. He nestles against Eskel’s shoulder and sighs, hard, letting the steady thumping of his heartbeat soothe him.
“Yeah, I suppose you should. But no pressure,” Eskel jokes, cracking a smile for him. Lambert is anything but sappy, yet he must admit he would never love something more than he loves the way the corners of Eskel’s eyes crumple when he smiles, so genuine and good-hearted it almost hurts. Fuck his pride that always stands in the way, he reaches for Eskel’s ruined, stubbly cheek and kisses him, nevermind if his stubble pricks against his newly healed cuts, making his lips burn. He almost giggles when he detects the subtlest fluttering in his heartbeat, but he manages to swallow it down because he is not that sentimental, not yet. He takes another sip of water, Eskel’s hand patting his back and rubbing soothing circles in his skin, and before he knows it the waterskin is empty. Again.
Shit.
“Then, thank you,” he says anyway, swinging the leather flask back and forth with idle fingers. Eskel kisses his furrowed brow and shrugs noncommittally.
“I couldn’t leave you here, could I? Just – care to explain how you ended up in a dungeon, dehydrated and beaten up to a pulp?”
Lambert sucks in a deep breath. His throat is still giving him a hard time, but it will get better come morning. He’s a witcher, after all, and witchers are resilient to say the least. The point is, he doesn’t feel like telling Eskel how he got tricked into drinking a poison laced beer in a shady tavern and then dragged away to be tortured by an insane piece of shit of a mage right now. All he wants to do is to fill his stomach, drink some more and then curl up on Eskel’s chest and sleep ‘till morning comes. So, no. He won’t elaborate for the moment. But he’ll gladly have another flask of fresh water and Eskel’s company, thank you fucking much .
“I’ll explain everything, I promise. But first, got anything else to drink?”