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Given his consistent experience gained in decades spent having his boots spit over by asshole, prudish peasants while on the Path, Lambert should know better than to follow Jaskier’s advice regarding…well. Basically anything. From the choice of breakfast - bloody bardling eats as if the world is ending in fucking flames within the span of some hours and then complains about stomachache while riding - to the right spots to camp when the sky is clear and the air warm enough not to waste coin on inns and taverns with flea-ridden straw mattresses and wooden tubs so small one has to kiss their own knees in order to fit in.
And fucking yet.
The day had started fairly average, with Lambert taking a satisfying piss at sunrise, his body still pleasantly heavy and fuzzy from the night spent jousting with the overenthusiastic bard and his gentle snoring buzzing on the edge of his hearing coming from his bedroll, where he was spreading out, naked as the day he was born, still sleeping with his mouth agape like a drooly toddler. And indeed he drools, he had thought, wiping his free hand carelessly over a trickling stream of Jaskier’s saliva on his shoulder. Now, for the best part, the day had kept being pretty average in the remote strip of land connecting Rivia to the Dol Angra, where villages were scarce and distant and woods still thrived, the mystic aura of the neighboring Caed Dhu, the Wood of the Druids, feeding myths and legends regarding how sacred all the trees down there still were, despite everybody having abandoned the ancient cults centuries before. Jaskier had, as always, blabbered, their horses had tried biting their faces off - just the usual since Lambert’s dapple mare seemed to hate every form of life without distinction, biting everything that moved too close to her snapping jaws with the swiftness of a predator - and then they had found a girl sitting cross-legged on a boulder, singing a nursery rhyme to keep herself company in the dangerous solitude of the forest, and the day had abruptly stopped being average.
Because they had gone snooping of course, Jaskier had insisted. And Lambert, despite his carefully crafted attitude, has yet to learn to say no to the charming little bard. Which, in retrospect, would have saved them so much fucking trouble. But no. The bard had asked pretty please and now they’re as good as toasted because, apparently, the girl was bound to be the yearly sacrifice to a creature – who the hell would have thought about that?
Human sacrifices have always been uncommon, save for some uncivilized areas in Skellige where the practice still goes on, primarily to placate the so-called forces of nature. Most of the times, such sacrifices are used as means to appease a monster of any sort, but Lambert can’t say he is an expert on fucking human sacrifices. Still, even lying drugged halfway to his death on the floor of a shed that smells of human and animal waste, with his head wrapped in a cottony ball that makes all the sounds muffled in his ears, he is lucid enough to understand that this is going to end so fucking badly.
"...we deliver them. The Spirit will be pacified even if it's not one of us, but two strangers."
A female voice. Old. Croaky. Lambert would very much like to tell her to go the fuck to hell, but his jaw remains stubbornly locked, his teeth grinding helplessly, sending sparks of pain all the way up to his skull.
"Won't work" Another voice steps in, masculine, authoritative. Still, Lambert manages to lose some of the juicy bits of the conversation, his constricted wrists burning and hurting, blood running down his fingers in prickling rivulets. He barely registers the bite of dimeritium and, fuck, whoever might have suggested them that a witcher is affected by dimeritium should absolutely go and drown in a ditch. He has very scant recollection of what had happened after he and Jaskier had taken the little girl back to her village, safe and sound, fast asleep on the bard's shoulder, save for the fact that the villagers looked – not openly hostile, no, but more than just a little odd. Lambert had dismissed the somber atmosphere blaming it on the fact that his witcherness was supposed to set everyone's teeth on edge. It tends to happen when you're a mutant living in a world of prudish arseholes that burn elves at the godsdamned stake just because they've got pointy ears and sharp cheekbones. With a sigh - or at least the closest thing resembling a sigh that he can produce - he realizes he shouldn't have brushed it off as a minor inconvenience. A groan escapes his lips, luckily getting past the ears of the bystanders without letting them know he isn't out cold, unlike Jaskier, who’s lying face-down next to him, his head turned so that Lambert can only see the thick bush of his hair, sticking out in every direction.
A good old spiked meal. What a classic. It's almost boring, if Lambert has to be honest. A mixture of the right herbs, a sprinkle of grated dimeritium, and even a witcher can be incapacitated fairly easily, provided that someone knows which poisons can affect a mutant.
"...the bard...still breathing?"
Fuck, Jaskier. Sure, dimeritium can't hurt a human, but what about the other poisons? Not every monster likes to eat living prey. Coming back to the village, he doesn't remember having smelled any sort of monster, let alone a hag or a wraith, so it's difficult to determine whether they're supposed to be left in the woods alive or dead. The girl was alive, for instance, if that could be of any indication. Still, if he pulls out of this outrageous situation with all of his limbs still attached to his body and Jaskier doesn't, these fuckers, these superstitious bastards will need more than the mercy of their putrid gods to crawl away alive, that he can fucking swear.
And Jaskier, oh boy. If they both make it out alive, he is going to kick the bard in the ass so hard his tailbone will definitely say a polite hello to his vocal chords.
"Let's drag them in the forest, but stay clear from the shrine."
Lambert grits his teeth when calloused, rough hands grip him by the shoulders and roll his dead weight around, jostling his left shoulder badly, the bone screeching in the socket, grinding painfully. He's not sure when or how he has bruised his shoulder but, at this point, whatever. He's succumbing fast to the dimeritium and the toxic concoction running in his veins, his blood turned into a thick sludge and his head increasingly lighter, lighter, while his eyelids get heavier by the minute. He fights against the unwelcome darkness but, ultimately, it is of no use; he passes out while being hauled on a cart rather unceremoniously, by someone whose breath smells distinctly of turnips and garlic.
***
Rousing to the panicked sound of Jaskier's voice, with his hands chained to a fucking tree and the bite of dimeritium gnawing the flesh of his mangled wrists, the pain making him suddenly alert and ready, isn't exactly ideal to ease Lambert's moods.
His pupils, though slow to adjust to the light, react fast enough he can assess the situation or guess how deep in shit they are swimming. Needless to say, they're swimming in high shits.
"Oh thanks Melitele, you're awake! I was beginning to worry, and seriously so!"
Jaskier's voice rings in Lambert's ears like the high-pitched screaming of a thousand city bells, but as much as he would like to rip his throat out to shut him up, he's so relieved the bard is alive he could veritably throw his constricted arms around him and kiss him until they both pass out.
It happened once.
With a groan, Lambert tries to sit upright, yet his blood slushes around his brain so suddenly he feels dizzy. Fucking dimeritium.
"The next time you ask me to save a girl lost in the forest," he growls, but without any real bite, "I'll leave you to the wolves."
Jaskier scoffs, his delicate chin brushing against the threadbare silk of his flamboyant doublet, now dirty and frayed due to all the manhandling.
"The next time I insist on saving anybody , you have to put me down like a lame horse," he agrees, a groan escaping his dry lips too. "Now-" His neck pops and he sighs. "What the fuck are we going to do?"
Dying, probably , Lambert thinks. Unlike his usual character, though, he keeps it to himself. Despite not wanting to show it, Jaskier looks worried enough to panic and experience has taught Lambert that a panicking Jaskier is not only a general mess but a danger to himself – mostly. He's not a twat, sure, having been on the road so many years - the vast majority spent at Geralt's side, moreover - has made him fairly competent but.
But.
His ability to manage panic is astoundingly lacking.
If he wasn’t bound, Lambert would be probably pinching the bridge of his nose until he breaks the skin, his mind racing a mile a minute to find a solution that would allow both of them to walk out of the forest on their own two feet.
Observation skills make the man on the Path, Lambert distinctly remembers Vesemir saying something on the matter so many years ago he has had no recollection of it until now. Still, the old crone’s advice sounds about right in his brain, given their current situation, so he forces himself to strain his sight and take a good old look around, at least to determine what kind of beast could require a grown-ass man and a witcher as a sacrifice in replacement for a local girl who might as well have been younger than twelve. The woods are dark, Jaskier isn’t stopping blabbering about how dark and cold the place is.
Haunted.
As silent as a fucking graveyard during a vigil.
A shiver runs down Lambert’s spine.
Silence and shadows as thick as curdled milk can only mean one thing, and if Lambert does still have his wits in place it does look beyond fucking grim. He releases a quiet but terrible frustrated growl. Funnily enough, that’s what shuts Jaskier up for good.
“Bardling,” he voices in a whisper, the lovely nickname he has given Jaskier coming out of his throat strangled and muted. “Are you in chains or tied with a rope? I hope it’s a fucking rope, or else…well, fuck, there’s no sugar-coating it. If you can’t help me with my chains, we’re done for good.”
He doesn’t need to look Jaskier in the eyes to see how frightened the sole idea makes him. The loud clicking of his bobbing Adam’s apple is enough.
“It’s…rope,” he states, making an effort to sound less terrified than he is. Stupid bard with his stupid pride. Stupid bard who is always out there to do the right thing.
Oh but that’s exactly why he is your bard now, isn’t it? His good heart, a malicious voice in the back of Lambert’s head utters, mocking and malignant. The voice of his fears, his self-doubt, his useless and counterproductive abandonment issues. The very same voice that’s usually whispering to him how a human’s life is fleeting and fragile, suggesting him to dump Jaskier before the weakling human can wither and die or, even better, get killed while Lambert is looking away for a moment, leaving the umpteenth gaping hole in his already broken heart.
Death surrounds him like the dense shadows closing in. It’s a witcher’s fate to breathe, drink, bathe in death, he fucking makes a living out of death, but having to witness Jaskier’s demise? He’s not sure he could stomach it. Might as well dig a fucking ditch and go die in it.
“Lambert?” Jaskier calls, finally breaking the spell chaining him to his spiraling thoughts. He swallows compulsively before answering, and it feels like gulping down mouthfuls of sand mixed with shards of glass.
“Rope, fuck, good. Can you free your hands?”
“Uh. Tricky question. Will we die if I don’t?”
Lambert snorts, rolling his eyes.
“Most definitely.”
Another loud click, this time followed by a colorful curse uttered out in the fanciest way possible. Now Lambert remembers why he wanted to see poets hang when he was fresh out on the Path, suffering through crowds of minstrels on his first trip to Novigrad.
“Then I can,” he states. Only to go back on his words a handful of seconds later, when he adds “try” to the sentence.
I can try.
Oh, they’re going to be so, so, so fucked.
***
“Are you done bardling? We don’t have much time left.”
Actually, they have no time left, the stirring Lambert has felt in the heart of the forest and the howling of wargs and wolves that has followed it can leave only so much to imagination. The leshen is close, and dangerously so. And he hasn’t even told Jaskier yet that they’re about to face a fucking leshen, probably an ancient one, a very pissed-off relic with the power to tear a man to shreds with a simple flicker of its wooden fingers.
Panic is the enemy of logic, he can’t help but think, straining to keep an eye on Jaskier while simultaneously getting ready for a fight, though his silver sword is gone and he’s only got his steel on himself, plus some daggers hidden away in his boots and breeches. He’d prefer not to engage with a leshen without the right blade and his elixirs, but he won’t chicken away if needed. And by needed he means if Jaskier’s life is seriously threatened, otherwise it would be plain suicidal to attack a leshen and expect to get out of the fight without needing any assitance. Unlike more common monsters, leshy are truly dangerous, having slayed many a good witcher since the creation of the Order. Angry, powerful, cunning, sentient in their own way; they can conjure up complex strategies and it’s difficult to tire them out. It’s even entirely possible that a witcher in his prime would get tired before the wooden assholes do, for what Lambert knows. Alas, his knowledge of the subject is primarily theoretical. He has fought only a couple of leshy and made it out alive by a hair’s breadth. Back when Kaer Morhen housed more than just five witchers in winter, some of them had managed to die without encountering one once. Lucky bastards.
“Nope, not yet. Halfway through it, though. Fuckers did really know their knots,” Jaskier huffs, sweat beading his brow and making his heinously cut hair hang in rat tails in front of his eyes. A nervous giggle dances on the brink of his lips, but Lambert doesn’t share the same coping mechanism. His own lips are pursed in a tight line, stark white against his rough stubble, aching where he has sunk his teeth deep in the flesh to suppress an angry roar.
Heads will roll, that’s for sure. Provided that the leshen doesn’t make a nice skewer out of his bloody carcass before he’s got the chance to walk back to the village and carry out his murderous intent.
Speaking of which.
“Do you mind speeding up the process a bit? I’m dramatically under equipped for such a fight,” he urges through clenched teeth, faking a smile so ugly it would put Eskel’s terrible glare to shame.
Jaskier stops squirming like a stranded eel for a moment, making a weird sound in his nose and then casting an apologetic, miserable glance towards him.
“Would it be a bad moment to say that I’ve got to pee?”
The question catches Lambert off-guard, being so badly paced timewise and completely out of context, nonsensical, utterly anticlimactic. He doesn’t know why - and he doesn’t like to - but he bursts out laughing, keeping his bawling low in a vain attempt to go unnoticed by the leshen that is undoubtedly approaching, as elusive and silent as piss-old creatures can be.
“Fuck you, Jaskier, and here I thought you were going to drop something more meaningful since we’ll probably get slaughtered soon,” he cackles, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. Fuck it, at least he’s going to die a merry lad. Not many witchers can claim the same.
Well, dead people can’t claim shit, for one.
“Happy that I’ve offered a note of distraction,” the bard says, straining against the rope fastened tight around his wrists. If he tilts his head to an uncomfortable degree, Lambert can catch a glimpse of Jaskier’s slender, veiny wrists rubbing together, his left hand almost free. “But may I ask,” he resumes after a moment, his mannerisms as courtly as ever, “to what or whom are we supposed to be sacrificed to? This doesn’t seem hag territory, does it not? And I can’t see how a hag can be beneficial to an entire village to the point of-” A small oof escapes his lips. Still mildly amused, Lambert frowns and, much to his dismay, the bard’s hands are still bound. Based on his very, very approximative calculations, the leshen is going to be at their throat very fucking soon, and if he doesn’t come up with a plan b they’re screwed, plain and simple. Probably, he thinks with a grim smile, we’re fucked anyway.
“Not a hag,” he replies, as matter-of-factly as the situation allows. What a pleasant surprise it has been, at the beginning of their journey together, to find out that Jaskier wasn’t as ignorant as he professed himself to be regarding monsters. Although giving scant and embellished versions of creatures and the many ways to dispose of them in his ballads, the bardling has been an attentive observer during his time with Geralt, or so Lambert thinks, because he is fairly competent when it comes to monsters, at least when the beasts are common enough to be easily found anywhere. Regardless, he doubts that the poor bardling has ever heard about leshy. He hasn’t asked. Discussing monsters is, by no means, their preferred activity when they unfurl their bedrolls together at night.
“I guessed as much. So? What might the mighty beast be? Please, do not name a draconid. I’m not particularly fond of draconids, and I’ve got good reasons.”
Lambert sighs, trying to brush off the umpteenth wave of dimeritium-induced nausea that’s making bile crawl up to his throat.
“Draconids do not usually nest where they cannot even land, Jaskier. It’s a leshen. Three times more dangerous and particularly territorial.”
There’s a long beat of eerie silence in which Jaskier’s complexion, already pale and rather sickly, starts steering towards the ashen pallor Lambert has only witnessed while examining corpses before a hunt. Even an idiot could say that’s far from good. Almost without realizing it, Lambert draws in a sharp breath and keeps the air down in his lungs as he waits for Jaskier to resume his frantic attempts at getting free or fainting while trying; he cannot imagine anything in between.
The bardling is full of surprises, though. After his initial shock, he doubles his efforts, his breath coming out in fractured gasps. Another panicky giggle makes his chest quiver and tremble like a stunted stalk of barley in the wind.
“Aren’t leshy those angry, murderous trees that protect old forests and are often mistaken for benevolent spirits?”
There’s nothing to say except that Jaskier has done his homework nicely.
“Precisely.”
“And you’ve got no silver blade on you.”
“No.”
“Right. The next time I’m in the mood for saving someone, put me out of my misery for good, Lambert. Please. Like a lame horse, remember?”
An almost undetectable movement in the underbrush catches Lambert’s eye. A single raven, as black and glossy as the unnatural shadows enveloping the woods, takes flight from a low branch, cawing. Its dead, black eyes carry the mark of the leshen. Oh, the fucker has sent a scout ahead. Ingenious.
“Won’t need to do that, bardling. The leshen is going to put us both out of our misery.”
Less than a couple of years ago, Lambert wouldn’t have minded that too much. He has never put himself into harm’s way deliberately, of course, but neither has he been overly cautious when it came to his own well-being. He doesn’t lack self-preservation instincts, nor does he have a death wish, but before meeting Jaskier he only had himself to worry about. His own fucking arse and mug. Now that Jaskier is traveling with him, he’s not sure he wants to be as reckless and careless as he was. The small changes he’s doing to adjust to Jaskier’s rhythm are unnerving sometimes, and it bugs him to no end to realize he may have caught bloody feelings for him along the way, but that’s how things are, and it’s not exactly the right moment to start philosophizing about the many buts and ifs of his relationship with Jaskier, not with a leshen breathing on their necks.
“Ah-a!” Jaskier shouts after another moment, a little too enthusiastically not to catch the leshen’s attention. Lambert is still surveying the forest, hoping to see a branch move so he can determine where the creature might be lurking, but the cold stillness that has descended after the raven’s appearance seems to be, yet again, completely unperturbed. He mutters a curse under his breath. At least Jaskier has managed to free himself, and he’s massaging some circulation back in his aching wrists, the cuff of his shirt torn and ruined where the rope has chafed against the thin silk. Years on the road and Jaskier has never learned to dress accordingly. Lambert strongly suspects he never will, but that’s one of those many things he loves about him. There’s no time to compliment the bard for his amazing composure, though.
“Quick, pick the lock of my chains. It looks rusty enough it could crumble with so much as a raspberry blown towards it, but the manacles are made of dimeritium.”
Jaskier ponders for a moment before fishing one of his smallest daggers out of his own boot and starting working on the lock, his lockpicking skills clearly unpracticed but still useful, especially against such a weak and rust-eaten thing. Anyway, Lambert keeps his hopes low until he hears the faint click of the lock giving way under the tip of Jaskier’s blade and the bardling erupting in a triumphant “For fucks’ sake, I did it” which doesn’t really fix their current predicament but still – achieving something small is always better than achieving nothing at all. Or so Vesemir used to say.
Things start going downhill pretty fast from there. They’ve barely got the time for a quick kiss to celebrate the fact that they haven’t been impaled yet and to take a quick survey to each other’s damages. Neither of them are faring well, both still affected by the toxic concoctions they’ve been fed and the blows they have received while unconscious, something that makes Lambert’s boil with fury - because, come on, he might not be a man of strong principles but hitting someone when they’re passed out? That’s not just blatant disrespect but cowardice, and that kind of cowardice is something Lambert can’t fucking stand -, and appallingly short on bladed weapons that would be useful against a leshen. His fucking silver sword, for instance. Lambert is ready to swear to the gods themselves he’ll find whoever has dared stripping his precious blade from its sheath and stick that very sword so high up the culprit’s arse it’ll stick out of their nose like a lovely Belleteyn decoration. He manages to wrap Jaskier tight in his arms for a moment before spotting the leshen, now out in the open, ready to strike. He’s not particularly happy to manhandle Jaskier any further - the villagers have already fucked him up pretty good, having brused some of his ribs and probably punched him hard in the face given how swollen his right cheekbone is - but he’s got no other choice; he shoves the bard aside with a powerful push, eliciting a pained groan, right when a swarm of ravens gets launched into their direction, giving Lambert only a beat to try and cast a shaky Quen, the effects of dimeritium still keeping his Chaos out of immediate reach. Predictable as it might sound, his magical shield shatters long before the charge of beaks and sharp wings is done with him, talons and pointy feathers cutting deep into his face and neck, leaving weeping marks behind. Blood oozes on his chest, trickling inside his gambeson, right under his shirt.
Every witcher with a little bit of common sense to spare would grab Jaskier by the hand and make for a desperate run, but that could still result in a fucking debacle since leshy are almost impossible to outrun once someone has been spotted prying into their territory – they’re killing machines set on destroying their opponents by any means. What use would Lambert have for running? If things will turn for the worst, he decides while cutting a straight line of birds in a half, he’ll tell Jaskier to run, praying that the bardling would simply take his advice and save his hide. Not without a sarcastic sneer, Lambert thinks there are still two other witchers in Kaer Morhen who could make use of some company on the Path if he is to die today, and tries to picture Jaskier sitting by the fire and reading with Eskel or sparring with Coën on a quiet summer afternoon while waiting for the wargs to charge.
Wargs.
He hates wargs. And yet, the bloody beasts follow leshy around wherever the accursed angry trees are. Disposing of them means that the leshen will be twice as enraged once it engages in person, still Lambert can’t do much besides taking the beasts down if he doesn’t want to end up quartered. Blood sprays over his face. His steel makes quick work of soft bellies and furry necks in a mess of flashing teeth and blood-stained muzzles. On the edge of his hearing, he’s still able to hear Jaskier’s thumping heart as the bard, still a little fuzzy from having been tossed in the bushes like crumpled parchment, scrambles to his feet, looking for cover.
Clever little bardling.
Ignoring the stabbing pain in his shoulder and the burning of the cuts scattered all over the spots where his skin is exposed, Lambert braces for the real fight. If he pulls through, he’ll be entitled to say he is a lucky son of a whore.
If he pulls through.
That remains to be seen.
The leshen’s attacks are brutal, powerful, tremendously fast and coming from every direction. Distracted by another swarm of attacking birds, Lambert falls for the creature's trick and a root spawned from under his feet lodges square into his thigh, penetrating his reinforced breeches and making him howl with pure and unadulterated pain. He’s got no elixir on him, no silver blade, not even the scrawny excuse for a bomb strapped to his gambeson. Every pocket has been meticulously searched and emptied, every vial stolen, the bombs probably tossed away. Lambert can only hope some asshole has lost an eye or some fingers while at it. Desperate times, however, call for desperate measures. Without bothering to check where Jaskier is hiding - which, according to his ears, isn’t far - Lambert shouts for him to run. The leshen is too hung up on Lambert to really pay attention to anything else, and Jaskier should be able to flee without getting bothered by the creature as long as Lambert is still writhing, trying to get rid of the root protruding from his flesh like a gruesome and strange appendage, some living prey to feast on. At the very least, Lambert counts on that to persuade himself that Jaskier’s attempt at running away would be successful.
Still, he hasn’t considered Jaskier’s flare for the dramatic and how much pride he takes in playing hero, which is why he almost jumps out of his skin when the bardling steps in, diverting the leshen’s attention on himself and buying him some time to break the root in a half and pull the stump out with a groan.
“Hey, tree! Yes you, big ugly tree! It’s two trespassers, not one! Come on, I know you want to skewer me too, don’t you?”
Lambert takes mental note to beat Jaskier senseless for his foolish and almost suicidal recklessness. Luckily for him, the leshen doesn’t seem much interested in defending his land from a bard, but rather concerned on how to neutralize a witcher. If it keeps striking true, Lambert won’t stand a chance, and Jaskier too: once disposed of one threat, the leshen would surely take care of the other accordingly. And Jaskier won’t even put up a real fight.
Maybe it’s the thought of Jaskier struggling helplessly against massive roots piercing through his body that propels Lambert’s muscles forward, allowing his fingers to contract in the all too familiar position to cast Igni. He’s feeling drowsy already, wobbly, even without having drawn any Chaos yet. Regardless, he summons all his might to cast a Igni so powerful it would set the whole forest ablaze if it wasn’t for the cold dampness making the bark of the centuries old trees nearly flame resistant. A single burst of Igni, though, isn’t enough to stop the leshen, but it’s more than useful to slow it down, its massive wooden body severely damaged by the scorching fire. Lambert is fatigued, weary, bleeding from various spots and ready to jump at the throat of whatever being would dare standing between him and getting back to the village to sever heads and chuck eyes out with his bare hands. The leshen is broken and relentless, a wounded animal set on a murderous intent.
Let’s see who tires first, angry tree.
Lambert shoots the leshen a threatening smile. One last charge and one of them will drop dead. He adjusts his steel sword to a flexible position and takes a deep breath, his muscles - those that aren’t torn already, at least - ready to leap.
***
The fire dances merrily in the hastily put together bonfire. It’s the heart of summer and the night is stuffy enough, but there are still a couple of hares cooking and Lambert would be more than just content to fill his stomach with another skewered rodent, the succulent meat well seasoned with dried herbs and juniper, only slightly drizzled with vodka to give it a nice twist. Hands down, Lambert never fails to eat like a bloody king when Eskel is around. He and Jaskier have fortuitously bumped into him in a tavern southwest and they’re enjoying some days together before parting again, Eskel bound south and Lambert and his bard north, towards Redania and the lucrative contracts waiting for him while Jaskier performs in the many taverns facing the Pontar, his fame earning him some well-deserved coin and a modicum of respect as a storyteller.
Unafraid of getting burnt, Eskel pinches the meat of one hare and nods, satisfied. Jaskier, his head in Lambert’s lap, strums on the strings of his lute, occasionally muttering a word and testing if it rhymes.
“I’m curious, Lambert,” Eskel muses after a moment. His eyes gleam gold and amber in the dim light cast by the flames and there’s a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his ruined mouth. “How is it that you always say your luck is rotten and you come out unscathed by a fight with a leshen where you didn’t even have your silver blade on you? I should be the one complaining. Look,” he grunts, quickly unfastening the clasps of his gambeson and showing Lambert and Jaskier a puckered, angry red scar near his shoulder, the skin still paper-thin and smooth, indicating a recent recovery. “A fucking arachas. That’s rotten luck, considering that nobody was there to stitch me back lovingly.”
Lambert pulls a face. Unlike him, Jaskier gloats.
“First of all, fuck you. And, second, I spent three days half delirious with fever afterwards, thank you. Jaskier has yet to grasp the concept of brewing elixirs,” he adds, faking indignance. The gloating asshole, however, doesn’t stop gloating and smiling at Eskel with heart eyes. Lambert snorts.
By the looks of it, the hares are ready. Lambert watches as Eskel takes them off the fire with his bare hands, placing each hare neatly in their bowls and serving them both some more cooled tuber stew from the pot. Despite being already full, Jaskier too can’t resist a bite.
“What about the villagers?” Eskel doesn’t refrain himself from asking, not without any apprehension.
Yeah, good question.
Lambert sighs and shrugs. Many have met their end at the tip of his sword. The world won’t miss them anyway. Besides, he has got his silver blade back and that’s what really counts, because silver blades with a meteorite core for durability and stability handcrafted in Mahakam by the finest master blacksmiths are fucking expensive, and they keep getting more and more expensive with each passing year.
“I did what I had to do,” he chooses to answer after having taken his sweet time, feeding Jaskier some hare meat in the meantime. He doesn’t miss the slight reproach in Eskel’s golden stare, but he doesn’t feel ashamed, he could never feel ashamed for that. This is no Blaviken incident, and whatever will be said on the matter won’t stain witchers’ reputation any more than it already is. It’s just a drop in the fucking ocean. Lambert won’t fucking say he’s sorry for having killed a bunch of mad wankers feeding little girls to a leshen to grant themselves free crossing in and out of the infested forest.
“I hope you’ve been discreet,” Eskel sighs, ripping a leg off his hare and dipping it into the thick sauce of the stew. Again, Lambert shrugs. Discreet or not, it won’t make any difference.
“I’m alive and I’ve got my sword back. And I’m not going around announcing I’ve killed some assholes that sent people to die in the woods. But enough of that. I killed a leshen. Vesemir will have to throw a fucking party in my honor once I’m back to the keep for winter. What about you? Anything interesting happened so far?”
Eskel chuckles bitterly, dissipating the gloom that had fallen on the three of them while reminiscing about the fate of the villagers that had condemned Lambert and Jaskier to a violent and most definitely early death just because they had brought a girl back home from the frightening forest. He gestures towards Lambert’s pack, his hand outstretched and his lovely smile back in place.
“You got any vodka? Because I shall tell you how a griffin has almost managed to deprive me of half of my ass and, believe me, it’s a tale that requires at least a sip!”
Lambert hands him a bottle. His own tale required a fucking whole wine cellar, for what it’s worth. But it’s nice to be alive, like this, with Eskel sprawled by the fire and Jaskier resting his head against him, his lute now all but forgotten. He breathes in the comforting scent of the night, of his family around him, and closes his eyes as Eskel starts telling his tale. All in all and despite all the odds, he is grateful for being alive.
But there won’t be a fucking next time, he thinks, casting Jaskier a meaningful glance. As if on cue, the bard mouths an imperceptible “No more doing the right thing” and, shit, Lambert couldn’t agree more.