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It had been a hard year for Geralt to say the least.
It was only his third year alone on the path and the roads of the Continent had not treated the young witcher well. Most of the year he spent with little coin to his name, being cheated out of more contracts than he would like to admit, and being left to camp in the rain on more than one occasion.
Of course this shouldn’t be a problem for a witcher. They had been trained for this since childhood, the world was cruel but thus is life. He was built for endurance as were his fellow Wolves. They were the few to survive the trials after all.
This however did not take into account that witchers, despite common misconceptions, could feel emotion. And feel it Geralt did. The mutagens and intense training went into helping with control- losing your head in combat could be life or death. One ill advised move driven by the heart could cost a witcher their life. Thus the rumors spread.
But what humans as a whole failed to consider is that, despite their reputation being akin to the monsters they slayed, witchers held onto more of their humanity then they would have liked to admit. Geralt had felt this acutely since he set out as Spring broke at the beginning of the year. The young witcher would rather deal with a dozen Bruxa than to vocalize it, but he was cripplingly homesick.
It was ridiculous really. Who would be yearning to return to the place that stole any chance at a normal life from him. The place where he and generations of other boys had been subjected to horrors no average human could ever imagine.
And yet there was Geralt, half asleep on his beloved horse Roach, trudging up the side of the mountain leading to Kaer Morhen. He didn’t have much in the way of belongings, aside from many a new scar to show for his efforts out on the path. His armor was worn, his swords dulled. The young witcher had a stern talking to coming from Vesemir later, Geralt was sure of it.
But who was to blame him? Geralt looked ready to keel over of his own volition at even the slightest breeze. He just had to focus on making it home. That’s all that mattered now.
Geralt carded his fingers through Roach’s mane in a vain attempt to stave off the exhaustion clawing at the backs of his eyes. He took to plaiting small sections, focusing on the pattern of over under over under, the coarse hair soothing under the pads of his fingers.
“Almost there Roach,” his voice rumbling in his chest into the icy winter air, “We’ve almost made it, we are almost home.”
This assurance was as much for Geralt as it was for his mare. Roach gave a reassuring snort and tossed her head a bit, her hooves heavy on the gravel path covered in the first snowfall of winter. The year hadn’t been kind to her either, she sported a few new nicks and scars of her own.
“We’ll get you in the nice warm stable,” continued Geralt, rambling becoming incoherent, “Vesemir will have got it ready, or Eskel, or Lambert…”
Geralt hummed as he was reminded again of the rest of the Wolves. Leaving them was always the hardest part of the path. Of course there was always the chance of running into one another on the road, but it wasn’t smart to travel together long term. Coin sparse as it was, better to go it alone.
Despite this and much to Geralt’s chagrin, he found himself hoping he’d run into one of his own on his travels. On a path of silence and solitude, one longs for the company of a brother, a hearty laugh, and good ale.
It made Geralt feel weak. This wasn’t what he was in the world to do. Witchers must be strong, never letting feelings push their way before the task at hand. This was drilled into him at a young age and he took it to heart. If he was to be a witcher he would be the best there was. Witchers didn’t need attachments. A witcher only needed himself. He repeated these words to himself as a young boy in training, and he recited them all these years later.
He would never admit that he found himself on the coldest nights, wrapping his arms around himself and pretending they were the arms of one of his pack.
Roach snorted and stamped a hoof shaking Geralt from the brink of sleep. He looked up from under his hood, fluffy snowflakes catching on his eyelashes.
The gates of Kaer Morhen loomed before the pair, drawbridge lowered to welcome the pack home to their den. Even from this distance, Geralt could hear the merriment from inside the walls of the keep. Raucous laughter echoed warmly from behind cold stone, beckoning Geralt like a siren’s song.
As if she could read his mind, Roach upped her pace as much as she could manage.
“Atta girl, ” Geralt lovingly patted her neck, brushing away stubborn snowflakes.
As the pair passed under the outer walls of Kaer Morhen Geralt let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He dismounted Roach in the courtyard and as his boots hit the ground he took a deep breath in, letting himself become reacquainted with the familiar smells of the keep. The stinging chill of the snow, leather, mead, a roaring fire.
Yes, this was right.
Geralt was home.
There was no doubt in his mind that he was the last Wolf back. It had been well into the beginnings of winter when he started making the trek up North, and he’d been half way across the Continent. A rookie mistake, one he would not be repeating.
Geralt’s ear twitched as he heard the thumping of footfalls down cobblestone stairs. He turned his head, heavy on his shoulders, to see Eskel careening down the steps hurtling towards him.
“Geralt!”
Before he could react Geralt was crushed into an embrace, lifted off the ground with the force of the greeting.
“I knew it was you! Took your sweet old time,” Eskel held Geralt by the shoulders and beamed, “I’ve been waiting for days!”
Geralt chuckled weakly, “It’s good to see you too.”
It was Geralt’s turn to pull Eskel into a firm hug, not nearly as explosive, but warm and safe. He nuzzled his head into the crook of Eskel’s neck and the other witcher did the same. Sometimes Geralt forgot how much bigger Eskel had gotten in comparison, his frame solid and built, if only slightly taller. He breathed in deeply.
Smoke and sandalwood.
They remained entwined, neither wanting to break the embrace after being apart for so long. As always, it was never certain if your fellow Wolf would make it through the year. The relief was palpable as they allowed themselves to breathe. They were both alive, they had both survived the year. Finally Eskel chuckled and patted the white haired witcher on the back, giving Geralt the once over.
“You look like hell, wolf,” Eskel grabbed Roach’s reins, “Come on, let's get small fry over here all set up in the stable, don’t want you freezing more than you already have.”
Roach snorted indignantly at the nickname, but allowed Eskel to lead her to the stables and board her next to his stallion. All the while Geralt trailed behind teetering on legs made of jelly. He found himself staring into the middle distance, unable to muster up the energy to really focus on anything.
Eskel looked back at Geralt and scrunched up his brow in his usual endearing way, unable to keep his emotions from playing on his face. It was the same when they were boys, truly an open book. Maybe that's why humans took to him so well.
“The path really did a number on ya didn’t it?”
Geralt scoffed, “Understatement of the century. Is it that obvious?”
“Obvious? It looks like you haven’t slept in weeks,” the larger witcher put his hand gently on Geralt’s back and led him out of the stable, “Let’s get you to the dining hall, Vesemir’s made a roast. It’s not too late to snag some before Lambert’s eaten it all, the bastard.”
“I don't know,” joked Geralt with a glint in his eye. “If I know you at all, you finished off the roast long ago and are blaming Lamb to cover your tracks.”
This earned Geralt a playful cuff on the ear and a sound of indignation from Eskel.
“Those are some serious accusations there wolf. Now, why would I deprive my favourite brother a hot meal after crawling out of what looks like the clutches of Voleth Meir herself?” Eskel chidded, but barked out a laugh and walked them out into the frostbitten air of the courtyard.
Geralt let himself be guided up the well worn stairs he knew by heart, through the great halls of the keep, following the rolling laughter and scent of a hearty meal. Geralt took in what he could of the dining hall as he entered. The air was thick with roast and firewood. A warm orange haze lay over the pack of witchers as they joked and swapped stories of the past year. Vesemir noticed the pair first and called out to them.
“Took your sweet time in returning!” the older witcher grunted as he stood up and walked over to Geralt, holding him in a firm embrace, “Glad to see you made it back mostly in one piece.”
Geralt hummed contentedly, comfort washing over him in waves.
“One piece is being generous. You look a bloody mess!” came Lambert’s bark from the long table, the slight slur of his words betraying how many White Gulls he’d had already. This earned him a shove from Coën that almost knocked the fiery haired witcher from his seat. Vesemir flashed him a warning look.
“Keep that up Lamb and you’re sober for the next two weeks.”
The rest of the table burst with laughter, Lambert scoffed and went back to his Gull.
Vesemir rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the White Wolf, placing a hand warmly on his shoulder, “It’s good to have you back, pup.”
And all at once Geralt felt as if he was a young boy again, trudging into the dinner hall after a long day of training. His muscles aching for rest, but a warm meal and a crackling fire promised at the end of the day. He was safe, his pack was safe, they were all together. Nothing could ever hurt them in Kaer Morhen.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of comfortable conversation and familiarity. Many tales were told, some true, some largely exaggerated. Playful shoves, a slap on the back, roaring laughter. Words fell few and slow from Geralt, allowing himself to be wrapped in the sounds of his fellow witchers’ friendly banter and comfortable conversation.
A little ways into dinner as the rest of the Wolves were talking amongst themselves, Geralt felt three taps to his shoulder from his right and turned to see Eskel peering down at him, a slight look of concern on his kind face.
“Everything right as rain?” he asked softly as not to draw too much attention, “You’re rather stoic tonight.”
Geralt let out a chuckle and hummed contentedly, “Just listening, happy to be here.”
Of course there were moments when Geralt went silent for more serious reasons, and Eskel knew that. There were many times that Eskel had saved his sorry arse when the world felt too much and his words dried up on his tongue. The witcher just had an eye for reading people, and always did his best to help where he could whether it be coming up with some excuse to let Geralt slip away or finding a way to ground him.
This time, though, Geralt was fully content with watching and listening. Just the company of the other Wolves was enough, the sounds and smells proving to him that this was real, he was here, he was safe. He took a swig of his White Gull, reveling in the fuzzy warmth pooling in his legs. His head was heavy on his shoulders, whether from exhaustion or the Gull was anyone's guess, and he found himself laying his head on the worn oak of the table.
Geralt felt a calloused hand rest on his back and rub circles in between his shoulder blades, slow methodical movements easing the tension in his aching bones. The man sighed and melted into the touch, sleep heavy behind his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to stay in this moment forever just like this. If only he could stop the world from turning, the clock from ticking.
After a while of dozing, drinking in the company he had so desired alone on the path, he felt another hand gently shake him awake.
“Hey, wolf,” came Vesemir’s gravelly tones. “Most everyone’s headed to bed, and you’re on your way out by the looks of it.”
Geralt hid his face in his arms and groaned in protest. He had spent enough time with only himself for company on the path. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to his room alone in the cold keep.
Vesemir let out a defeated sigh. The old witcher knew there was no budging a sleeping wolf, especially one as stubborn as Geralt could get.
“Fine,” the old wolf conceded. “You win. But for gods’ sake you're not sleeping at the table all night.”
Geralt could hear Vesemir shuffle out of the room and return moments later, dropping what sounded like furs over by the hearth. He then walked over to the other side of the table, where Geralt could hear Lambert quietly snoring.
“Eskel, can you manage with Geralt while I deal with this overgrown pup?” Vesemir tried rousing the younger witcher and met with similar protests. Eskel gave a musical laugh and moved to stand.
“Don’t worry pops, I’ve dealt with much worse than this menace.” and with that, Eskel hoisted Geralt into his arms. Geralt felt weightless, curling himself into the witcher’s chest. He knew Eskel was strong but he was constantly surprised by the wolf’s abilities.
Eskel walked them both over to the fireplace and placed Geralt down on a pile of furs warmed by the hearth. The White Wolf carded his fingers through the soft blankets, relishing in the lovely sensation. He cracked an eye open to see Vesemir leading a stumbling Lambert over to join them, helping the witcher down onto the makeshift bed.
Eskel shifted himself and pulled Geralt so his head was resting on his chest, the thundering of Eskel’s slow heartbeat in rhythm with his breathing. Lambert flopped himself on top of the two, resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder, letting out a deep sigh.
Vesemir chuckled, then the sound of a chair being pulled up by the fire, and the satisfied groan of an old man reuniting with his armchair.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you, pups.” He chided playfully, the sound of a book opening, pages flipping softly.
The fire crackled playfully behind them as the wolves snuggled together, basking in each other’s company. This was not something they ever discussed, never something they asked for, it just seemed a natural state for the wolves. Be it the mutations or the bonds they had made with each other, no one was sure, but it happened nonetheless.
Lambert shifted in his sleep, curling in closer to Geralt. He could be an arse on the best of days, but asleep he was tolerable. Despite the nagging and his persistence to make a pest of himself, Geralt couldn’t help but see Lambert as a younger brother. He was the youngest of the wolves after all, the last to undergo the mutations. Even Geralt could cut him a bit of slack.
As the edges of sleep pushed at the corners of his eyes, he heard the low growl of Vesemir humming a tune to himself as he read. It was one Geralt had heard often growing up, a rather old folk song sung in Elder.
“'My gallant lad is my hero,
He's my hero, gallant lad,
I found neither sleep nor happiness
since my gallant lad went far away.”
Vesemir’s gravely voice faded in and out, singing some words, omitting others. It danced around the room all the same, carrying the wolves into a well deserved slumber. For a time, the most they would have to worry about would be getting their chores done on time and training with one another. No monsters, no angry humans, just the pack.
Yes, thought Geralt, giving in to the embrace of sleep, this is right.
I am home.