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Forgive me if you can find out how.
Geralt writes now. Well, he’s always written a journal, keeping track of contracts, towns visited, days passed. And a meticulous bestiary that was beaten into every witcher to graduate from Kaer Morhen’s walls. But now he has an empty composition book—or, that is, empty after a few discarded pages—and he just started a new journal this summer, so now he writes.
He could say what he’s thinking to Roach, he supposes, but it somehow feels too private to tell her. And wasn’t his stupid tongue the thing that got him into this mess anyways? So he writes. Maybe if he reads the words back to himself they’ll start to make sense. Maybe he’ll be able to understand. Understand what he actually meant and why the fuck he said it.
He spends the rest of the fall far broodier than usual—that’s what he would call it right? But if he’s honest with himself he’s just being an ass. Maybe the humans deserve it. Shorting him on pay, turning him out of inns, and charging extra when they let him stay. He picks enough fights and gets kicked out of enough establishments that he swears off towns all together as he makes his way North. He even manages to start the last fight without uttering a word.
Unfortunately, no towns means no contracts. And that just makes him restless, or more restless. Roach takes to biting him. This Roach never used to be a biter, and he even managed to ruin that. He debates boarding her at the base of the mountain for the winter, but he doesn’t have the coin to do that and get the supplies they’ll need to survive the winter in the keep. Shamefully, it briefly crossed his mind to sell her or just leave her somewhere. He buys her sugar cubes at the base of the mountain in apology. Not that she’d ever know. He doesn’t really talk to her these days, but she gratefully takes the sugar cube anyways, and even refrains from biting his fingers. However, she doesn’t refrain from pulling his hair when he attaches the cart’s harness a little too tightly.
As he corrects his mistake, he can hear his voice for some reason. The morning after a bad contract. Still light headed from the toxicity the night before, the wound in his side aching, but too low on herbs to bother using swallow. The morning that he put his boots on the wrong feet. His laugh is light and jovial, as he unlaces Geralt’s boots. You’re human like the rest of us .
He argued at the time. He doesn’t argue now. There’s no one under the illusion that he’s human.
He leads a distrustful Roach up the narrow rocky path out of town, supplies in tow. He forgets to stop the first night. Once they get moving, Geralt just doesn’t stop. Not when he usually eats dinner, and to be honest he doesn’t really register the dark of night until the sun rises. If this Roach hadn’t already decided to kill him over the winter, he’s sure this is the final straw. As a result he finds a nice grassy area with some trees, ties Roach there for the day and goes for a hunt. She won’t wander off even if she does get untethered, and they’re too far along the path for a human to have followed this far. He makes sure Roach has access to lots of food and water and sets out to kill something.
In the end he gets a couple rabbits and a few miles under his feet. There was an opportunity for a stag, but he wouldn't be able to eat the whole thing and it’d be difficult to take up the path with him. Not to mention that carrying a carcass with him is a sure fire way to attract predators. Plus, if his mood gets any more fowl, he’s sure Roach will shove him off the Killer at the nearest cliff.
He returns to Roach well into the night. He cooks the rabbits and douses the fire. He reads his writing back to himself in the moonlight, still with no luck in figuring anything out. He manages to hold off until dawn before pushing Roach back onto the trail. He’s sure to stop for a break every three hours, or what he thinks is every three hours, and brushes her down for the night after sunset. He sneaks her another sugar cube for good measure. The cliffs are coming up. Can never be too careful. Geralt eats rations that night and watches the wind rustle the leaves until dawn.
After repeating this routine for another four days? Five days? Time has been weird lately, and with his earlier fuck up he can’t really be sure if they made good time or not. With Roach’s foul mood he assumes they did not. But soon enough they’re into the walls of Kaer Morhen and thank the gods, Eskel is already waiting to greet him. For both Roach’s and his own sanity, Geralt tasks a concerned looking Eskel with caring for her.
Geralt hauls the supplies into the foyer before locking himself in his room. There must be a god watching him, since he finds a half finished whittling project there from last winter to keep his hands busy until dinner. He fucks it up in the end. Takes the head right off the dragon before he even gets into the detailing. Serves it right.
He joins the others for dinner. Vesemir cooked venison, and they’ve got a full house. Lambert, Eskel, and Coen are all back already. They ask about him, and Geralt just tells them it was a shit year and allows Lambert to launch into a rant. After dinner he’s the first to slip away; to wash his dishes and steal a bottle of Lambert’s most potent batch of White Gull from two years ago. He then excuses himself for the night.
He spends most of the night staring at the fire, cradling an empty bottle. It’s good stuff. The fire blurs together and the walls almost look blue. Eskel hovers outside his door for a minute, but never knocks. The keep goes silent. All he can hear is the wind rattling the window panes, the fire in front of him, and the rats as they emerge from the walls for the night. Geralt watches them raid what's left of the rations in his pack from the year. He wishes he had more gull left, but going down to get more seems like too much effort.
At some point either the gull or exhaustion claim him and he finds himself crumpled on the stone floor when the sun rises. He goes through the motions of joining the others for breakfast. Lambert tells him he looks like shit. Eskel doesn’t leave his side. Vesemir tells him to run the ramparts to work off some of the alcohol before joining his brothers for wall repairs. It doesn’t escape anyone’s notice that Geralt doesn’t eat.
Geralt does what he’s told. Four laps later, lungs burning, Geralt finds his brothers outside the east wing. Eskel directs Geralt up the scaffolding with Lambert, and Geralt sets to work using the rocks Eskel passes to the pair. One of his rocks shifts and knocks his new section of wall down. One lands on Geralt’s foot. Lambert cusses out Geralt’s inability to stack rocks. Eskel moves Geralt to the ground to mix mortar and pass up rocks. When Geralt fucks up the mortar, he doesn’t hear what Lambert says, and pretends not to see the pitying looks Eskel sends his way. Eskel sends him to chop wood after that.
Geralt takes two bottles of gull that night. And he writes. He makes the mistake of waiting until he finishes his first bottle before getting the composition book out. He can’t see well enough to know if his writing is legible. He thinks the walls look purple tonight. He sets out to run the ramparts before dawn. It’s going to be the first thing Vesemir tells him to do anyways.
He takes a bath before breakfast, and makes an effort to eat something. He’s not really sure what he ate, but it kept Eskel off his back. Vesemir puts him in charge of the animals for the morning with strict instructions to find him when he’s done.
———
Geralt finds himself staring down Lil’ Bleater, not entirely sure how he got there. The goat blinks. Geralt doesn’t. She feigns left, fooling Geralt, before shooting right and getting out of the stables. Geralt sets chase, and dives as she reaches the wall. She escapes and all Geralt has to show for it is a muddy shirt. Shit . At the least, she always comes back.
He feeds a horse. Mucks out the pen, adds more straw, brush, hooves, pat the nuzzle. Repeat. Soon it’s Roach’s turn and every time he misses a spot or loses control of the hoof blade she’s sure to get her retribution. Geralt’s pretty sure his shirt is a lost cause by the end of it. He’s sure to leave two apples balanced on her gate when he finishes. She doesn’t take them until he leaves.
The chickens are nicer. They don’t really care that he’s there, and he only gets pecked by one when he collects the eggs. The remaining goats are even pleasant as he milks them. Or maybe he just doesn’t notice their distaste. That’s more likely, isn’t it? Even Roach hates him.
True to his word, or grunted affirmation to be more accurate, Geralt finds Vesemir when he finishes with the animals. Not that he had much choice. Vesemir is waiting in the cellar where Geralt takes the eggs and milk.
The older witcher waits for him to set down the buckets before clapping him on the back and pulling him in for a hug. “Glad you made it back, wolf.” For some reason the words sit differently with Geralt this year. Vesemir always says them. Always makes a point to tell his pups that he’s happy to see them safe and whole and home. Geralt can’t bring himself to examine the discomfort in his chest. Vesemir puts Geralt in charge of lunch, but sticks around to help. Normally his monitor would fuck off to work on something else, but Geralt’s caught on to the supervision his pack is keeping him under.
Vesemir shows what supplies they have available and asks Geralt what they’re going to make. Geralt plucks out the leftover ingredients for venison stew. He knows Vesemir knows what he’s making, but Vesemir doesn’t lift a finger until Geralt says the words. In fact, he keeps that attitude the entire time. Always there, ready to help. But never moving without verbal direction. It’s annoying as fuck. Vesemir scoups a second serving into Geralt’s bowl at lunch and glares until Geralt eats it.
After lunch Vesemir chops wood with him. He can feel Vesemir watching him, but Vesemir doesn’t make him speak. He appreciates that. Vesemir slips off to make dinner at some point. As they finish eating dinner, Lambert challenges Geralt to a game of Gwent. Geralt excuses himself. Under Vesemir’s glare he adds, “Tired. Not tonight,” and washes everyone’s dishes. Eskel wordlessly dries them and puts them away. When they finish, Eskel pulls Geralt into a hug, refusing to let up until Geralt relaxes into it.
When Geralt pulls back, Eskel presses their foreheads together, “I’m here when you’re ready, wolf.” Geralt avoids eye contact as Eskel returns to Lambert and Vesemir.
The White Gull is gone. All of it. None in the pantry or cellar. There isn’t even any of Vesemir’s wine laying about. Geralt can’t even find any experimental bottles in the alchemy labs tucked behind Lambert’s questionable distilling apparatus. He breaks a chair in his frustration.
He paces his room for two hours before the others go to bed. Eskel pauses outside his door. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Geralt growls. Eskel goes to his room without knocking. It isn’t long before the walls are creeping in. They just look grey. Geralt heads for the library. He remembers Eskel saying something about bringing some books back this year, and Vesemir mentioning cataloguing them once the winter sets in. Geralt can do it tonight.
The library is warm. It makes him realise he hadn’t tended to the fire in his room today. He adds some logs to the hearth before settling in at a desk with a stack of unfamiliar books. He jots down their information on cards before taking two over the history shelf. At least the paper and leather feel familiar under his fingers. And the library has the musty smell that only exists in the few truly old libraries of the continent. The smell that only years of witchers and scholars pouring over the dusty pages can achieve. He can smell the lumber of a new bookshelf. He breathes deeply. It’s quiet. And peaceful. It smells like camomile. Suddenly the room feels too hot. The books fall forgotten to the ground as Geralt beelines for the door.
He finds himself trying to wear out the burst of shaky energy under his skin on the ramparts. One foot in front of the other. Faster. Throw yourself around the corner. Jump the loose stone. Side step the tree branch. Corner. Loose stone. Duck under the branch. Faster.
He’s maybe 12 laps into the routine when his body refuses to continue. Weak legs refuse to carry his heavy arms. The moon looks nice. It’d be a shame to go inside already. He wanders over to the stable. Roach is sleeping. He leaves her an apple on the top of her door. He sits on a pile of straw for a moment. It just feels like the place to be. The moonlight is soft and the air feels fresh and clean for once. His legs won’t let him back up, and he drifts off to the symphony of animal heartbeats.
———
Geralt is woken up by Lambert cursing and picking him up. “Fucking hell Geralt. You can’t just fucking run off like that and sleep out here. You’re not dressed for the cold and you’re covered in sweat. Are you trying to get hypothermia?” Geralt gets enough of his wits about him to try standing up, but Lambert’s having none of it. He adjusts his grip on Geralt, getting a better hold of him in a bridal carry. “You’re not fucking walking you lout. It’s a wonder you even got into the stable before collapsing. The fuck did you do all night? You’re shaking like a fucking leaf.”
Geralt just grumbles into Lambert’s chest. He’d never admit it, but the young wolf does feel incredibly warm, which is saying something, since he’s usually the one to run cold of the group. Once inside the foyer, Lambert shouts that he found Geralt before carrying him up the stairs toward the bedrooms. They walk past Geralt’s door, and he jabs Lambert in the ribs to alert him.
“Fucking hell, pretty boy. We’re going to my room. You’re too cold and it’s the only room in this drafty fucking keep at an acceptable temperature. If you fucking complain I’ll tie and gag you, you fucking bastard.” Despite his harsh words, Lambert takes great care to open the door without bumping Geralt into the doorframe, and gently sets him down on the bear skin rug in front of a roaring fire. “Let’s get you warmed up,” Lambert says, leaving Geralt to stare at the fire. It looks pretty. Lambert’s back quickly, and methodically wrapping blankets over and around Geralt, with the softest ones on Geralt’s skin.
Before Lambert is satisfied with the blankets, Eskel joins them, and slides himself under the blankets pressed to Geralt’s back. “We were worried about you, wolf. Weren’t in your room. Searched the whole keep for you,” He nuzzles into the back of Geralt’s neck, breathing deeply. “I’m glad you’re safe,” He adds quietly.
Vesemir brings them breakfast, and they eat it in Lambert’s room. Geralt feels warm, but any time he tries to get up, Lambert grumpily pulls him back to the fire and ensures the blankets cover his hands and feet. When he gets restless, Eskel wraps him in a hug and Lambert lays with his head in Geralt’s lap and reads aloud from an alchemy book he had on the desk. Lambert even lets Geralt run his fingers through the young wolf’s red curls. Eskel and Lambert keep him wrapped in blankets by the hearth until lunch.
When Vesemir stops by to suggest going down, Lambert ruffles through his trunk, tossing warm clothes on the floor. Eskel carefully replaces the blankets with thick sweaters and trousers. Lambert pretends not to care, but throws a pair of woollen socks at Eskel’s head when he goes to stand. Eskel rolls his eyes, but studiously dresses Geralt in them before lacing him into Lambert’s fur-lined boots.
Geralt wants to argue, but anytime he opens his mouth, Eskel shushes him with a pointed look. When he manages to avoid Eskel’s eye and get any words out, Lambert tosses more clothes. He even puts a cloak over Geralt when he argues against wearing Lambert’s winter boots.
All four of them spend the afternoon in the library. The fire is blazing, and they let Geralt finish shelving the books from the night before. Lambert swears at him when he leaves the cloak on an armchair, and chases him through the library to get the cloak back on him. Vesemir doesn’t say anything about the “no roughhousing in the library” rule.
When Lambert finally corners him against a bookshelf and gets the cloak back on him, carefully adjusting the collar of the sweaters for maximum coverage, Eskel makes a suggestion. “You know, he probably doesn’t need the cloak if he sticks near the fire.” Geralt glares. They all know the cloak is excessive. The keep may be cold, but the fire has clearly been roaring for hours. A sweater is hardly necessary at this point.
Geralt looks to Vesemir for backup, but the eldest wolf just joins his pups in their campaign to coddle Geralt, “Might be a nice place for you to warm up too, Lambert.”
Lambert all but drags a reticent and heavily clothed Geralt over to the fire and manhandles him into laying down. Lambert plasters himself to Geralt’s side furthest from the fire, and clings tightly to his arm. Eskel grabs a book and sits by Lambert's head. He reads to himself and slowly tames the tangles and unruly curls on their red wolf. Lambert dozes, and Geralt focuses on the heartbeats and breathing of his family. His pack.
Eventually Geralt mumbles to Eskel that he’s going to use the latrine. Lambert shoots awake when Geralt goes to move. There’s a short standoff that makes Geralt think Lambert isn’t going to let go of his arm. He does, eventually. When Geralt returns, Eskel is cradling Lambert and whispering something to him. He feels like he’s interrupting. He’s about to leave, maybe go back to his room when Vesemir clears his throat. Three sets of eyes lock on Geralt. He sighs, internally cursing their mentor, before returning to the fireside. Lambert lays on Geralt’s chest this time. Geralt can’t help but feel guilty when Lambert doesn’t return to his dozing. The red wolf lays still, staring into the fire. Geralt catches him subtly tilting his head toward noises and sniffing the room periodically.
After dinner, Geralt doesn’t bother hunting for alcohol. There’s a good chance they disposed of it, anyways. When he tries to do the dishes, Lambert steals them and pushes him back toward Eskel. Eskel settles him in his lap on the good armchair—Vesemir’s armchair—near the hearth. He holds tighter when Geralt tries to excuse himself for the night.
When Vesemir excuses himself for the night, Eskel reluctantly allows Geralt to do the same. Shortly after he returns to his room, Eskel slips into the room and settles in with a book on the ratty couch Geralt acquired from one of the instructor’s rooms after the pogrom. The unsettling energy under his skin doesn’t leave, but Geralt settles for keeping his hands and mind busy at his desk rather than leaving the room. Geralt doesn’t sleep, and feels increasingly guilty as dawn approaches that Eskel doesn’t either.
The next day runs as usual. Breakfast in the Great Hall, repairs on the keep in the morning, absent minded repairs to armour in the afternoon. His brothers joke. Geralt even smiles at some of their stories. They don’t let Geralt leave in the evening before Vesemir does. Lambert spends the night in Geralt’s room.
The winter takes a new routine after that. Vesemir always pairs Geralt with Eskel for tasks. In the evening Lambert corrals him into playing Gwent. Lambert doesn’t suggest a bet, they just play. One night, about a week into playing, Eskel asks about his new cards. To everyone’s surprise, Geralt actually answers, “Traded some rabbits for that one in Cidaris. Kid was a good player.” They don’t push him to join the conversation, and Geralt is happy to listen and play his cards as Lambert talks about the players he’s gotten cards from over the years. That night it’s Eskel to stay with Geralt. He knits a pair of socks, and starts on a patterned sweater. Geralt sleeps in front of the fire that night.
In the morning, Vesemir suggests a hunt before the snow sets in. Geralt volunteers to go. Lambert looks nervous at the idea. Vesemir agrees that Geralt should go, “The fresh air will do you good,” he says. Geralt packs after breakfast, and sets out that morning. He returns two days later with two deer on his back and numerous rabbits on his belt.
Lambert insists on celebrating. “Finally get some fresh fucking meat. That’s worth celebrating,” he says. No one believes his reasoning as he pours the alcohol-free apple cider. Especially not the two who watched him all but climbing the walls from the moment Geralt left until his return. Lambert stays with him that night. Geralt sleeps in his bed.
Talking becomes a bit easier after that. He tells the stories of a couple contracts from the previous spring. None of them ever give away why he came back so harrowed. Lambert and Eskel continue their rotation of spending the night in Geralt’s room. Vesemir slowly assigns Geralt to more solo tasks.
On the nights he can’t sleep, and there are certainly weeks where that’s the case, he tries to meditate. It never works. He only ever achieves a state of frustration out of it. Sometimes with anger thrown in. He takes a new approach of wearing himself out until he passes out. Eskel joins his runs on the ramparts. Vesemir monitors his progress on the pendulums. Lambert races him to climb the east tower. Whenever Geralt is off on his own, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir compare notes, but none have heard of anything like Blaviken this year. They theorise, but don’t find themselves any closer to the cause for Geralt’s behaviour.
Geralt talks most days by the time the snow sets in. His focus improves after a few days of training. Vesemir ruthlessly critiques his sloppy form. Lambert joins him in the afternoons for extra sparring. After a couple weeks he’s even back to being able to win some rounds. Eskel finds Geralt smiling unprompted a couple times, but he sours when he catches himself.
Despite his slow but steady improvement through the winter, they’re all reluctant to let him back on the path when spring comes. At least after Blaviken he talked about what happened. He seemed… alright by spring. As much as anyone could be after what went down. But this just feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for their brother to snap, and hoping that they could be close enough to collect the pieces.
In the end they let him go. Lambert and Eskel stay up one night plotting out each of their paths. They agree on places to get messages to each other throughout the year, and more importantly, for where they would cross paths with Geralt to check on him.
As always, Lambert is the first to leave when the snow clears. Eskel and Geralt stay a few more days and head down together. They part ways in Ard Carraigh, leaving Geralt truly alone for the first time since fall. At first it’s okay. He tries talking to Roach, and does his best to keep the peace with her. He heads West.
Lambert finds him first in Temeria, a month after they departed the keep.
Geralt wakes up on a bedroll, which is weird since he could have sworn he sold that back in Redania to buy some more ale. Lambert is sitting beside a fire, cooking a small doe.
“The fuck is this, Geralt?” He’s barely been awake five seconds and Lambert is shoving a beaten up composition book in his face. “I found you fucking passed out on the forest floor. Your horse untethered, still saddled. No fucking camp. What if there were fucking bandits, Geralt? You’re too fucking close to the road and you’re unprepared and you’re passed the fuck out on top of a notebook .”
Geralt sits up. He absently wonders if the flames would feel nice this morning. They probably would. It doesn’t feel like a day where pain is aware of his existence. It feels more like one of the days where fire feels soft. He’s had more of those days lately.
“You read it,” Geralt says. Not an accusation. Just a statement.
“No, I didn’t fucking read it, asshole. The page it was open to was a complete mess, and I’m not fucking snooping. You’re going to tell me what this is about yourself. And I’m not leaving until you do.”
At least it’s Lambert, Geralt thinks. He doesn’t think he can take the sad look on Eskel’s face when he finds out what Geralt did. Lambert will chew him out. Tell him he was selfish. Berate him for getting so complacent he chased off the one good thing he got on the path.
Lambert doesn’t speak very much. At least not to Geralt. He curses out his horse, and the weather, and the sky and the trees and everything that moves and everything that doesn’t, but he never expects an answer. He does expect Geralt to take care of himself though. They get a contract, and Lambert spends the money on a new bedroll. He keeps Geralt out of taverns. Geralt builds a fire, and brushes down Roach apologetically. He gives her some dried apple.
In the end, Lambert does leave. After a week. Maybe that’s all the patience people have for him. A week. Geralt returns to taverns. But he always brushes down Roach. And almost always makes a fire. He finds himself taking on contracts that pay less than the effort they’re worth. But at least they give him something to do. And maybe hunting for his food after a long day is just what he needs to unwind. The listening. The stalking. The short lived chase and easy kill.
He catches word of a cat witcher nearby, but the next witcher he sees isn’t until midsummer. Eskel finds him in a market in Cintra. He all but drags Geralt back to his camp. They share a good meal, and Eskel talks about some idiot human who tried to kill a werewolf before Eskel could finish the contract. The human was fine, but Geralt can’t bring himself to laugh at that. He wonders vaguely if he knew the human.
That night Eskel lays their bedrolls beside each other. While Geralt gazes absently at the clouded sky, Eskel drapes himself over Geralt’s chest. When he protests that it’s much too warm to be sleeping like this, the only answer Eskel gives is “c’mfy.” Unable to leave, Geralt drifts off. Eskel doesn’t wake him in the morning. They have lunch together. Travel East. Sleeping’s easier with Eskel there to keep watch. His brother knows when Geralt’s skin is too tight and the words under his skin threaten to tear themselves out. Eskel just nudges him to lay down and plasters himself to Geralt’s chest. Unable to fidget too much, and with his brother peacefully breathing on top of him, it’s a bit easier to let his eyes close. The sleep is usually dreamless. Geralt always wakes up sweaty, but well rested. Or at least his new version of well rested. It can’t be comfortable for Eskel, he knows his brother runs hotter than he does, but Eskel never mentions their arrangement.
After two weeks, Eskel bids him farewell with a clap on the back. Says he expects to see Geralt this winter and warns him not to take any contracts to make him late. The chittering of insects that night just serve as a soft reminder of how lonely the camp is.
Lambert finds him again in the fall, but doesn’t do much more than follow Geralt around for a week. Geralt can’t help but feel a little spiteful that Lambert found him. He specifically changed his route to avoid them finding him again. It’s not until the week that he should be headed back to Kaer Morhen for Geralt to realise that maybe Lambert never stopped following him after their first run in that spring. It’s not like Geralt would have noticed.
Lambert keeps guard at night, and kicks Geralt’s foot whenever he gets too fidgety. The steady sound of a whetstone is what puts Geralt to sleep. He still can’t meditate. His strategy is to clear out an area of monsters before the exhaustion takes him, then pass out in a cave for a couple days. He’s grateful for his brother’s company at night, even if he acts like an ass toward them in the daylight.
Lambert leaves Geralt’s composition notebook out. Never opened. Just a reminder of what happened in the spring, and the fact that Lambert is still waiting for a response. The closest he ever comes to telling Lambert is knee deep in the Pontar river. “Do you ever think…”
“Do I ever think what, Gerry?” Lambert asks as he swiftly snatches a fish from the water.
The words suddenly feel like a stupid question. Of course Lambert thinks he’d be better off away from humans. Or the thought at least crosses Lambert’s mind regularly, if his rants after haggling for a normal rate or to get the agreed price for a finished contract are anything to go by. Of course Lambert hates the way witchers and humans are constantly at odds. He’s not going to get any sympathy from Lambert. At least Jaskier never belittled Geralt’s questions. Even thinking his name feels like a punch to the gut. Which is fitting, honestly. “Uh, nothing. Just, um. Do you think Beggartick blossoms ever survive this late into the year?”
Lambert stares at Geralt with an unreadable expression for a few moments. “Try again. Ask me what you actually want to ask.”
Isn’t that the problem? Geralt doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants to ask Lambert. He doesn’t know how to put what happened into words. At least not ones that make sense, no matter how hard he tries. Not without getting it wrong. No matter what he says, it never conveys just how much he wanted to hurt him in that moment, and just how untrue the words he said were. How they felt like venom coming out, and how watching them land hurt so much more than any venom urn he’d ever had. Combined. There’s no words to explain how much he relied on his constant presence in his life. His— Jaskier’s—chatter, and kind touch, and clever suggestions, and the way he doted on Roach, and the way he took Geralt’s grunts in stride, how he understood in a way that even Geralt couldn’t understand himself. And then on that mountain. Jaskier—Brilliant, clever, caring, loyal —Jaskier offered him a life he thought he could never have. Free from the path, free from the pain. But Geralt was already so angry . And the worst part is he knew he was angry. He knew he would inevitably explode at his bard, but he stayed and let it happen. He stayed and watched the venomous words— Geralt’s venomous words—wound the bard in the worst way. In a way Geralt would never be allowed to repair.
And his brother is staring at him. Waiting for Geralt to tell him the truth. His question. The notebook. His constant foul, pissy, childish mood. But there are no words for it. Not ones Geralt knows. Not in a language Geralt can speak. And so he stays quiet. Like he should have done before, Geralt stays quiet as his brother pushes past him leaving him alone with his thoughts. This time in a river.
Geralt doesn’t know what to say to Lambert after that. He takes care of cooking the fish with herbs as a peace offering. Gets out his gwent deck and plays a few rounds, losing terribly, but nothing seems worth saying aloud. Geralt can tell Lambert is reluctant to leave, but Aiden sent word of a contract a few days off that he wants help with. Geralt knows it’s Lambert’s last chance to see his cat before winter, so he slips a bag of nuts and dried fruit into Lambert’s hand and nudges his brother toward his horse.
“Are you sure?” Lambert asks with concerned eyes. “I can always tell him to fuck off until spring.” Geralt shakes his head and nods toward the path. Lambert sighs and packs his bag.
Before Lambert leaves, Geralt pulls him into a hug, clearing his throat. “Be safe, okay?”
Lambert smiles at him. It’s a good look on him, but not one he wears often. “I will, wolf. You take care, alright? I expect to see both you and Roach in Ard Carraigh in a week, okay? Seven days,” he says, as if Geralt doesn’t know what a week is. “Be there, okay?” Geralt nods with a small smile on his lips. Lambert mounts his hoarse and takes the path to meet with his cat. He looks back twice, but Geralt doesn’t notice.
———
It’s Eskel who makes it to Ard Carraigh first. Lambert sent a letter ahead that is waiting there for him. It says Lambert left Geralt to take a contract with his cat, but Geralt and Lambert should both be there in a week. The letter is dated five days ago, so Eskel goes about collecting the supplies and cart they’ll need to get up the Killer and survive the winter in the keep. Eskel boards at the inn, and helps them with some repairs. Wolves have been staying here for decades, if not centuries, and it's one of the few places on the continent where people are happy to see him and his brothers. In more recent decades the wolves have made a point of being on good terms with the nearest village. It’s more convenient for everyone.
True to his word, Lambert arrives two days later with a decent amount of coin in his pouch, and a smile on his face when he spots Eskel. The brothers embrace in the tavern, and discuss Lambert’s contract. They eat a good meal and drink some mead before heading up to Eskel’s room.
In the privacy of the room, Eskel finally asks, “How’s Geralt?”
Lambert sits on the bed with a sigh. “He’s not great, Esk. I thought he was finally going to talk about it a few days before we parted but he just… tensed up and stopped talking entirely. He said one more sentence to me in those three days,” Eskel sits beside him and pulls Lambert into an embrace. “I miss his stupid voice. I don’t know what could have possibly happened that he won’t talk to us about it, but we haven’t heard about it from anyone else. It’s been a year! If someone died, or if it was another Blaviken, we’d know by now. Fuck, he even talked about Blaviken that winter . It was rough but… gods, it was never like this.”
“We’ll take care of him, Lamb. We always do. You think he’ll be here soon?”
“He shouldn’t be too far. He could have made it here days before I did, but he’s not travelling real fast. The Killer might be hard on him and Roach this year. Shouldn’t put her on a cart. I expected to see him here when I arrived.”
“Well, let’s stick around tomorrow, give him a chance to get here. If he’s not here by night we’ll set out to look for him. Just sleep tonight, okay?” It doesn’t take much coaxing to get Lambert under the blankets. He easily curls up in Eskel’s arms, sighing into the warmth.
———
They wait around the next day, preparing their packs, examining swords and potion kits until dinner. Geralt doesn’t show. Lambert orders their food while Eskel finds someone willing to hold their supplies for them until they return. They eat a hurried dinner and send a crow to Vesemir before hitting the road. They ride South through the night, taking breaks for the horses. They do the same the next day, but stop for the night in the early afternoon to give the horses a well-deserved rest. They make camp, and Lambert figures they’re a good day’s ride away from where he left Geralt. With any luck they’ll find him on the path to Ard Carraigh, but Eskel and Lambert know better. If he was on his way to the keep they would have seen him by now.
They make good time the next day and spend the next night at the same clearing where Lambert left Geralt. They can still see and smell traces of Geralt’s path out of the camp, but they decide it’s best to wait for morning before setting out after him. Geralt has nearly a two week’s head start on them. They need to keep their horses in good health if they want to catch up with him.
The trail leads them meanderingly through the woods. There’s evidence of a fight with a harpy near Montecalvo, but it doesn’t look like the fight lasted long. The harpy is thin, desperate. And it appears as if she lived alone. Geralt’s trail doesn’t pass through towns after that.
They lose the trail along the Braa river for a brief period of time, but decide to keep travelling in the vague North direction. They split up and travel on opposite sides around the first town they come across, and Eskel finds the trail again. At the base of a mountain outside Caingorn, they find Roach. The mountain is rocky and treacherous, so Lambert and Eskel leave their horses with Roach, ensuring the three have plenty of food and water. They bring their packs with them.
The sun is low in the sky when they finally spot him. Sitting at the edge of the shittiest camp Eskel’s ever seen, and that’s saying something, is Geralt. His back is to his brothers as he looks over the gently sloping valley in front of him. Lambert breaks into a cautious run at the sight of him, breaking into a full sprint when the ground levels out.
Lambert skids to a stop beside Geralt and anxiously begins checking him over. Geralt absently grunts in annoyance as Lambert pats down each of his limbs through his armour and examines any exposed skin carefully. He’s covered in dirt and Harpy blood. Lambert suspects his blades haven’t been cleaned either.
Eskel takes his time walking through the camp, if he can even call it that. There was an attempt at collecting wood, but no fire was ever created. Geralt’s pack lays on the ground beside his still rolled bedding. The flattened dirt betrays that it’s been used there as a pillow for at least one night, maybe more. There’s no evidence of any prey brought back to camp, but a composition book lays in the grass behind Geralt.
When he reaches his brothers, Geralt seems to have passed Lambert’s assessment. Lambert crowds Geralt, blocking his view of the valley and pulling his forehead down to rest on Lambert’s collarbone and give him a bit of privacy. Eskel settles in behind and starts on removing Geralt’s armour, starting with his blades and shoulder pads. Lambert helps when Geralt needs to be shifted or something needs unbuckling in the front. Otherwise the youngest wolf just cradles Geralt’s head and whispers soft assurances.
“It’s okay Geralt, we’re here now. I promise I won’t leave this time. Esk and I are gonna take care of you, alright? We’ve got you now, just let go Wolf, we’ve got you.” Lambert runs his hands over Geralt’s hair, words never ceasing. Eskel quietly finishes his task, briefly locking eyes with Lambert as the muddled scent of emotions rolling off Geralt distinctly changes to grief.
When Eskel gets Geralt’s upper body armour off, he decides the leg pieces aren’t uncomfortable enough to justify taking Geralt out of the little private space Lambert made for him. Instead he sits himself behind Geralt, moving the notebook out of the way, and leaning his chest against his brother’s back. He sits silently, listening to Lambert whisper, and gently running his fingers over any tense muscle he can find. Not massaging the knots away, just giving Geralt the option of something grounding to focus on and allowing him to relax when he’s ready.
They sit like that for a while. Geralt is hardly aware of time passing. Eskel feels like it drags on for eternity, just waiting for his brother’s pain to end. For Lambert, it feels like the same few seconds repeating over and over as the reassurances repeat on his tongue. When Geralt’s shoulders finally sag beneath the weight of emotion, Lambert makes eye contact with Eskel. Lambert’s going to take the lead.
And he’s patient. Lambert of all people, is incredibly patient.
Eskel can see him crafting his words in his head as he slowly trails off. Lambert lets them sit in silence. A silence that Geralt doesn’t break. Eskel waits for Lambert.
The sun is dipping into the horizon when Lambert finally speaks, “I know I was going to wait for you to tell me, Geralt, but we need to know. At least part of it. You don’t have to say anything, Wolf. I’ll just- I’ll ask you a question and just let me know if I’m right or not, yeah?” Geralt swallows hard. Eskel feels him tensing up again, but Geralt doesn’t move from where Lambert cradles his head to Lambert’s chest. “It’s okay, wolf. It’s all gonna be okay, I promise. I promise, Geralt. It’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone, it’s all going to be okay.”
Lambert composes himself with a breath before continuing, “Something happened last year?” Geralt steels himself, moving his hands to grip Lambert’s shirt in shaking hands. He gives a slight nod.
“Okay. You’re doing good, Geralt. So good. Was it in the fall? Right before you came back?” Geralt starts to nod but then shakes his head, hands adjusting their grip. Eskel strokes his sides and lets his chest rumble quietly on Geralt’s back.
“Yeah, sorry, too many questions. So it was in the fall?” A nod. “Did someone die?” Geralt shakes his head softly. Lambert makes sure to run his fingers along Geralt’s hairline, ensuring the long hair brushing Lambert’s legs isn’t getting stuck to Geralt’s face.
“Okay, good. You’re doing so good Geralt. Can I keep asking questions?” There’s a long pause as Geralt breathes. His heart slows a little and Eskel can’t help but feel a little proud of him for taking a breath when he needs it. Soon he nods his head, face still hidden from Lambert and Eskel’s eyes. Not that it makes much difference, they can both smell the emotions rolling off of him, hear his heart and shaky breath, feel the way he’s tensing under Lambert’s gentle tone. The faint smell of tears threatening to spill. But he feels safer like this, and that’s all that matters. Eskel realises they’d give him anything if it meant he’d feel safe.
“Was it one of the sorceresses?” Geralt shakes his head. Lambert bites his tongue against making any jokes about Yennefer or Triss. Now is not the time.
“Your bard?” Geralt’s arms surge forward to wrap around Lambert. The force actually knocks the pair onto Lambert’s back. Lambert just lays there, and feels the first tear soak into his shirt. Geralt’s grip is crushing his ribs. He can barely breathe, but it’s nothing compared to the gasping breaths from the body above him.
Eskel knows it’s his turn, and carefully approaches the pair. He gives Lambert a questioning look. Lambert nods and waves him off. He’s okay. Just focus on Geralt. Eskel carefully blankets himself over Geralt with his knees holding most of his own weight, so as not to crush Lambert any more than necessary. He wraps his arms around Geralt; another layer of protection from the world.
“We’ve got you, wolf,” Eskel murmurs, “Let it out, we’ve got you. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.”
It comes and goes. Sometimes all Geralt can do is wail into Lambert’s chest as his brothers hold him. It passes, at times. Geralt catches his breath a few times before another wave overtakes him and leaves him shaking. Eventually he manages to find some words, but it’s not until after the dark of night has settled in and his tears have been replaced with gasping breaths and the wheezing that comes from wanting to scream but having a body too exhausted to follow through.
Lambert catches more of the words than Eskel. It’s mostly nonsense, words cut off after the first syllable and random words thrown together in the way they do when their meaning is too much to fit within the confines of a sentence.
He gets enough of the picture to know Geralt hurt Jaskier irreversibly on this mountain.
When Geralt reaches another reverie, Lambert makes eye contact with Eskel, “We’ve got you, wolf. We’ve got you. How about we get you onto a bedroll, huh? Get some proper sleep tonight, okay?” Eskel slowly removes himself from Geralt, moving to prepare a bed for him. “We’ll keep watch tonight. We’re here if you need anything, alright? We’re right here. You’re safe…”
Lambert’s voice quiets as Eskel heads back to the camp. He lays out Geralt’s bedroll, but the thing is so dirty he tosses it aside. He rolls out his own. And then Lamberts on top for good measure. He makes quick work of a campfire from the wood Geralt gathered. They’ll need to collect more to make it to morning, but it’s good enough for now. He takes a waterskin back to Lambert and Geralt.
Lambert coaxes Geralt back into sitting like they had been earlier, and Eskel slips the waterskin under the curtain of Geralt’s hair. Geralt holds it for a minute, going to move a couple times before he works up the courage to tip his head back to get a drink. He avoids eye contact as his face is exposed to Eskel for the first time since summer. The first thing Eskel notices isn’t his swollen, red eyes. It’s how sunken his face is. How tired he looks.
Lambert cups Geralt’s face and pulls their foreheads together, “We’ve got you wolf,” He whispers, “We’re here now.” He holds their heads together until Geralt manages to look him in the eye. Lambert smiles. A small, genuine thing. “Yeah, that’s it,” he says, arranging Gearlt’s arms over his shoulders and scooping the larger man up off the ground. He adds so quietly that Eskel almost misses it, “There’s no place we’d rather be.”
Lambert settles Geralt into the bedrolls by the fire. The wolf is asleep before he finishes adjusting the blankets.
Eskel fishes some food and another waterskin out of a pack, probably Lambert’s, but who can say at this point. They eat and drink in silence for a while, carefully watching over Geralt. Eskel excuses himself to take a leak and gather some more wood. He adds some to the fire. Should have enough to last the night. “It’ll be dawn soon, think we should try to make it back to Kaer Morhen before the snow sets in?”
“No.” There’s no room for debate in Lambert’s tone. “Let him sleep. He doesn’t sleep when we’re not around.”
“He doesn’t sleep?” Eskel shoots a worried glance to the man laying near-lifeless by the fire. “Has he gotten back to meditating?”
“No he…” Lambert sighs heavily as Eskel retakes his vigil at Lambert’s side. “He works himself half to death and then passes out for a couple days.” Gods. No wonder Lambert decided to keep a close eye on Geralt all year. “I just stayed close enough to jump in on a fight if he needed it, and made sure he was safe while he slept.”
Eskel pulls Lambert into his lap and settles the youngest wolf under his chin, where they can both keep an eye on their sleeping brother. “Gods, I’m so sorry Lamb. I should have been there with you. You shouldn’t have had to face that alone.”
“There wouldn’t have been contracts. I only got maybe a dozen this year, and that’s mostly from that first month and when you stayed with him.” Eskel held him tighter. “Besides,” he adds, “you can’t be around him when he’s like that. I know you helped him after the trials, but.. This is different, Esk. You shouldn’t have to go through that again. It’d drive you mad.”
Eskel steels himself before asking, “But not you?”
Lambert chuckles with a sad smile, “I’m already mad. No, but this is different. I didn’t go through that with him. And I- I never had the chance to save any of them, after the trials. I didn’t watch them die in cots. You two are different. Besides, I wasn’t alone. Aiden came.” Lambert pauses for a minute before continuing, “I saw him first thing this spring, and then he found me keeping an eye on Geralt. I forgot to meet him at the beginning of summer and he came looking. He just… knew I needed him, I guess. Stuck around, let me sleep. Took contracts when I needed time alone, and made sure I had enough food and coin.” They lapse into silence, watching Geralt breathe. Lambert’s next question is in a soft voice that breaks Eskel’s heart, “Why wouldn’t he let us help, Esk?”
It’s an impossible question, really. Lambert knows it. But Eskel knows it’s not about getting the real answer. It’s about comforting each other the best they can while they take care of their brother. “I don’t know, Little Wolf. He… He’s hurt and scared. He’s not thinking like himself. We just have to keep showing him that we’re here until he remembers we’re his pack.”
“We’re not letting him go again, are we?” Eskel pretends not to notice when a tear drips onto his arm.
“No. We’ll keep him safe with us. If he’s not ready by spring, we’ll stay with him.”
“I can’t leave him, Esk.”
Eskel takes his eyes off Geralt in favour of wedging his face into the crook of Lambert’s neck. “That’s okay, pup. You don’t have to. He’s not going anywhere. Do you wanna sleep beside him? Help keep him warm?”
“Yeah but just- Hold me? A bit longer?” Lambert’s voice sounds hopeful, for the first time since Geralt fell asleep.
“Yeah, of course pup. I’ve got you.” I’ve got both of you.
Sometime near dawn, Lambert extricates himself from Eskel’s hold to join Geralt in the bedroll. Geralt doesn’t stir, but Lambert murmurs reassurances to him until Lambert joins him in sleep.