Work Text:
There’s a wet, squelching sound behind him, and Coën ducks on instinct, rolls, scrambles back to his feet and dashes off at a right angle. He can hear wood splinter, close enough that the shavings rain down on his head, and he lengthens his stride to put more distance between himself and the low, guttural moan that he can almost feel at the back of his neck.
He throws himself forward to escape it, doesn’t look back to check the distance. He keeps running until his lungs burn, until his legs threaten to give out, and even then he pushes himself forward for another couple of minutes by sheer force of will alone. Fuck. That was too close.
He stills and listens carefully, but there are no sounds that suggest his assailants have followed him. The forest around him is calm but not silent; birds twittering and trees rustling, a popping sound off in the underbrush speaking of animals unseen. The air smells clean, too; no stench of rot and decay. He has made it to safety, and the tension rushes from his body, leaving him gasping for air.
Once he has his breath back and his legs feel like they might cooperate once more, he scans his surroundings again. He’s near the eastern edge of the forest, judging by the way the trees are thinning out, fir and oak giving way to lighter birch. Not quite where he meant to go, but safe enough. He double-checks his pockets, because his retreat was much but not dignified, and who knows what he lost in his mad dash for safety.
Potions — check. Well, mostly. The Vial of Cat has a chink, not yet a danger of leaking potion everywhere, but enough that it won’t survive another escape like that. The cork of the Golden Oriole has come loose, and he pushes it back in decisively. Wouldn’t that be ironic; losing the very potion whose ingredients they’re short on while hunting for them? His heart does not speed up, but there is still a faint sliver of apprehension as he reaches for the pouch tied to his belt. It’s still there. Still there, and still filled, with two handfuls of Blowballs, just barely squished by the little container as close to unbreakable as they can make them. His hands do not shake as he carefully lifts the box out and pries it open, because Witchers do not have trembling hands, but the exhale of relief is undeniable when the vial inside is whole and gleaming slightly. All safe.
He palms his sword — only silver, for this excursion, no need to weigh himself down further — and then heaves himself to his feet. It’s about half a day’s walk back to Kaer Morhen, less if he jogs, and there’s nothing to be gained from delaying except another run in with a monster that is unfazed by steel or silver.
~*~
He makes it before nightfall, pathetically grateful when the first figure he encounters is Lambert. He smirks as he pulls Coën into a rough, back-slapping hug, but there’s a giddy relief in both their voices, all too familiar to them now. Every brother who returns is worth celebrating these days, even from something as once-mundane as gathering ingredients for their potions.
“Need to see Vesemir,” Coën says as they make their way to the entrance hall.
Lambert snorts. “Food first. Can’t have your ass ruin a perfectly nice meal.”
Coën laughs, knocking their shoulders together, but doesn’t dispute the statement. It’s supper time, going by the smell, and he is ravenous. His news may be dire, but not so urgent to ruin everyone’s supper over it. Which would be a shame.
Supper is the main meal in Kaer Morhen, and is usually a raucous affair. Some days, he marvels at the fact that they still possess such levity, that they can still laugh and scuffle and relax with each other. But Kaer Morhen is safe, in a way very few places are these days, and life goes on.
The great hall is filled decently by the time they make it in. Coën scans the sea of Witchers and their human (or humanoid) companions, and feels yet more tension drain away. It’s habit, to count the numbers when he gets back, and every time he arrives at the same number he left, he sends a prayer to Melitele, to Lyra, to all the gods who will hear him.
“Coën!” Aiden shouts, and the name is picked up throughout the hall. It is a welcome back that shakes him. It wasn’t always like this, but then again, the worst things they used to face would be a pair of Griffins, a Leshen, human prejudice. Who would have thought that he’d ever miss the fucking hatred that enveloped him whenever he ventured into a town?
He grins at them, breathes in the scent of three dozen witchers and humans all exuding relief and happiness. Before he can think of something sappy to say, Lambert knocks their shoulders together again and shoves him forwards, towards their customary spots.
“Was quiet without your blathering,” he says gruffly, but he smells of contentment and relief, so Coën is as kind as he can be and lets it slide.
“Successful?” Aiden asks once Coën has heaped his plate with venison and bread. It’s simple but filling, incredibly good after a week outside of Kaer Morhen.
He nods, pats the pouch at his belt. “Got enough for several dozen doses.”
Aiden whistles, low but impressed. Something twists inside Coën’s chest, something that remembers when gathering potion ingredients wasn’t worth being impressed by. He shoves it down and takes a bite out of the meat that is large enough he doesn’t even have to pretend that he can’t talk.
Aiden stares at him for a moment longer, before he turns to Lambert, picking up an argument about fighting on uneven terrain that has been going on since before Coën left. It’s soothing, and so Coën just lets their familiar voices with familiar arguments wash over him while he chases the hunger from his belly.
He is mopping up the last of the meat juices with some bread when he sees Vesemir and Triss stand. He stuffs the bread into his mouth, grunts at Lambert and Aiden, and then jogs to catch up with the old Wolf and the Sorceress.
They don’t break stride when he reaches them, and he manages to swallow the last of his supper before reaching for the pouch at his belt. “Triss, Vesemir.” He inclines his head at them, toying with the laces that keep the pouch shut. “I have good news and bad.”
There’s an unhappy tilt to Vesemir’s mouth. Bad news have been too numerous as of late, and Coën wishes he only had good news. “Wait until we’re in the laboratory,” Vesemir grumbles, quickening his strides. Right. No need to unsettle everyone with bad news, and the laboratory yields enough privacy that the news should stay contained for now.
The door falls shut behind them with a deep thud, and Coën finally passes the pouch over to Triss. “Found a noonwraith south-east. Might be a full nest, but I only took the one.” No need to exhaust their supply of ingredients unnecessarily.
Triss smiles, a soft and sad thing. “I take it that was the good news?”
Coën nods, takes a breath. “I found shamblers in the vicinity.”
Vesemir and Triss both still, faces grave.
“This close to Kaer Morhen?” Triss asks, and Coën nods again. “That’s — unsettling.”
“It was a pack of maybe ten, twenty. I’m not sure how — where they formed. Don’t think they… didn’t seem like they had any of … ours.”
Vesemir exhales heavily, a grim expression on his face. “Small mercies.” Coën has to agree with him, because even in the grotesque undeath of the shamblers, Witchers are… more unpleasant to deal with than humans. “We need to institute a new rule. No more hunts or patrols alone. Ten to twenty, you said? Three witcher minimum.”
It should feel like overkill, but the sad truth is that it might not even be enough.
“Thank you, Coën,” Vesemir says, yellow eyes intent. Coën feels himself stand taller under that proud gaze. Thank you for coming back unscathed, Vesemir doesn’t say, but it’s understood nonetheless. Coën isn’t the only one reflexively counting inhabitants in the Great Hall. “Go get some rest. And if you see Eskel or Geralt — send them to the lab, would you?”
Coën inclines his head again. “Will do. Good night, Vesemir, Triss.”
He heads back to the Great Hall, but it’s unnecessary; he’s barely left the corridor before he runs into Geralt and Eskel, heads bent together. They stop when they see Coën. “Vesemir wanted to see you.”
Geralt’s mouth twists into the same unhappy tilt that Vesemir’s had earlier. Out of all the Wolves, Geralt is undoubtedly the one most like the trainer. “Thanks,” he grunts, finally.
Coën gives a wry smile. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, and they share the bitter chuckle of survivors.
“Glad you made it back safe,” Eskel says with a clap on his shoulder as he passes by them.
“So am I,” Coën says, and leaves for his rooms with an amiable bump against Geralt’s shoulder.
He has made it back safe. And isn’t that really the most important thing?