Work Text:
The Way Home
It is late autumn when Geralt starts trekking up the Blue Mountains. The trees are colored in red and oranges, every now and then a leaf is caught by the wind and glides to the ground. It is a sight Geralt barely gets to enjoy. Usually he is one of the last wolves to make his way to Kaer Morhen, his second mutations having left him much more resilient against the kaedweni cold and the many obstacles of the Killer.
The last part of the trek up to the keep is always the hardest. No matter the season or the state a witcher is in, when he makes his way through the dense forest. The prospects of home, of safety and rest, settles into a witcher's bones eventually. The first couple of days home are meant for resting, catching up on the deep sleep they can't allow themselves on the Path. It turns their mind sluggish and their movements slow, the further up they make it.
The past year hasn't been kind to Geralt, misfortune and hostility following wherever he went. At some point it had gotten so bad that Geralt sought out several mages to look for a curse. They found nothing, of course and he felt stupid for his superstitious thoughts. Bad years happened to all of them, there was nothing he could do about it.
Still, the year has taken it's toll on the witcher. Geralt is way thinner than he's supposed to be. For months he hasn't gotten enough food or rest for his fast metabolism, leaving his stomach flat and his hipbones poking uncomfortably against his belt. He's grown a shaggy beard to hide his too sharp cheekbones, but he knows that it will hardly be enough to fool any of his pack mates. If they don't recognize his bad attempt to cover his face, they will know by the purple shadows under his eyes or the matting in his hair. Melitele above, even Nikolai would instantly know how bad he's at, just by smelling Geralt. Under the stench of dirt, horse and wet dog, he can smell his own exhaustion and the anxiety constantly looming in the back of his mind. He smells sick.
The three day trip takes him almost a week, not only because of his own exhaustion, but also because Roach – a new Roach – has never walked the uneven terrain before and needs a lot of gentle convincing for some parts of the trek. She's much younger than the horses he usually buys. With only six years of age she is still very inexperienced, but her body is strong and she has proven herself a quick and willing trainee.
Despite their slow pace she handles the Killer way better than most horses, a promising sign for the future.
Someone must've spotted him between the tree lines. Even before he can see them, Geralt can sense some of the wolves' presence. They are there when he finally rides around the last corner and towards the keep. Remus and Lambert are waiting for him on the draw bridge, worried noises carrying over as soon as they catch a glimpse of his hunched over figure.
The two wolves immediately hurry towards him, Lambert takes hold of Roach's reigns and wills her to stop, while Remus is there to catch him, when Geralt falls into the older witcher's open arms. He lets out a pitiful whine and is quickly shushed by Remus.
“It's alright now, we've got you. You're okay now,” Remus reassures him gently. Strong hands wind around Geralt's waist and he's carefully picked up by the older wolf. Being one of the keep's biggest men, only three of his pack members can actually carry him around comfortably. It doesn't happen all too often and so Geralt all but melts into the embrace, desperate for Remus' warm touch and calming scent. A growl rings out and he knows that the other witcher must have realized that he's far too light.
Thankfully he doesn't mention it out loud, the way Lambert doesn't mention the unfamiliar Roach, the missing steel sword or the state of his armor. The past year hasn't been kind to Geralt, but he has made it home in one piece and that's all that really matters.
Lambert rushes ahead, leading Roach through the gates and into the keep. Geralt can hear the youngest pup howl for the other wolves, but he silently doubts that there's anyone home apart from Vesemir and Nikolai, who stay at Kaer Morhen all year long. While he currently wants nothing more than being surrounded by his whole pack, he knows that it's far too early for most of them to be back home. Even Remus' presence has been a complete surprise to him.
He must have made some sort of noise, because the other wolf is hushing him again, cold nose brushing against his temple in a soothing gesture. “We're nearly there, pup. It's okay, you're okay.”
Remus carries him into the hall next to the kitchen. Once a withdrawing room for the instructors it now functions as their common room. Two big hearths and the warmth from the kitchen, big tapestries on the walls and thick curtains in front of the tall glass windows turn the room into a perfect den for cold winter days. The grand hall, that has functioned as the wolves communal room before the siege, is far too big for the small pack, so as soon as the snow starts to pile up in the courtyard they bring the animals inside the grand hall and use it as a stable and training area.
He helps Geralt to sit down in front of the fire, back leaning against one of the divans, and starts to work on the straps and buckles of his armor. Geralt's eyes drop low as a heavy sigh escapes his chapped lips. He has made it home. He can rest now, surrounded by his pack and inside the heavy walls of Kaer Morhen. Here, no one will yell at him for being who he is. No one will throw rotten food in his direction or spit at his feet. His pack is here to protect him, to keep him safe, well fed and to protect him when he sleeps. His pack members love him and he loves them. They watch out for each other.
A hand cards through his matted hair, gently untangling one of the looser knots. He blinks and sees Remus staring at him with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, don't fall asleep yet, pretty boy. Stay awake, okay?” Geralt blinks, not really understanding why he has to, but he nods nonetheless, willing himself back into wakefulness. “There you go, that's better.”
He can suddenly hear footsteps hurrying towards them, a group of familiar heartbeats meeting his ears. Instinctively he can make out Vesemir and Lambert, but also Nikolai's slower heartbeat and Kacper's fluttering one. Geralt's eyes widen immediately and his head snaps up, eyes searching or the blond witcher. He can see Vesemir pulling his husband into the kitchen, probably – hopefully – to get something to eat or drink for him and then Kacper darts into the room. Within the blink of an eye he is kneeling at Geralt's side, helping Remus to undo the last of his armor with hurried movements.
Witchers don't cry. As a matter of fact they can't, but when Kacper's arms wrap around him in a hug he has craved for months, his chin starts to wobble and his shoulders shudder as shaking breaths and dry sobs make it past his throat. Kacper – who is next to Vesemir the most maternal of the wolves and has kind of taken over the role of their pack parent – coos at him softly, tightens his grip around Geralt and presses the younger witcher's nose against his throat so he can breathe in the familiar scent of his pack and home.
“Oh, my dear pup, it's okay, let it out, it's okay, you made it home.” Kacper slowly rocks their bodies back and forth, repeating simple phrases and quiet promises of safety. There is something special in the way Kacper hugs, always has been. Geralt doesn't know what exactly it is, that makes them so special. Maybe it's the way his fingers draw invisible circles on Geralt's back, maybe it's the reassuring calmness the blond witcher radiates, maybe it's the way he somehow always smells of their pack.
But even with Kacper hugging him it takes Geralt a while to calm down. Once he comes back to his senses he can feel the warmth of his pack surrounding him and relaxes into it. There's a nose rubbing against his temple, a tongue licking over his cheek and another one under his chin. Someone is kneading at his thigh and he vaguely wonders if Lambert has spend his year on the Path with that mysterious witcher he refuses to talk about.
Geralt sighs deeply and if it sounds more like a whining puppy, no one comments on it. The tongue that is licking at his cheek darts into his mouth, meets his own and circles it once, twice before licking against his gums and the inside of his cheeks. The wolf grumbles when the obvious health inspections stops, but is quickly chastised by Vesemir's low growl. “Food,” the oldest witcher speaks sternly, “Water, then a hot bath and sleep. In that order.”
As if summoned, Nikolai is next to him, holding out a bowl with broth from todays dinner. Geralt doesn't protest when Kacper leans back enough to give him space to eat, but he tries to chase after the warmth. In response Lambert and Remus join the embrace. Arms wrapped around his hips, the youngest wolf is halfway in his lap while Remus is leaning against his shoulders, offering a comforting weight to lean back against. A jug of fresh water is placed on the floor next to them and out the corner of his eyes, Geralt can see Vesemir and Nikolai sitting down on the divan closest to their little cuddle pile.
He greedily spoons up the broth, knowing that more will be waiting for him later. Part of his pack is with him and will keep him safe while they wait for the others to arrive. His year on the Path may have been a bad one, but he's home now and that's all that matters.