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Yennefer hates Jaskier.
It’s not a secret, especially not from the bard himself. In fact, she’s almost certain that he hates her just as much. She doesn’t believe there’s ever actually been a pleasant word spoken between them outside of the topic of Geralt, and even then that’s a very thin line that they walk. There might be a respect there, buried so deep she’s not even certain if it’s true, but there’s one thing they can agree on.
Geralt, and Geralt does mean a lot to her. Whether it’s the effects of the Djinn or not, it doesn’t matter, yet it means whenever she bumps into the bloody bastard it does include the pain in the ass of a bard that he keeps with him.
One time she’d mentioned to Geralt it was sweet to keep a pet, thrilled when she’d seen the bard’s nose turn and his eyes glint with an anger that’d made Yen’s heart pound in delight. Although, it’d taken hours to get the eggs he had thrown at her out of her hair.
She hates him with a spite she’s never known. Even so, she has to begrudgingly admit on the occasion that she does like Jaskier’s music. He has such a way with words, can sing so beautifully that it can be genuinely breathtaking, and he strums his lute in ways that are practically obscene.
Which means sitting in the corner of a tavern while Jaskier bewitches the audience behind her isn’t exactly a punishment, even if she’s facing an overly grouchy Geralt as he sulks on the other side of the table while Jaskier practically throws himself into the laps of giggling girls. He’s grumbling into his ale, eyes flitting between that and Jaskier with an intensity that makes Yen want to practically gag.
“Shall I conjure you your own personal dark cloud?” she asks sarcastically, gaining Geralt’s attention as he turns his glare to her. “Or do you think one will just pop up if you’re miserable enough?”
He doesn’t deign her with an answer, not that she was overly expecting one, and she sighs as Geralt’s eyes slip off her to undoubtedly follow Jaskier around the room again, the bard probably drifting off to find his next flirt. It’s shameful to watch, even if Yen knows she does the same thing on the odd occasion. It’s different though. She’s not at disgusting shameless about it.
It’s rather exhausting to see Geralt so utterly hopeless though, and she waves over a nearby barmaid for a refill of her mug. She’s not going to be dealing with this level of pining and sentiment sober, and she throws back the refill before nudging for a third.
The barmaid gives her a sweet wink, and Yen watches with a rather appreciative smile as she bends just a little too much to pour her drink before twisting between the tables back to the bar with more sway in her hips than necessary.
Fascinating as it may be, it’s Geralt that she really needs to pay attention to at the moment, so she shoves the thoughts of the sweet barmaid to the back of her mind for later perusal as she turns back to Geralt, rolling her eyes when she sees his gaze is a mixture of anger and confusion that’s she’s sure even he doesn’t understand.
“You know,” she starts off, tracing her finger around and around the lip of her mug, “while some people think that pining is endearing, I personally find it pathetic.”
Geralt doesn’t even look back at her. “Hmph,” he grunts in response, and Yen nearly reaches across the table to strangle him. She holds back the urge, only just though as her other hand not on the mug tightens into a fist where it sits on her lap. Perhaps if she words it properly, Geralt might actually do something about this silly little infatuation of his and they can settle back into a more bearable companionship when they’re around one another.
After all, they travel together a surprising amount now, however that may change if Geralt won’t stop this gnashing of his teeth every time Jaskier even looks in another direction.
Possessive bastard.
“It shows a lack of courage if you ask me-” she muses through slightly gritted teeth, although Geralt’s huff cuts her off with a snort.
“Which I didn’t,” he mutters under his breath, and Yen’s eyes narrow as she leans forward against the table and continues on like he hadn’t said a word.
“And really, a witcher of all things lacking courage?” She shakes her head. “Practically unheard of. Especially from the White Wolf.”
That makes Geralt look her way. “Whatever you think is going on here,” he says through heavily gritted teeth, “it isn’t.”
Yen grins, the glee stretching across her face as one perfectly crafted eyebrow rises. “Oh?” she crows mockingly, “and what exactly is it, Geralt?”
She lifts her mug and takes a long deliberate sip as Geralt just glares at her with a slowly reddening face. He doesn’t answer and she knows exactly why, delights in the fact that she’s finally managed to stump him, and she notes the way his hands are tightening into fists where they sit on the table.
The tension between them dissolves in seconds though as Jaskier suddenly appears at their table, bright and full of life as he cheerfully performs for them. The rest of the tavern is droning along in sing-song behind him, but Jaskier only has eyes for Geralt as he strums on his lute.
“It has to be so,” he sings, voice beautiful and clear as it rings in the air, “nothing can be changed anymore by the longing lurking in your eyes.”
The look on Geralt’s face is captivating, and Yenn can’t look away as she sees how he just melts, how the tension ebbs from his shoulders and his eyes crinkle as a slow smile curls over his lips. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so soft before, never at her at least, and a part of her chest lets out a small pang at the thought.
She’s always thought she saw a side of Geralt that no one else has ever seen, but she knows now that wasn’t the case. She’s never been the one to hold Geralt’s affections, let alone his heart, and somehow it’s the silly bard playing a silly love song that has Geralt looking like all the breath from his body has been stolen.
Oh, she realises. Geralt was right. What she thought was going on here really isn’t.
It’s not just an infatuation or pining as she’d thought. This is so much more.
As Jaskier dances off again, his voice picking up from the sweet murmuring he’d directed at Geralt, Yen reaches across and places a hand on Geralt’s arm, drawing his attention again, and she is momentarily treated to a direct look into Geralt’s complete and utter lovestruck face.
“Oh, Geralt,” she says softly, smiling at him with as much empathy as she can muster as he narrows his eyes back at her, “you’re fucked.”
Eskel knows about liabilities.
There’s a reason he’s always travelled alone. Over the years, there have been offers of companionship. Other witchers from different schools, bards who wish him to be their muse, even the odd mage or sorcerer. He nearly accepted once, but the way his eyes followed Triss Marigold more than they should’ve was enough for him to turn her down.
Witcher’s that get distracted don’t live long. It’s a fact of their life.
If there’s no one with him, there’s no one to worry about. Vesemir pointed out once that it sounds more lonely than anything else, but Eskel doesn’t think so. Maybe at first, he did, at the start when he first left his brother behind for the path and spent too many nights wishing they were still beside him, but then things happened with Princess Deidre, his Child Surprise.
He’d tried for so long to leave her behind. He never wanted her, never wanted that liability, but then it all caught up to him one day. Eskel doesn’t believe in Destiny but he believes in magic, would be stupid not to with how much thrums through his veins. When she’d turned up he’d felt a duty to her, to help her even as everything that he’d taught himself told him otherwise.
The scars that burrow deep into his face serve as a reminder to never think that again.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t team up with some of the others every now and again. Some jobs are too much for a single witcher, even ones like Geralt who’re fully capable of taking on a striga without assistance. It’s just practicality, really.
So Eskel doesn’t hesitate in reaching out for help when it comes to a contract on a nest of ekimmara. He knows he won’t be able to handle it alone, knows even the best of them couldn’t, so he sends a message to Kaer Morhen and waits to see who comes back with it.
Geralt doesn’t surprise him, but it’s the person on the horse beside him that does.
Eskel has known that Geralt has picked up a companion over the last decade or so. He’d heard it in tales on the road and even from Geralt on the winters they’d shared. What he wasn’t expecting though was for him to actually know who it is.
“Dandelion,” he greets as the two come to a halt on their horses. Eskel doesn’t get up from the stone he’s been sitting on for the last few hours, the mine with the ekimmara nest behind him. His medallion hasn’t quietened down for quite some time but the ringing has faded into white noise. “Pleasure to see you again.”
Dandelion looks surprised to see him too, but not as shocked as Geralt who swings down from Roach and glances between them with a frown. “You know Jaskier?”
Jaskier? Eskel certainly doesn’t know him by that name. Then again, it’s been well over twenty years since he last saw him, and Eskel doesn’t see much of the immature liberal arts student he met in Oxenfurt anymore.
“We’ve met once or twice,” Eskel mutters back, and Jaskier gives him a grin and a small wave. “How long has it been? Twenty years?”
“Give or take,” Dandelion responds with a slight laugh. “You’ve barely aged a day, Eskel.”
“Neither have you.” The words are a bit pointed, and Eskel narrows his eyes as he sees that Dandelion really hasn’t changed. Maybe a couple of laugh lines and his hair isn’t as bright as it used to be, but otherwise the only part of him that’s different is the fact he’s not wearing that stupid purple beret anymore.
“Good genetics, old friend,” Dandelion drawls with that wicked smile Eskel remembers very well. It gives absolutely nothing away. “Simply genetics.”
Eskel snorts at that. He has no doubts it is. Dandelion’s hair is much shorter than the last time he’d seen him, so it’s a bit more obvious the slight point to the tips of his ears. He’d never confirmed such things to Eskel, but he considers himself to be pretty observant even at the worst of times.
There is a pregnant pause as they all look at each other, Eskel not quite able to read the expression on Geralt’s face. He’s not seen it before. He probably should fill Geralt in, but he is rather enjoying the way Geralt can’t stop looking between Eskel and Dandelion as his frown gets progressively deeper.
Dandelion seems to notice too as he lets out an overdramatic sigh and whacks Geralt’s arm. “Stop being so suspicious,” he says as Eskel tries to stop his mouth from dropping open when Geralt only grumbles at the contact. Had he done that, he would’ve been knocked into next week. “Eskel and I met when I was still at university. He cleared out a basement of mice-”
“Psuedorats,” Eskel grumbles, remembering the giant mutant things that he’d been lulled into thinking were in fact just mice.
“-for us when Professor Thimbleton finally threw her toys out of the cot with the noise at night,” Dandelion continues with a flippant wave in Eskel’s direction at his interruption. “He was a marvellous muse for a handful of songs. Very heroic.”
Geralt grunts, and if Eskel isn’t mistaken… then he’s pretty sure it’s with jealousy.
That makes him stand up a bit straighter, his eyebrows nearly catching his hairline as he raises them. He’s not seen Geralt act like this before, all sulky and jealous. He can’t decide if it’s a good look on him or not, but it is definitely different.
“Oh, no need to be jealous, Geralt,” Dandelion continues, and Eskel’s eyebrows somehow climb higher as Dandelion leans into Geralt’s side and rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “You’re still my favourite. You know that.”
Eskel can’t help his open mouth now as he looks between the two. He’s expecting Geralt to shove Dandelion off, which makes it even more of a surprise when he just huffs and knocks his chin gently against Dandelion’s forehead.
“I’m not jealous,” Geralt grumbles, and Eskel stifles a laugh at how petulant that sounds. “I was just curious as to how you knew one of my brothers.”
“Sure.” Dandelion sounds all too indulgent. “I’ll believe you when you stop pouting.”
Geralt lets out another mutter but Eskel certainly doesn’t miss the small smile before it’s smothered away by another frown as Geralt pushes Dandelion gently off him. Truthfully, Eskel can’t believe his eyes or ears. This is incredible. Seeing Geralt act like… well, he wouldn’t say normal, but maybe a little more relaxed than usual is something Eskel never thought he’d ever see in his lifetime.
He’s used to grunts and glares, the odd laugh over a pint or two, but he’s never seen Geralt so… different. There’s something in his eyes. Maybe it’s happiness? Eskel doesn’t know but he decides then and there that, whatever it is, it's a good look on him.
“Anyway,” Eskel coughs after watching Dandelion’s playful grin a little bit too long. “Shall we get back to the contract?”
Geralt grunts, Eskel rolls his eyes at that, but he does turn from Dandelion back to mine entrance. “How many?” he asks, and Eskel feels a little more at ease falling back into the familiar rolls as they discuss the contract.
Five ekimmara, one of them being stronger as the leader of the pack. It’s not often they group together, but this particular pack have been praying on the local village for a long time now and have rendered the mine, their primary income source, completely unusable.
Geralt nods, asks questions, strategises well with Eskel, and Eskel is reminded of what it’s like to be working alongside one of his brother’s again. He’s not used to the company and if he’s honest, he will probably be wishing it away once the contract is over. For now, though, it’s comfortable to have someone to depend on.
It doesn’t take long before they agree on a plan and Eskel starts towards the mine entrance. Geralt doesn’t fall into step beside or behind him though, and it takes Eskel until he’s just inside the mine to realise it.
He glances back with a frown, only to see Geralt standing with Dandelion, arms around the bard’s waist with their foreheads pressed together. It makes Eskel pause, surprised more than he has been so far, and he feels his feet stumble to a halt.
Even with his hearing, Eskel can’t make out what they’re saying, whispering something between themselves and he frowns as he watches them from the shadows. This is even more than before and if he thought Geralt was casual with Dandelion previously, well, he’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing now.
There’s a soft tenderness between them. It’s something he never thought he would ever see for Geralt, not the angry young boy who’d grown into a cold bitter man. But Eskel sees the way his hands are gentle on Dandelion, and Dandelion’s own seem to fit just perfectly where they rest on Geralt’s chest.
As he said, Eskel knows about liabilities. He knows the feeling of wanting to be with someone and he knows all the ways to shove those feelings straight back down, maybe even to the point now that he doesn’t feel them anymore. He sees Geralt, sees the way his eyes meet Dandelion’s, and Eskel knows that look.
He’d given Triss that very same look a long time ago. Somewhere deep down, he feels a twang in his chest and can’t help but rub it with a firm hand.
It takes some time, but Geralt does eventually join him, drawing his silver sword with a flourish as he reaches Eskel’s side. Eskel sees Dandelion settle down on the rock that he’d abandoned, his lute in hand as he strums out a few musical notes.
Geralt must see Eskel’s face as his eyes narrow. “Say anything,” Geralt grumbles, “and I’ll feed you to the ekimmara.”
Eskel snorts but doesn’t say a word, falling into step with Geralt as he draws his own sword. Even so, the threat doesn’t stop the crude smile that curls on his scarred face.
He may choose to walk alone, but even a blind man could see why Geralt doesn’t.
Triss has been a healer for a long time.
She’s seen grief in ways that could never be spoken. Grief that rips people apart with burning rage and grief that has slammed people shut with cold indifference. She’s seen anger and pain, heartache and devastation that can never be recovered from. She’s seen people holding the hands of those they love as they’re pulled away from them and she’s seen denial so strong it’s left those being pulled away without a single tether to this world.
She’s seen joy too. Moments when all that grief and anger and pain has turned into sweet sweet relief. She’s seen smiles and laughs that could light up rooms and she’s seen even the hardest of men melt at the sight of ones they thought lost become whole once more.
Triss has seen it all. She’s witnessed decades and decades of what her magic can do and what it can’t do, how it makes people feel, how it can bring about the greatest of happiness and the greatest of sorrows.
But she hasn’t seen Geralt.
It’s the banging on her door that wakes her up, so late at night it’s early. It’s loud, loud enough she can hear it so clearly upstairs, and she carefully makes her way down with a ball of fire floating in one hand and a neatly crafted dagger clenched tightly in the other.
When she opens the door though, it’s to see Geralt looking back, pupils blown so wide his eyes are black with spiderwebs cracking the skin around them in a grotesque way, a bleeding and unconscious Jaskier hanging from his shoulder.
“Triss,” he growls, and the dagger clatters to the ground as she hauls the door open as wide as she can.
Geralt refuses her help to carry Jaskier, so instead she hurries ahead into the kitchen. She flicks the fireball away to light the candles in the room as she throws everything from the table to the floor with a thundering crash, not paying any attention to whatever breaks as Geralt grunts from behind her and he hauls Jaskier up on top of it.
He’s too limp, too pale, and Triss’s hands shake where they hover over his side. She doesn’t need to ask Geralt what has happened. The basilisk tooth is embedded deep, the skin around it already necrotic and festering with a black liquid that pops and spits when one of her fingers just touches it. Triss winces, glances up to see Geralt glaring back at her, and she doesn’t pretend that she doesn’t feel a strike of fear at those pure black eyes.
“We need to hurry,” she says, more to confirm to herself that this is really happening, and she turns her back to start carding through her shelves. Corks fall to the floor as she opens jar after jar, her hands staining with too many colours as she pulls ingredients out at the breakneck pace, throwing them into a mortar and pestle that she pushes Geralt’s way.
He doesn’t take it from her though. His hands are still on Jaskier, and Triss can see bruises already starting to form on Jaskier’s pale arm where Geralt holds him tight. He won’t look away, eyes trained on Jaskier, and Triss swallows thickly as she reaches out to place her hand on Geralt’s shoulder.
He tries to shrug her off, but her grip is just as strong. “Geralt,” she says, firm but gentle. He flinches and Triss’s heart clenches. She’s never seen him like this before. “I can’t do this alone.” When even that doesn’t seem to do, she grits her teeth and shakes him. “Jaskier needs you.”
Geralt doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t let go of Jaskeir either, but his other hand does reach for the mortar as he starts to crush the gathered herbs with a strength Triss would never be capable of. It’s enough, it’s all she needs, and Triss turns back to the chaos she’s created as she pulls more and more down from the shelves.
She’s only treated basilisk wounds a handful of times, even less of them surviving. Jaskier is pale and sweaty, his breathing too fast and each one cave in his stomach. Signs of organ failure, the poison perhaps already gone too far, and when Triss finally turns to the wound it's with a heavy heart.
“Geralt,” she calls again, and when he glances her way it's for her to see his pupils have reduced, whatever potion he’d taken finally starting to wear off. “I need you to pull the tooth out.”
She’s expecting him to rush forward and do it. He’s done it before, on many people he’s pulled through her doors. He’s always done it with cold indifference, a simple yank before stepping back to let her try to fix what’s left.
But he doesn’t move, just stands completely still as his eyes flick between her and the tooth.
“Geralt-”
“No,” he interrupts, voice dark and cold. “The pain will kill him.”
He’s not wrong, but there isn’t time for this. “Leaving it in will kill him.”
Geralt’s jaw is so tightly clenched that she fears it might snap. “There has to be another way.”
“You know there isn’t.” Triss shakes her head, unable to understand what the hell is going on. “You’re strong enough to do it in one pull. You have to do it, Geralt.”
But Geralt doesn’t move. His hand remains around Jaskier’s arm and when Triss looks she’s surprised to see how much he’s shaking. She doesn’t know what to do, strongly aware that what precious time is left is ticking down rapidly for Jaskier, but she knows she’s not strong enough.
“Don’t,” Geralt says, and Triss’s eyes widen as she hears the way his voice cracks around that one word, “don’t make me be the one that…”
He trails off, and suddenly Triss is aware of just what’s happening. She knows she can’t guarantee that Jaskier will survive this, but she feels a surge rush through her as she realises that Jaskier isn’t just a friend to Geralt, that there is much more on the line here than just Jaskier’s life.
Triss refuses to be the one to break Geralt’s heart, so she squares her shoulders and turns back to Jaskier’s side.
“Okay,” she says as she rolls her shoulders, this will be tough, “I need you to hold him down then. This won’t be pleasant.”
Geralt moves then, finally, and Tries is so aware of how gentle he is as he curls around Jaskier, yet still holding him firmly. There are no more bruising touches, just large shaking hands, and Triss forces herself to look away as she takes a deep breath.
The tooth comes out. It’s not as wedged as Triss thought, taking only a couple of tugs to pry it loose, but stopping the flow of blood and poison after is the hardest part. Jaskier lets out a dulled groan, a good sign, and Triss hears Geralt’s voice slowly fill the room. It’s deep and calming, murmuring words she doesn’t understand, but she focuses instead on her own chants and the bright lights that surround her hands as she cleans and packs the wound.
Slowly, slowly, she makes progress. Black skin starts to fall away as soft pink grows in its place, knitting together in front of her very eyes. The black goo trickles out until there’s nothing but bright red blood that pools in the empty wound, that presses beneath her fingers as she mends what her magic will allow her to mend and finds stitches for what remains.
When she’s finished, she steps back with dirty hands, the tooth clutched in one, and she can’t help her eyes as they flit to Geralt.
He sits on the edge of the table, head tilted down and back arched in a way that mustn’t be comfortable. His forehead is pressed to Jaskier’s, lips still silently moving with words that Triss knows she won’t ever be privy to.
It’s a perfect picture, a picture of devotion, and Tries feels her chest squeeze and her hands shake.
She never felt that from Geralt. Not her and she knows Yen never did either. In honesty, neither thought he was truly capable. Witcher’s don’t have emotions, don’t have feelings, but looking at Geralt now? How his voice had broken and his hands had shaken? Triss isn’t so sure.
There must be something else here, something that this silly little bard must have that Geralt so clearly needs, and if there is one thing that Geralt deserves, it’s to feel what so many have craved in their lives. Triss has seen love before, in so many ways she’s lost count, but this? It’s something else.
She feels a tiredness and weariness so deep in her she doesn’t think it will go away, but when she hears a soft groan and Jaskier’s eyes finally flicker open, a crushing wave of relief nearly has her legs fall unsteady beneath her.
Neither pay her attention though as Geralt’s eyes open and he says Jaskier’s name with such softness that Triss feels tears prick her eyes. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, most likely can’t, but his hand comes up just the slightest and Geralt’s meets it with his own, wrapping their fingers around one another as he lets out a huff of broken relief.
It’s enough, Triss thinks as she steps towards the stairs nearby. Even though it seems they don’t know she’s here, Triss knows she shouldn’t intrude a moment longer. This isn’t for her to see, not for anyone to see, so with the tooth still hanging from her grasp, she shuffles as quietly as possible from the room.
She pauses just once in the doorway, glancing back to see Geralt’s cheeks are wet but she doesn’t look closer to see why. Instead, she swallows thickly and reaches out to steady a candle on the table by the door.
With a flick, she lights it, bathing the two in a soft warm glow, before she slips from the room with a gentle click of the door behind her.
Lambert never wanted to be a witcher.
He’d heard many tales by the time he was young. Heard about the mutants from the mountains, the monsters they were, the unnatural things they did. He’d never seen one but he’d feared them, dreaded the day he would cross paths with one and undoubtedly not come out the other side.
Then his father came home one day and told him he was to become one.
He’d been innocent at first. He’d joined the other boys at Kaer Morhen and thought maybe things would be okay. But then the first test began, then the next… and the next and the next.
He’ll never forget the fear of running through swamps with ghouls breathing down his neck, the screams of the others as they’d fallen, his own as he was forced to drink corrosive potions that had burned down his throat, the cold stone floor as he’d curled in the corner and watched the bodies of the others dragged from the room, the way witchers had looked at him in utter disgust, the chopping and slicing by swords he didn’t know how to wield, the punishments again and again for lacking the courage they tried to beat into him.
Lambert remembers it all like a brand beneath his skin.
He’d passed the trails. He’d felt a twisted sense of pride at that but it’d mixed amongst the hatred he still feels when he looks at his mentors and thinks they did this to him, they turned him into a monster he never wanted to be, and he can never forgive them for it.
Yet, each year, he still goes back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. It became more bearable as the years passed and less witchers had returned. Struck down by monsters or killed by humans, it never mattered. The ones that did this too Lambert eventually never came back, and with that came a sick sense of justice.
Despite it all though, Lambert grew a close brotherhood with Eskel and Geralt, others that had only just finished their own training when Lambert was brought to the keep. He remembers them sneaking him apples when he was starving, applying balm to his wounds, holding him when he’d shook and begged for it all to end. He knows he couldn’t have gotten through it without them.
Even so, Lambert stayed alone on the path.
Until he met Aiden.
He wasn’t expecting him. Coen had arrived for the winter, much like other witchers from other schools who’d trickled towards Kaer Morhen at Vesemir’s invitation over the years, and he’d brought someone new with him. Lambert had spotted the cat medallion resting on the other’s chest and his eyes had narrowed. He’d never liked the Cat School’s reputation much, hired assassins with no honour, but this one seemed different.
A wicked smile, an easy slope to his shoulders, carefully guarded eyes. He’d stop behind Coen, throwing a half-eaten apple up in the air over and over, looking more comfortable in the keep than he had any right to do when he’d been surrounded by wolves.
Lambert had nearly hated him on the spot.
But then the winter progressed and Aiden became more than some unwanted cocky guest. He wasn’t like the others from the Cat School, didn’t share their morals and views. He fitted in as if he’d always been there, and Lambert had found himself drawn to the man. They were alike in many ways, and their friendship became… easy.
After the winter, it hadn’t taken long until they’d crossed paths again, defeating an ogre together in a beautiful display of power and stealth. Friendship had turned to more, turned to something Lambert had never experienced. Aiden made him feel different, brought out parts of him he didn’t know existed, soothed the decades of hurt and pain with small touches and sweet smiles. The loneliness that had sat so heavily on his shoulders eventually faded away and each time Aiden’s hand would grace the back of one of his own, Lambert thought that maybe it was all worth it.
But then Aiden is killed.
Jad Karadin pays for it in blood, Lambert makes sure of that. He had been surprised when Geralt had offered to help, let alone step back and allow Lambert to take his revenge. Geralt’s always been the honourable one amongst them, always the one willing to let others talk first before taking action. It’s admirable, in a stupid kind of way. There’s nothing in this world that wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to strike them all down. Why give them the chance to do so?
“Thank you,” Lambert says as he cleans the blood from his steel sword. Bodies lay around them, Karadin and his men. His words about Aiden sit with Lambert, but he refuses to believe them. Aiden was the greatest man he’d ever known. Nothing that bastard could say can change that.
Geralt looks at him, his own blade already clean and holstered. “I hope this brings you peace,” he says, voice oddly soft.
Lambert can’t help his bitter laugh. Wishful thinking, he thinks. “Maybe,” he says.
Geralt doesn’t look convinced, but Lambert doesn’t need him to. This wasn’t about peace. This was about revenge, about ending the man who tore a hole in Lambert’s chest and left it dripping grotesquely open.
“I have a camp set up nearby,” Geralt tells him as he heads towards the door. Lambert falls in behind him, their footfalls making the wooden floors creak with each step. “You are welcome to join.”
Lambert had plans to leave for Novigard, in honesty. Find another contract and throw himself at it with little regard for himself. Without Aiden, that crushing loneliness has come back. He’s by himself again, and the world around him feels that little bit too big now.
But Geralt doesn’t seem to want an argument, and Lambert thinks that one night would be okay.
He hears the gentle strum of a lute long before he sees the camp where it’s tucked away in a clearing in the woods nearby. Lambert bristles at the noise, hand straying for his silver sword instinctually. The last time he’d heard such music was when he’d been ambushed by a pack of elvish bandits. It’d been a beautiful sound, Lambert had been unable to resist heading towards it, but the consequences had left his ribs smarting long past his usual healing period.
Geralt flashes him a look though, and Lambert remembers very suddenly that Geralt has a companion now too. Eskel had mentioned it, told Lambert briefly about a bard that Geralt seemed very fond of, something Lambert had laughed raucously at. Geralt? Fond of another? Lambert would eat his own swords come that day.
But when they break out into the clearing, it’s to see a man sitting around a small campfire, playing his lute with his eyes closed, humming along to the strings as he sways on the log he’s perched on.
“Hello, Geralt,” he says, even his voice musical to the ears, and Geralt lets out a grunt in return as he steps forward to take a seat beside the bard.
Lambert’s grip slackens on his sword. He’s not entirely sure what to do with himself as he hovers on the outskirts of the clearing as the bard finishes his song, surprised that Geralt doesn’t interrupt him once. He even seems to listen instead, head tilted just towards the bard, face relaxing as a small smile tugs at his lips.
That throws Lambert, and it’s with a building curiosity that he moves further towards them until he’s sinking down on the log on the other side of the fire.
When the bard finally finishes, he opens his eyes and gives Geralt a blinding smile. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says, and Lambert’s nose wrinkles at the sheer affection in his tone. “I was starting to worry you’d become fodder. Which, would be excellent for business,” the bard shrugs, “but I’d miss you far too much.”
Geralt snorts and finally moves, taking his swords off his back and laying them gently down on the ground. “I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you like that.”
Lambert nearly gags, but it’s stomped down quickly by the shock he’s experiencing. Eskel had warned him, said they were sickly sweet, but this is a whole other kettle of fish.
Geralt looks smitten, in his own way, and Lambert wants to crow with disbelieving laughter.
The bard gives a small chuckle and reaches out to tug on the end of Geralt’s hair, not harshly but almost fondly, before he turns to Lambert with another smile, this one not as bright as the one he’d given Geralt.
“You must be Lambert.” The bard gives him a little wave, and Lambert’s eyebrows go up. “I’d say I’ve heard a lot about you, but Geralt is still a bit stingy talking about his family.”
“I’d say it’s mutual,” Lamber responds, giving Geralt a look that his brother won’t quite meet. “I’ve heard about you from Eskel though. Dandelion, isn’t it?”
The bard laughs. “Only thirty years ago,” he says, and Lambert frowns. The bard hardly looks that old. “It’s Jaskier, actually. Or Julian. I do prefer Jaskier. Please don’t call me Julian. It’s too formal.”
Bard, Lambert decides.
Geralt clears his throat and the bard lets out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, Geralt tells me I jabber too much-”
“Everyone tells you that,” Geralt mutters, and Lambert snorts when the bard smacks Geralt’s shoulder.
“-but I’ve also been told I grow on people.” The bard huffs before turning around and reaching down beside his log, returning with two skinned rabbits held in his hands. “Hungry, Lambert?”
Lambert just nods, a little dumbstruck. He wouldn’t have expected the bard to be a hunter, but he looks ridiculously pleased with himself especially when Geralt makes a few noises of surprise. Their attention is thrown away from Lambert then, the two of them focusing entirely on each other as Geralt starts to ask some questions in low tones and the bard skewers the rabbits before setting them over the fire.
It’s like they’re in their own world. It’s fascinating to watch, especially as they seem to forget more and more about Lambert’s presence.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Geralt be so… tender with someone before. At least not unabashedly so in front of him or any of the other witcher’s. There are gentle touches between them, almost unconscious as the bard steadies himself on Geralt’s knee and Geralt’s hand settles on the bard’s back. They sit turned to one another, knees knocking together as the bard presses his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder, fingers gracing across the fresh wound on Geralt’s neck. They’re so wrapped up in one another that Lambert feels like an afterthought, like an intruder in their moment.
And he gets it, Lambert gets it, because the longer he watches the more he feels an ache in his chest. He knows what it’s like, remembers all this and more, remembers what it felt like to be so involved in another that the rest of the world could crumble down around his ears and he wouldn’t even notice.
He knows love when he sees it, and he’s both envious and proud of Geralt all at once.
But later that night, when their bellies are full and Lambert rolls over to see the two sleeping softly against one another, wrapped so tightly up that he’s not sure where one starts and the other begins, when Lambert knows he won’t be heard, he lets himself let out a soft choked noise.
He’s happy for Geralt, but he misses Aiden.
So fucking much.
Vesemir has seen a lot of things in his time as a Witcher.
He’s seen the construction of Kaer Morhen, built from the ground up with techniques long since gone from the world. He’s seen the glory days of the Wolves as their reputations rose across the Continent over and over again, felt the glow and admiration of the people after contracts were completed, as the Wolves were praised for their talents, for their ability to keep the people of the Continent safe from harm no matter the cost.
He’s seen the downfall, the moment that changed, the moment the fortress walls were stormed by a mob led by mages and priests. He’d seen his master’s head cut from his shoulders as he’d laid amongst the corpses, holding his breath and hoping that they would think him as one of the dead.
He’s seen all those he knew, his family, dead. He’s been the only one left alive after the massacre, the only one in a sea of death with no idea where to go or what to do next.
He’s helped to rebuild the Wolves from scratch again, had known that it would never be the same as he’d seen ghosts roam the halls of the keeps that will never be put to rest. He remembers all the boys that have walked past him into the keep, remembers the faces of those that walked out and memorised the names of the ones that hadn’t.
He’s seen those ones that survived turn into something great, turn into legends that are whispered through the land around campfires at night. He’s seen them come home during the winter, seen their strength in their ties of brotherhood, seen the moments of loss and joy, sometimes rolled into one.
He’s seen less come back each year, felt the losses like personal blows, felt a part of him die with each of the men he considered to be from his own blood. He’s felt the silences that fill the empty halls, felt a loneliness so deep and so strong that he feels like he may shatter into a thousand pieces.
He’s seen death like no other, seen horrors and tortures that no one would believe. He’s seen the rise and fall of empires, of kings and queens, of the people they’ve all ruled. He’s seen war and battle, seen the cruelties of the world in ways that no one ever should, seen so much that he wishes he never did.
He’s seen joy, yes, but he’s seen so much more loss that some days it feels as if that’s all there is in this world.
And yet, if there’s one person to remind him otherwise, he’s surprised that it is Geralt.
Of his students, the ones left now after so many have passed, Vesemir mourns for Geralt the most. He feels Lambert’s anger, hears Eskel’s silence, but it doesn’t quite reach the same ache he feels deep in his chest at the sheer coldness that falls from Geralt’s shoulders.
He should never have let Rennes perform those extra mutations on the boy, should never have turned his back and let it happen. If he could turn back time he would stop it in a heartbeat, would not let the boy experience things worse than he could ever describe.
Winter comes, as it does each year. He’s not left the keep to take The Path in recent years. He’s old now, older than he’d care to think about, and the crumbling mess of Kaer Morhen keeps him occupied as is. He has no doubts that when he’s gone the others won’t come back, but for now, the keep will stand as he does.
Eskel arrives first. Vesemir greets him at the door, having watched him travel down the old beaten path to the keep from the top of one of the spires. They don’t say much to each other, just clap one another on the shoulder before Eskel turns and disappears to the stables, only coming in after Vesemir has lit the fires and begun to cook their evening meal.
Lambert is already in the keep when they awake the next morning. He barely acknowledges them, just sits at the table with a tankard in front of him. Vesemir recognises the look, the loss etched into the lines of his face, can see the way his eyes stare straight ahead without seeing. He doesn’t ask, just fills the tankard up when it looks empty and tends to Lambert’s horse for him.
He expects this winter to be a quiet one when Geralt arrives, but he’s outside when he hears the clopping of horse hooves on the cobblestones and someone singing. Eskel is beside him in a moment, hand resting on the hilt of his sword as his eyes narrow on the path leading up from the gate, but Vesemir reaches out to drop his hand on Eskel’s shoulder as he shakes his head.
It’s not uncommon for the boys to bring someone back with them, Lambert brought Aiden enough times that Vesemir started to count him as one of his boys, but it's the first time Geralt has and Vesemir is surprised to see that person as the Viscount of Letterhoven.
“He’s brought his bard,” Eskel suddenly snorts, and Vesemir is surprised to see a smile break out on Eskel face as he drops his sword back into its sheath. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Neither was Vesemir, but the duo continue to ride towards them and the Viscount keeps singing despite the appearance of an audience. In fact, he seems to sing even louder as he waves at them from atop his white gelding with a large grin, and Vesemir shakes his head in disbelief as he turns his eyes to Geralt.
What he sees nearly floors him. He can count on one hand the number of smiles he’s ever seen on Geralt, but the soft one that's resting on his face right now is completely different to even those. There’s something more behind it, something more behind his eyes as he rolls them at the Viscount, something that Vesemir has only seen a handful of times in his life.
He steps up beside Roach as Geralt dismounts to drop down in front of him, and he reaches out to pull him into a brief hug. It’s returned with two strong arms, and Vesemir feels something in his chest clench at that.
Geralt always has been the more tactile out of his boys, but the reminder always makes his eyes burn just a little.
“You brought a friend,” he says as he pulls back, clearing his throat at how rough his voice sounds. It must be from the lack of use, he thinks. “That’s unlike you.”
Geralt looks away, over towards where Eskel and the Viscount are laughing together. Vesemir doesn’t remember the last time he saw Eskel laugh. “He insisted,” Geralt mutters, “and he’s impossible to convince otherwise.”
Vesemir smiles and claps Geralt on the shoulder. “The more the merrier,” he tells him. Geralt looks back and nods, that soft smile reappearing, and Vesemir doesn’t quite know what he feels when he sees that there are new lines around the corners of Geralt’s mouth.
Laugh lines, he realises.
Geralt steps away after Vesemir drops his hand, heading towards the other two and greeting Eskel with a hard thump on the back. The two boys laugh, the Viscount shaking his head at them fondly from where he stands just away from them, and Vesemir suddenly feels very very old as he watches the three young men.
He doesn’t follow when Eskel goes inside to tell Lambert of their arrival, lurking instead by the doorway and watching as Geralt and the Viscount take Roach and the gelding to the stables. They walk side by side, arms brushing as they go, and Vesemir doesn’t think he’s ever seen Geralt so close to another, at least not willingly. There’s a strange sort of intimacy there as the Viscount chatters at a speed Vesemir would struggle to keep up with, but Geralt nods his head along to every word without even a pause.
Admittedly, he follows them down, staying just out of sight as they enter the stables. They work well together as they take off the gear from their horses, the Viscount still talking as he dumps their bags near the entrance and Geralt removes the saddles and bridles. Geralt even responds once or twice, otherwise staying quiet as they brush their horses down with practiced sweeps.
But then Geralt starts laughing, and Vesemir’s knees feel weak as he reaches out to hold himself up on one of the stone walls nearby because Geralt is laughing. A deep belly laugh that’s shaking his shoulders and the Viscount is looking proud as he stands next to Geralt and pushes at his shoulder with such a bright warm light in his eyes.
And oh, Vesemir recognises that light, knows that the Viscount’s chest is probably warm and full to burst, that the smile on his face feels like it will never go away, that his hand on Geralt’s shoulder is tingling and his stomach is rolling with the feeling of butterflies.
Because Vesemir has felt those feelings himself, long ago back before the fall of the Wolves. Back when the world was bright and he was a myth that was spread around campfires.
Back when he loved and was loved.
And when the Viscount finally looks away, Vesemir sees the same look in Geralt’s eyes, and there’s a lump in his throat as he realises that Geralt, his Geralt, is just as head over heels for the Viscount as the Viscount is for him.
He’s seen loss. He’s seen so much loss that sometimes he thinks that's all there is in this world, that it's all there ever will be. For years, he’s watched his boys come home with those sightless eyes, those harsh silences, has seen the way the world treats them like they’re nothing but the monsters they fight desperately against.
But it’s now, now as he sees Geralt and the Viscount, as he watches them steal glances with wide eyes and shy looks when the other isn’t looking, he realises that it’s not always like that.
There is joy in this world, and he smiles to himself as he turns away and heads back inside the keep.
Fin.