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Lambert comes back to Kaer Morhen unexpectedly, long after the snow has supposedly rendered the mountain passes extremely hard to cross, on a frost winter morning with the sky so heavy and white it promises another blizzard in the afternoon.
It’s so unlike him to travel back to Kaedwen when it’s already this freezing outside, especially since Lambert loathes winter passionately, spending all of his time in the mountains hauled in his blankets or training until his legs give out just to keep his body temperature acceptable.
Though being busy tending to the stables, Eskel hears him approach long before Lambert crosses the bridge to the main gate, his huffing breath loud and snorting, and the hooves of his horse stomping on the irregular flagstones, over the crunchy mounds of frozen snow.
He smiles fondly while patting his stallion’s flank, offering him a withering carrot and wiping his bare hands on his old woolen shirt, peeking out just to see if Lambert has made it through the gate. Seeing him approach makes Eskel frown with more than just a little apprehension. Lambert looks wobbly, unstable on his legs, dragging his poor exhausted horse around as if he has never been to Kaer Morhen at all, even barreling into a training pole at some point and shouting profanities at the chipped wood, kicking it with so much force Eskel wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he has broken a toe or two. His horse, a beautiful - if a bit underfed - dapple mare, gets even more antsy while witnessing his unjustified bout of anger, so Eskel reluctantly departs from the cold comfort of the stables’ doorframe and walks towards him, hands raised in an universal gesture of peace in case Lambert wants to direct his wrath towards someone who could actually pin him down to the ground and give him a good old black eye if needed.
Gods, Lambert’s self-destructive instincts have yet to dwindle despite him being past the appropriate age for acting like a fussy brat.
“Lambert,” he greets, his lips gently curling into a soft, welcoming smile. Even from afar, Eskel has smelled the awful reek of rye coming off him in whiffs carried by the mountain wind, tainting the sharp scent of the incoming snowstorm hanging in the air. Fucking congratulations to him if the idiot has made it through the Killer while being drunk to the seam of his pants. Eskel rolls his eyes, thanking once again the Gods for having given Lambert his fair share of dumb luck to rely on, even though he refuses to acknowledge it – sure enough his life hasn’t been as easy as taking a stroll in the Ducal Gardens of Toussaint, but, shit, if his luck was as rotten as Lambert likes to say it is, he should have logically died in a ravine somewhere. Many witchers have, before him. And they weren’t even drunk to begin with. He isn’t physically able to suppress a small snort. Lambert is still turning his back on him, lost into staring at the sorry remains of an ages-old training dummy precariously hanging from a rotting wooden pole. Even without seeing his face, Eskel can say he’s in a shitty shape, flakes of frosty snow etched in his unkempt hair, the reek of alcohol barely drowning out that of stale sweat and horse mane. He gently puts a hand on Lambert’s shoulder, squeezing just so. Lambert flinches, turning on his heels in a pirouette that almost sends him barrel into Eskel’s chest. If his general state was any indication, Lambert has had an extremely rough year but, fuck, he’s keeping a beard. Not a sparse stubble, which Lambert sports fairly nicely since it compliments his face, but a full-fledged beard, bushy and unkempt. If it was anybody else standing in front of him with such a bush - hell, even Geralt himself - Eskel wouldn’t be a bit concerned, but it’s Lambert he’s talking about, and Lambert has got a ridiculously sensitive skin on his face, at least for witchers’ standards, so he happens to hate having a beard because it itches to no end. Surely something has happened if he’s letting it grow.
“Lambert?” He calls again, when he notices his brother’s stare getting all unfocused. Coming back to reality leaves him stunned for a moment, as if Eskel has just thrown a bucket of ice water to his face, and it takes him a solid few seconds to swallow compulsively, tilt his head on a side and utter “Eskel?” through clattering teeth.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
Lambert is past the point in which he cares to hide his violent shivering. By the looks of it, his cloak is heavy, but not heavy enough to keep the tremendous Kaedweni cold at bay, not with an incoming blizzard looming over their heads like a grim omen. His head bobs compulsively as he swallows, his right hand clawing at Eskel’s forearm for support.
“The Path,” he simply states, right before passing out from dehydration, hypothermia and lack of proper nutrition.
Oh, the stubborn arsehole.
Dragging his sorry rear towards the door, Eskel wonders if he has survived on hardtack and dry meat alone for the last few weeks. Given how prominent his cheekbones have turned, he doesn’t have a hard time believing he might have skipped the dry meat part entirely. A diet based on hardtack and alcohol isn’t sustainable, in the long run, not even for a witcher. He looks so beaten and cold Eskel can’t help but reminisce about his first days at Kaer Morhen, when he was equally starved and spent most of his waking hours bragging about how cold the keep was – apparently, some things never change. Kaer Morhen is still cold as fuck, and Lambert doesn’t miss any chance to point it out. He kicks the door open and drags Lambert inside, unceremoniously tossing him on a spare cot under Vesemir’s attentive gaze. The old man likes getting all cozy by the fire these days, peeling potatoes for the stew with the masterful skill of someone who rarely departs from his hunting knife.
“What the actual hell, Wolf?” He asks, leaving his potatoes behind to crouch down beside the cot, sniffing Lambert’s shivering form and wincing when a powerful whiff of rye hits his nostrils. “No blood,” he ends up stating, covering his nose. “But he smells like a distillery.”
Eskel shakes his head, quickly disposing of Lambert’s filthy boots and moth-eaten woolen socks, carefully inspecting Lambert’s feet for possible signs of frostbite. Again, the bastard is extremely lucky: there isn’t any, and Eskel can draw a relieved breath.
“No, he’s not injured, Vesemir. He’s half-frozen, dehydrated and underfed, but he’s not injured.”
“Rough year?”
Vesemir’s golden eyes shine with sorrow and recognition. Been there, done that. All of us have, at least once. Eskel moves onto rubbing some heat into Lambert’s feet, even if his brother whimpers in a weak protest, and nods albeit noncommittally.
“Apparently. He didn’t have the chance to say much, though. He led his horse inside and then he passed out on me, so I might just wanna take a guess.”
The old Wolf inhales sharply, helping Eskel with undoing Lambert’s chest armor and jostling him out of his soaked shirt, his skin ashen and clammy and his heartbeat dangerously slow.
“I’ll go fetch some blankets. He’ll need them.”
Eskel doesn’t even bother tracking Vesemir’s steps, focusing on taking off Lambert’s hunting gloves instead. They look ruined, the leather all discolored and threadbare. Either Lambert has entered the fistfighting circuit, or he has had some freak accident, Eskel doesn’t know – and frankly, he’s almost afraid to ask. Still, it doesn’t take his superhuman vision to notice the persistent, purplish bruising on his knuckles and fingers, the skin torn and lacerated again and again, as if he has rammed his fists into a brick wall and picked at the scabs afterwards, never giving his body a chance to heal properly. Shit. His year might have been a tad worse than Eskel has figured.
When Vesemir comes back with the blankets, they bundle him tight and monitor him closely, Eskel feeding him some broth when Lambert comes to, groaning and struggling to get out of the warm cocoon enveloping him, still not lucid but awake enough to utter some profanities between a spoonful of rich broth and the other.
At least, as long as he curses Eskel can bask in the illusion that Lambert will be okay in a couple of days, like he always does. He needs some time adjusting to the sluggish rhythm of the keep, like all of them, but it’s usually less tragic than one might be prone to think. Deep in his guts, though, Eskel feels like this year will be, for some reasons, different. Harder. He has seen Lambert in a bad shape before, but like this? Fuck. He has never seen him looking so grim and broken. Not even when he was a kid and he attempted to escape Kaer Morhen every three days or so. A shadow crosses his already morose face, and Vesemir casts him an eloquent glance.
He’ll be fine, eventually, the old master seems to say, and Eskel can only nod and that, because – well, fuck, any other possible outcome would be too painful even to picture.
At least his body temperature is gradually rising to healthier levels. When he’s done spoon-feeding him, Eskel lets him rest some more, seeing to the bubbling stew until it’s ready and he and Vesemir can consume their dinner in a somber silence, both glancing at Lambert now and then.
Outside, the storm rages, cold wind seeping through the cracks in the ancient stones, making the flames in the huge fireplace flicker occasionally. The stash of wood looks dangerously scant. With a long sigh, Eskel forces himself to take his leave from the table, and from his third bowl of stew, to go and chop some down in the old stables, where they now store their firewood and the few things they had been able to recover from the most recent disaster in the armory – nothing too dramatic. Kaer Morhen is almost as old as the Conjunction itself and the years are taking a toll on the main structure. Luckily enough, the armory had been unused for the last fifty years, give or take, and Vesemir had already moved all the antiques somewhere safer, up in the eastern tower, the most solid so far.
Vesemir doesn’t ask where he’s going when he sees him grabbing his cloak - spread by the fire to dry - but he helps himself with what’s left of his stew anyway. Shit, the old man might be getting older and older, but his stomach still acts up like a bottomless pit.
At last, a thought that allows Eskel to crack up the faintest smile before wandering off into the snow, his ruined face pulling and stinging in the frost.
***
It’s already late when he gets back inside, carrying as much firewood as his arms allow him to, and he’s quick to close the door behind him as a gust of icy wind sweeps his cloak around his ankles. The bundle of woolen blanket is still where he has left it, twisted and cocooned on a rickety cot, but to a closer inspection Lambert isn’t.
He turns towards Vesemir, frowning.
“Where is he?”
Vesemir, sitting at the old table while methodically sweeping a damp cloth over the silver blade of an antique sword, merely lifts his gaze from his work, simply flashing Eskel a quick look and raising his brows with unexpected bitterness. Even without gazing at the runes inscripted into the shiny metal, Eskel is able to tell it’s Rennes’ sword. After all this time, Vesemir keeps oiling it every few months. Nostalgia roils in his stomach, terribly akin to nausea. Memories of a past that has long been wiped away hit Eskel with the familiar pang of guilt and regret, which he promptly swallows alongside a surge of acrid bile.
“In his bedroom, I shall presume? He yelled at me for no reason, stashed some White Gull and vodka from the pantry, and carried his loot upstairs. So, unless he is freezing his arse off in the library, you’ll find him in his room.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed,” Vesemir fleetingly remarks, the perfected movements of his hands careful and harmonic. Eskel keeps a stream of colorful curses tightly locked inside and bolts for the stairs, quickly adding some wood to the dying fire while he’s at it, and climbing the steep staircase three steps at a time. He hears Vesemir snicker, right before his consumed whetstone starts singing against the silver blade. Ah, the familiar song of his youth. He grinds his teeth and rushes towards Lambert’s room, the smallest and by far coziest of those that can still be used, not lacking shutters or doors for privacy, though the latter isn’t of the essential in Kaer Morhen.
He knocks twice, softly, clearing his throat. No answer comes at first. When he pounds against the door, he finally hears some shuffling, something ending up smashed on the floor - a vial? A bottle? - and Lambert’s hoarse, drunk voice, his teeth still clattering quietly in the eerie silence of the empty second floor.
“Fuck off, Eskel,” he half stutters, half slurs.
Eskel must bite his tongue not to reprimand him about how utterly stupid he has been by leaving his blankets behind while still recovering from hypotermia, lest he wants to start a fight that will undoubtedly last longer than his godsdamned life expectancy. Lambert is, unsurprisingly, extremely good at holding grudges. Sometimes, when Geralt graces them with his presence in winter, he still brags about things that have happened between them when he had yet to be subjected to the Grasses, and if it isn’t some fucking commitment.
So he sighs instead, resting his forehead against the worm-eaten wood, closing his eyes as a wave of exhaustion washes over him all at once, almost making his knees buckle.
“Come downstairs,” he asks, mustering all of his politeness not to upset Lambert too much. Drunkenness always makes him ten times pricklier than his usual, which means that even the tiniest spark could ignite a huge fire right now. All he hears from inside Lambert’s room is a slightly annoyed grunt. “It’s much warmer in the Hall. We won’t talk to you, if you don’t want to interact,” he coaxes. In vain, apparently. Lambert’s answer remains the same.
“Fuck off, Eskel.”
There’s more than just a hint of irritation in his voice, now. Eskel is old enough to recognize a battle he can’t win. Survival instincts and shit. Do not provoke a sleeping fiend unless you don’t want to end up with your guts spilled on the forest floor.
Noted.
***
“All right. I’m done. He’s coming downstairs.”
Eskel breaks down after the umpteenth bottle he hears shattering on the floor of Lambert’s room, Vesemir quietly mending the pauldron of his armor, punching tools, studs and thick needles scattered around in a chaotic fashion. Unlike Eskel, Vesemir is positive that Lambert will overcome his issues on his own, but fuck if Eskel isn’t concerned. It’s been a week since he’s got back, and he has practically left his room twice, both of the times yelling at them in advance to “let him go take a shit in peace” . At least he has plucked at the food Eskel has kept leaving outside his door, though stating that he has eaten would be such a huge overstatement. Still, he hasn’t bathed yet, and Eskel strongly suspects he hasn’t spent a single day sober since his sudden arrival – probably, he hasn’t been sober a while longer than that, but Eskel fears the moment he will ask and receive an honest answer on that. In a very short summary, Lambert is currently drunk, filthy as hell, underfed and probably struggling to overcome the effects of prolonged hypothermia. He has started a fire in his room, by the way, and Eskel must give him credit for the effort; sometimes when both he and Vesemir aren’t around, some logs mysteriously disappear from the hall, and that’s for the better because Eskel would hate being forced to amputate his toes and fingers just because Lambert is an idiot with a difficult upbringing who can’t process his emotions in a sort of healthy way. Sure, being raised by witchers hasn’t provided any of them with the strongest ways to cope with basically anything, but at least they try. At least Eskel tries, for fuck’s sake.
“For what, starting a fight and then dying the idiot’s death while trying to find a way back to the nearest village? Think wisely, Wolf. If he needs his time, he needs his time.”
Eskel allows himself to huff out a frustrated groan.
“It’s been a week, Vesemir! He needs a bath, a fucking shave, and to sober up! Why the fuck can’t you see it?”
Rarely Eskel has dared being so brash, when it comes to talking to Vesemir. He’s not a bootlicker, of course, but he gives the old man the respect that’s due to the presumably older witcher still around, not to mention the fact that he respects his role as a mentor and still follows in his footsteps, for how outdated and in need of an urgent makeover they might be. Yet. He can’t overcome blatant neglect when it comes to Lambert. Lambert, the most vulnerable of them at facing how hard life might get outsider of the strong, protecting walls of Kaer Morhen, the quickest to snap over nothing, the one who still curses and shouts when people spit on the tip of his boots or try to stone him out of their settlements, driven by hate and prejudice fueled by the very people who have destroyed the School of the Wolf and its legacy. He might look though on the outside, but inside – fuck, he’s a mess. He’s a grown-ass man who still possesses the impulse control of a five-year-old and the temper of a prepubescent kid. A solid five decades might have passed, but at the core he’s still the thrashing kid brought back to Kaer Morhen with his hands tied behind his back and a gag pressed to his lips to keep him from cursing like a skelligean sailor on a raid while being gathered with the other trainees in the main courtyard. Lambert might not be Eskel’s Child Surprise, but he feels an obligation towards him, a special pull. Something etched deep in his skin, like a scar that will never fade to a translucent line, a tie that binds him closer to Lambert than to any other person roaming the fucking Continent, second only to whatever bond there is between him and Geralt, a feeling that’s stronger than love and kinship itself that has done nothing other than solidify over the years.
Why the hell should he let Lambert wallow in self-pity when all he needs is a family to rely on? His people. His fucking pack. While he would rather swallow a bomb and die in a blaze of glory before admitting it, Lambert needs to be taken care of, at least once in a while.
At least after a shitty year on the Path he deserves to rest on someone’s shoulder.
Again, Vesemir’s expression remains unreadable, stone-cold. Slowly, he rises from the bench and walks to the kitchen, emerging some minutes later with a bottle of cherry cordial and two cups. He pours, the silence so unnerving Eskel considers the idea of simply walking away, for how disrespectful it might look. Still, when Vesemir hands him a cup filled to the brim, he takes it, swallowing the lump in his throat with a sip of his strong drink, the cloying sweetness of summer cherries muted by the numbing fire of alcohol.
“You like it?” He asks, the merry fire casting long shadows over his impassible face. “I traveled south, in spring. Past Rivia, you know. A long journey in which I met this merchant from Ebbing, who found himself in a desperate need of a guide and a bodyguard, and paid me handsomely for my service, adding to the pot some bottles of his finest cordial. Personally, I find southern cordial a little too sweet, but it might come in handy when rye sits too sour on your stomach and White Gull isn’t what you need.”
Again, Eskel forces himself to take a small sip. Vesemir is right, the drink is fancy after all. But it’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Inconsequential. They weren’t having a friendly chat over which liquor is better and why.
“Nice try, Vesemir, but I don’t see why talking about cordials should have anything to do with me or with Lambert’s current situation. Forgive my manners, but why the fuck are you avoiding the subject altogether?”
There it is, Vesemir’s brand you-know-nothing-pup look. The look of a Father. The look of a Mentor. The look of a warrior who has seen all of the people he loved and cared for killed in a senseless bout of unjustified violence. That look. The one that glues Eskel to his spot and forces him to listen to whatever thing Vesemir has to say.
“Because you’re not thinking straight, Wolf. You, of all people. Tell me, please. Why do you think you’ve made this far in life without getting killed on your first year as a witcher, hu? Honest answers only. And don’t say dumb luck, because I haven’t lost my touch when it comes to corporal punishments, son.”
Son.
The word resonates through Eskel’s mind like the tolling of a bell announcing a catastrophe. I’m not your son, he would like to say, but that would be a lie; he is Vesemir’s son, through and through. To some extent, even more than Geralt, whom Vesemir loves as if he was his very flesh and blood, but whose temperament is decidedly different from his own.
Sighing, he simply says "Enlighten me", unable to come up with a satisfying answer. Vesemir, of course, offers him a smug scoff and pours some more cordial.
"Because I taught you puppies how to fend for yourselves. How to heal your own wounds. How to overcome the helplessness that you might experience from time to time while on the Path. And, most importantly, because I allowed all of you to grow up."
Eskel frowns. His cup is almost empty now, and his throat ablaze, the white-hot trail of alcohol running all the way down to his stomach.
"I don't understand. What are you implying?"
Vesemir snorts ungracefully, an eyebrow flying upwards.
"Don't try to fool me, Wolf. You're much smarter than that. What I am stating is that Lambert will never learn how to grow accustomed to sorrow, if you're constantly coddling him. Plain and simple. But you already knew it, didn't you?"
Now, if life is a pendulum as some philosophers like to redundantly state in their works, Eskel's is swinging between telling Vesemir to fuck off and telling himself to fuck off, torn by the urge to prove the old mentor wrong and slap his own ugly mug for having harbored such a selfish need to protect Lambert at all costs. Often even from himself.
Wide-eyed, as if he has just been hit by the deepest epiphany of his whole fucking life, he allows Vesemir to replenish his cup and gulps down the content in one sitting, ignoring the bitter sting of fermented sugar in the back of his throat.
"Fuck," he whispers. Despite taking fair pride in being the closest of the surviving Wolf witchers to guess what Lambert needs most of the time, he's been so blind, so focused on wanting to give that he has forgotten to listen.
And listening is a vital skill in his trade.
Listening is a vital skill, period.
Vesemir's calloused hand gently brushes against his in a comforting gesture.
"Don't be so harsh on yourself, Wolf. And give Lambert time. You know how he is. He'll reach out when he'll need you."
Eskel sighs. His stomach is churning painfully, but the cordial has nothing to do with the nasty twisting feeling in his guts.
"What if he doesn't?"
Vesemir's smile is indulging, gentle. He pats Eskel's hand affectionately, his work all but cast aside.
"He will, eventually. I trust him not to have lost his wits completely. Time, Wolf. Patience. Do not force your affection on him, he will only reject you and hold you accountable for your faults until you're biting on dust."
He is right, most probably. Vesemir is rarely wrong. Eskel nods, but he doesn't deny himself another cup of southern cherry cordial to wash down the unsavory taste that has crept into his mouth.
***
It takes Lambert another full week to emerge from his room, and if it wasn't for the mysterious disappearance of another stock of bottles from the pantry both Eskel and Vesemir wouldn't have noticed. Admittedly, though, his unpleasant smell of alcohol and unwashed filth of every kind is... indicative, to say the least. It speaks fucking volumes. So much that as soon as Eskel enters the stables, he is acutely aware that Lambert is lying somewhere in the hay, probably still trying to avoid any human contact.
"Hey," he tries. If Lambert doesn’t answer, he won't force his hand in return. He is fucking trying his best. At least to remind himself every day that Lambert is no child and that he can sort out his shit on his own. Except that, of course, all of this nonstop drinking and his general attitude are more than enough to confute Vesemir's theory. Yet, somehow, Vesemir's suggestion still makes sense.
The old man never misses the point.
He feeds Scorpion and Vesemir's horse some oats, and Lambert's recovering mare something a little more nutritious, sparing most of the pampering for her, and does what he can to ignore the tingling feeling in his guts urging him to poke the hay where Lambert is hidden – his breathing is as heavy as the approaching footsteps of a full-grown forktail, so it's not exactly difficult to determine where he is. A snort almost slips through his lips as he cleans up Scorpion's stall, shoveling the manure into a pile that will be put to good use in spring. Right when he's about to give up and rather unexpectedly, Lambert moans in the hay. It's like the sound of a dying kitten, high-pitched and painful, petulant. Tentatively, he tries again.
"Lambert?"
This time, a light tremor shakes the stashed hay. He puts the shovel aside and crosses his arms on his chest, waiting, freezing his nose off in the biting cold with only a heavy woolen shirt tossed over a pair of studded pants that have definitely seen better days.
"Eskel."
It's like a deja-vu of some sorts. He's slurring and clattering his teeth over his words. Eskel isn't sure whether he'd like to hug him or beat him to his death with a stick. Still, when the crown of his head pops out of the hay, he can't help but suck in a harsh breath and keep it in his lungs, not exhaling until Lambert's face has emerged in full and – well.
"Good fucking gods, Lambert. Are you sleeping at all?"
Not the best choice of words, he can guess that much, but Lambert looks on the verge of passing out on sheer exhaustion alone, the circles around his eyes nearing a black hue and his pallor almost as chalky as Geralt's complexion after he had come out alive from his second round of Trials. He doesn't seem to have understood fully what Eskel has just said, but he forces himself to nod dumbly and shrugs some hay from his stained shirt. Fuck, whatever has happened must have been...hard, at least. Eskel really would prefer not to pack his mind with hypotheses and guesses, since one is decidedly grimmer than the other.
"Eskel," he croaks again. Unable to remain still, Eskel busies himself with kicking the shovel away, breathing hard from his nose.
"Lambert."
There's a long pause. Silence stretches, filled with the many sounds of the stables and Lambert's quickened heartbeat, until the youngest Wolf bites so hard on his lower lip that Eskel smells freshly spilled blood.
"Why?" He asks, without offering any context or...whatever. Just – why. A broken, wet, teary why. Eskel frowns, trying to reach out for him but refraining at the very last moment. Lambert looks at the offered hand like anyone would look at a pile of shit coming to life and trying to hug them.
Give him time, Eskel. It has always worked out, in the end.
"I...uh. I'm sorry, Lambert. Care to be more specific?"
Lambert lets out a heavy, weary sigh.
"Why this? " He says, with a gesture that encompasses the whole keep itself, his ungloved fingers peeled raw by merciless fangs. "Why this fucking life? Why the Path? Why me? "
It would be wonderful if Eskel really had an answer for that. Why me is something he has grown to wonder many times since the Trials and, sometimes, when it's late night and his stomach rumbles after another shitty day bouncing from one village to the other in search of a monster to slay, with no provisions left and not enough coin to buy himself a meal, he still asks himself the same question.
Why me?
But the truth is, as simple as it sounds, that there will never be a satisfying answer to such a question. Chance or fate won't cover it. Bad luck seems like an appropriate answer but, again, it's partial and limiting to say the least.
"What happened on the Path, Lambert?" He tries, in lieu of conjuring up an answer that would only frustrate Lambert or perhaps worse. He gives him a slight hmpf before shaking his head, grabbing a stray bottle and tossing it away after finding it empty.
"You wouldn't understand."
His reply is harsh, filled with vitriol and cutting shards of glass. Eskel straightens his back and shrugs noncommittally.
"Try me."
"Fucking forget I asked, asshole."
That's Lambert through and through. Bitter. Spiteful. Rage incarnate. Eskel is so used to that he is more than capable to brush his indignation aside and simply get along with Vesemir's plan.
Time and space. Give them to Lambert and he'll gradually open up – probably.
"Fine. You sobered up a little?"
Again, Lambert sneers.
"Not my choice. I drained all my bottles and Vesemir was in the kitchens when I was trying to restock, so…"
"Ah, I see," Eskel casually replies, casting an eloquent glance to the empty bottles scattered around. Before he’s able to stop himself once more, he’s reaching for Lambert and this time his offering of help and comfort doesn't get rejected. "Care to take a bath? You stink like a bag of manure carelessly thrown over a distillery."
"You stink of horse. Fuck off," Lambert quips, clutching Eskel's hand and letting himself be lifted - not without any effort because he might be thin like a slip of fucking parchment, but he's still a witcher, and their mutated bodies thin out while retaining most of their muscular mass - on his feet with a grimace.
"Come on," Eskel smiles, unable to hide his visible relief to see him standing more or less straight. "I'll fix a tub for you. Can you walk?"
"Eskel. I am drunk, not missing a fucking leg."
Eskel snorts, a chuckle dancing over his ruined lips. Lambert staggers, he'd be surprised and impressed if he didn't, but all in all he can walk on his own, though swaying and zigzagging rather randomly across the courtyard. Leaning against a scaffold for support, he draws in a sharp breath and casts Eskel an intense glance, his eyes fever-bright and filled with such an unbearable sorrow Eskel feels his own back curve under its weight.
"The trade," he starts. "The Path. Our shitty past. These things will never be done with us, right?"
Lambert's breath is labored, and it blows fat clouds in the still, icy air of the mountains. Eskel isn't sure he knows what Lambert wants to hear, but he's fairly certain there is no way to sugar-coat it...or, at least, no one has ever presented him a slightly more pink-tinted version of how life is supposed to be for a witcher. Maybe it's for the better, though. Not harboring illusions means protecting oneself from disappointment, up to certain extents.
Do not look for gratitude. Do not look for glory. People will always tend to forget all the good that you did just because you've got yellow eyes and can run leaps without your legs giving out to exertion.
He remembers Vesemir telling him this, on the chilly spring night before his Trial of the Medallion. And he remembers another bunch of unedifying tales about witches never dying in their beds and never retiring. Which is why he sighs and presses his lips in a thin, jagged line, the scar on his face pulling and itching for the cold.
"I'm afraid...they will, one day. But not because we've been graced, somehow, or spared. It would be our...demise, Lambert," he says, speaking slowly and hush-hush, but not because half of his face is hurting. Despite his altered state, Lambert takes it in, processes it though narrow eyes, touches his bare and scorched palm to his face.
"Aiden said-," he starts, but whatever he was about to voice out gets abruptly cut short as he realizes something of extreme importance and clamps his mouth shut, grunting.
Eskel furrows his brows in confusion.
"Who is Aiden?"
"You wouldn't understand," is Lambert's laconic reply.
Just give him time and space, Eskel.
Time and space.
Obviously, this Aiden is someone Lambert isn't ready to discuss with him, or with any of them. He can suck it up for once. It's not that he knows everything about Lambert anyway.
"Right. Come on, you stinky goat. Let's get you cleaned up, otherwise both me and Vesemir would be forced to move into the tower to avoid the smell."
Lambert offers him a dry chuckle. It's not much, but it's something nonetheless.
***
"You comfortable? Need anything?"
At this point, buried under some furs and a blanket, Lambert looks like a weird hybrid between a druid, a hermit and a bear. His now clean hair is rapidly drying, the fireplace providing just the right amount of dry warmth to do so. In front of the dancing flames, his complexion doesn't look grayish and sickly anymore, his skin glowing gold and orange in the space between the long shadows cast by the fire.
"Is a bottle of vodka an option?"
"Of course not."
"Then I'm fine like this."
Eskel grumbles quietly, but he hands Lambert a mug anyway. The scrunched, displeased face he pulls is of meager consolation to Eskel's hurting pride.
"Drink this, it'll soothe your stomach and set your other organs a little better."
"The fuck is this , exactly?"
"Vesemir's secret recipe, sorry. I've added some White Honey to fix the taste. It's almost unbearable without it."
"Hold on. How do you know one of Vesemir's secret recipes?"
"The perks of being the favorite child," Eskel cuts short, fixing himself a blanket and huddling close to Lambert, giving his mangled side to the fire so that the warmth can relax the tight muscles in his face. He finds himself breathing a little easier when Lambert tilts his head to rest it on his shoulder, drawing a tremulous sigh as he downs a sip of the herbal and winces.
Time. He has given Lambert aplenty. And space too. And his patience, steadfast and steady and proper. But even the most patient witcher in the very history of the godsdamned Order is entitled to a little bit of snooping when it comes to his very family.
"Listen, Lambert," he starts, after a little pondering. Whatever he'll decide to say would be the wrong thing anyway, so…
Lambert offers him a weird upside-down glance.
"What."
"What the fuck happened to you? Why the hell did you break here blind drunk and went on an alcoholic rampage for weeks?"
Now, Eskel wasn't expecting enthusiasm on Lambert's part, but he sees him tense visibly, clench his teeth as to swallow the most bitter bite, and ball his fists so furiously his knuckles turn instantly white. Still, his self-control is extraordinary when he answers "You wouldn't understand" in a rageful whisper.
Again, condescendingly, Eskel summons a pale imitation of a smile - it takes him quite the effort given how badly the damp cold is affecting his mug this year - and bumps his good cheekbone into the crown of Lambert's head.
"As I said, try me. I'm not a terrible listener, Lambert, you should know that."
Time seems to dilate considerably while Lambert decides whether spilling the beans is worth a shot or not. Somehow, after a long moment in which he doesn't do anything except for sipping on his herbal and sinking his teeth in the mug, he sighs, sounding broken and defeated. Eskel's heart hammers in his chest, steady and unusually fast, concern making the ugly scars on his face itchier than ever.
"I...it's a long story. I don't fucking know where to begin with. It's so messy I really can't-"
His voice breaks, and Eskel is sure he hasn't seen him this devastated since the death of the last boy of his batch. He, too, breaks under the weight of the burden Lambert is surely carrying.
"Try...try from the beginning."
He hears Lambert swallowing down compulsively.
It's going to be a hell of a long day.
***
"I met a person along the Path. Another witcher. We found out we were after the same contract, but instead of fighting over it - and it was lucrative enough to be worth the fight, I can assure you - we...just. We worked on it. Together. It went to fucking shit, but not for a lack of competence or anything, just...ah. A dumb employer and bad luck, I guess."
Eskel frowns, suddenly much more alert than he was a handful of minutes ago. He has poured himself a mug of ale, though Lambert has gagged at the smell and given him a pitiful look. A witcher? Well. That's interesting.
"Another witcher?"
Aiden.
Lambert wets his lips. Wriggling out of the blankets, he reaches for something well hidden under his shirt and, fuck, Eskel's eyes almost bulge out at the sight of another medallion hanging from his neck, one he hasn't noticed before; now he curses himself for being such a lazy observer. It looks a little ragged from the long years it has been worn and, maybe in a quirk of vainglorious extravaganza, it has been encrusted with two little stones, emeralds by the looks of it.
A Cat medallion.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Lambert's gaze, so full of sorrow and grief to crush his very heart, makes him swallow any possible reprimand back.
"Before you say anything, Aiden was... different. He wasn't like...all of them, he had cut with the shit and was working like a proper witcher, no plots, no fucking political assassinations, no mess. He was... good. He was far better than me, Eskel. A truly good man. And...fuck."
Lambert vents his rage by kicking his foot against the stony mantle of the fireplace, the crunching sound of broken bones sickening and dry. Eskel downs his ale in one sitting. Fuck. It's easy to say that Lambert wasn't just friends with the mysterious Cat, but a lover – no, in love. Which is profoundly different. He loved the Cat. And, most probably, the Cat - Aiden - loved him back.
Eskel doesn't deem himself to be a prejudiced fellow, or someone who tends to avoid digging deeper than the surface, but – Cats. Shit. Cats are serious business. Deranged assholes, at best. At worst, ruthless, cold-blooded killing machines with little to no control over their emotions who often go on unjustified killing sprees, mercenaries bound to sell themselves to the highest bidder, dangerous even when they look as peaceful as a fatass toddler rolling on a rug. A small scar on Eskel's chest, right above his heart, serves him as a good reminder not to trust Cats, never, even if they claim they just want to chat.
Bloody Cats.
Despite the fire and his fucked up body temperature, he shivers, but he's ready to give Lambert - and, subsequently, his deceased Cat lover - a little credit.
"I believe you. I know you're not an idiot, Lambert. If you say he was a good man, he was a good man," he reassures, gently stroking Lambert's hair and combing through the strands with his fingers. Lambert wails slightly, burying his face in the crook of Eskel's neck. His voice comes out muffled, stilted.
"He was a good man, and now he is...he is dead, Eskel."
Eskel draws in a sharp breath. By the looks of it, he wasn't killed by any beast, but rather murdered, like many Cats go these days.
"What... who killed him?"
"I'd like to know. Aiden deserves...peace. I will find whoever has taken him away from me and I will slaughter them, Eskel. I will fucking slaughter them."
Eskel grits his teeth discreetly. Of-fucking-course. Poke the sleeping bear and you're in for a painful surprise. He presses the tips of his fingers on a particularly jagged segment of his scar. Some mistakes leave marks that last longer than others.
"Be careful. Revenge is often the gateway to someone's demise."
"Then I'll die doing what's right for once."
His tone is definitive. He has already made up his mind and there will be no way to deter him from looking far and wide for the killer. Or the killers, for what Eskel knows.
Our shitty past. It will never be done with us. Right?
Now Lambert's words make a little more sense. Something has come for Aiden, from the depths of his past. And Lambert wants to honor his memory by removing the cause of his death. Eskel rubs at his temple, defeated.
"Let's hope you don't, then. Send a word if you need me," he offers. What else can he do if not offering his sword, in this case? Chances are, if Lambert isn't alone in his quest for vengeance, he'll come out unscathed.. Under all the grief, there's steely determination in Lambert's golden and blurry eyes when he gazes at Eskel and bows his head in silent gratitude.
"I will," he whispers. Eskel places a kiss atop of his head, and he lets Lambert retreat back to his own pain, eyes lost in the hypnotic dance of the flames burning in the fireplace.