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“Do you know what this is about?” Eskel murmurs to Geralt as they follow Lambert down towards the lake.
“He talks to you more than to me,” Geralt replies, just as quietly. “I’ve no idea.”
“Huh.” Eskel shrugs. Lambert doesn’t actually ever ask for much, for all his grumbles; taking a trip down to the lake with him, even in the dark, is a small request in the grand scheme of things.
Down near the lake, Lambert has stocked a small cave with blankets and bottles of White Gull and a fire that’s burned down to coals that radiate a pleasant warmth. Eskel and Geralt glance at each other in surprise.
“This is nice,” Eskel ventures.
“Don’t want you freezing your pasty asses off,” Lambert grumbles, kicking at a bit of snow. Eskel can’t see quite well enough to tell, but he’d guess the back of the youngest Wolf’s neck has gone red.
“Oh hey,” Geralt says. “This’s the good berry-flavored stuff from three years back. Thought we’d drunk all of it.”
“Found some in the back of the cellar,” Lambert says, and something in his tone makes Eskel think it’s a lie, but he can’t imagine why Lambert would lie about something like that. “Just…sit down, will you?”
Eskel shrugs and sits down, shifting the blankets until he and Geralt have made a sort of nest, big enough for three. Lambert glances at the space between them and then away again.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says. “Just stay there, alright? And don’t drink all the fucking booze before I get back.”
“We’ll leave you a bottle,” Eskel agrees, and Lambert stomps off towards the shore of the lake.
Geralt leans over to murmur, “I still have no idea what the fuck is going on.”
“Neither do I,” Eskel agrees softly. “Think it’s important to him, though.”
Geralt nods. “Never seen him this…nervous before,” he muses.
“Me either,” Eskel says. “Well, we’ll figure it out, one way or another, Wolf.”
Geralt nods again and picks up one of the bottles of White Gull, popping the cork out with his thumb and taking a swig - not a large one - before passing it to Eskel. Eskel takes a drink, too, and then puts the bottle down in the space they’ve left for Lambert.
It’s quiet down here by the lake; the only sounds are the soft lapping of little wavelets on the shore, and the faint mutters of Lambert swearing. The stars are bright against the sky; it’s a new moon, so there’s very little illumination but starlight on snow and the gentle glow of the coals.
It’s beautiful, and very peaceful, even with the swearing. Lambert’s profane monologues are basically constant during the winter anyhow; Eskel’s not sure he’d know what to do with a winter that didn’t involve the distant sound of multilingual swearing. It’s become soothing, to know that his youngest brother is nearby and no more than baseline annoyed by life. (If the swearing gets louder, or starts devolving into Elder, then something has actually gone wrong and Eskel will go and investigate, but as long as it’s just a mutter, everything is fine.)
After a few minutes, Lambert comes back, trailing a long coiled cord which uncoils as he approaches, until it’s just barely long enough to reach the entrance to the cave. Geralt lifts the bottle of White Gull, making a little gesture towards the space between them, and Lambert sits down. He holds still rather stiffly as they rearrange the blankets until they’re all well-covered.
Eskel knows Lambert gets cold easily, and also hates the cold, which is why they’ve left him the middle spot. It’s also why the fact that Lambert has been out fussing with whatever it is he wants to show them for three days, in the middle of winter, is so very confusing.
“Right,” Lambert rasps, and makes grabby hands for the bottle. Geralt hands it over. Lambert takes a deep drink and swallows several times. “Right,” he says again. “Here goes.” And he casts Igni at the end of the cord.
Eskel watches the spark travel down the cord, snaking through the snow, until he loses sight of it between two little hillocks. There’s a brief, tense pause. Lambert is taut as a bowstring between them.
And then there’s a pop, and something rises from the lakeshore, a bright spark arcing up into the night sky. Eskel watches in deep confusion as it reaches its apogee -
And there’s a loud bang and the thing explodes into a thousand arcs of brilliant light.
Eskel recoils a bit, hand signing Quen on reflex, but before he can finish casting, another bright spark arcs up from the shore. And another. And another. They burst into brilliant explosions, red and gold and blue and green; some spread out across nearly the entire sky, while others form waterfalls against the blackness, or pinwheel out into a dozen smaller explosions. It’s very loud, and very bright…
And very beautiful.
Eskel stares up in wonder, gasping a little as each explosion reveals some new design. Geralt is whispering soft, fervent profanities on Lambert’s other side. Lambert is glancing back and forth between them, still tense, still worried.
Worried that they won’t like it?
Three more starbursts rise to explode in glorious synchronicity, and then silence falls again, the echoes fading slowly from the mountains rising around the valley.
“Damn,” Geralt says quietly once the only sound is the wavelets on the little stones of the lakeshore. “Never seen anything like that before.”
Lambert is almost vibrating with tension.
“I liked the ones that changed color halfway through the best,” Eskel offers.
“Those were good,” Geralt agrees. “I liked the white ones that made fountains.”
“You - you did like it?” Lambert asks, voice uncharacteristically shaky.
“Yeah,” Eskel says, shaking himself out of the stillness of dazed wonder and reaching for the bottle of White Gull. Lambert lets him take it without protest. “That was pretty damn amazing.”
“You made those,” Geralt guesses.
Lambert’s shoulders hunch a little. “Yeah. They’re an Ofieri thing. Saw a display five, six years ago now, down in the ass end of Lyria. Some Ofieri expat’s nameday, something like that.”
“And of course you learned how to make them,” Eskel chuckles.
“They’re like bombs, but fancy,” Lambert says. He’s still curled in on himself, like he’s waiting for them to - what? To laugh at him? To mock the work that must have gone into making such complicated explosives?
Eskel takes a drink and hands the bottle back. “That,” he says slowly, “was fucking impressive.”
Lambert uncurls a little bit. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Geralt agrees. “Damn. I’m sure as hell impressed.” He steals the bottle from Lambert’s unresisting fingers and drinks, then presses it back into Lambert’s hands. “Nice work.”
“Very nice,” Eskel confirms. “Shit, I can’t even imagine how much time it must’ve taken to figure out how to make ‘em do all that.”
“It took a while,” Lambert admits. He’s almost all the way uncurled now, though. He takes a long drink, finishing the bottle off. “I, uh, I wanted to have somethin’ worth showing you before I dragged you down here.”
“I’d say you did a pretty damn good job of that,” Eskel says, reaching over for another bottle. “Your projects are always pretty remarkable, but this is something else again.”
Lambert is worryingly silent for a moment, and then - “You think my projects are stupid.”
Eskel exchanges a glance with Geralt over Lambert’s head. “The fuck?” Geralt says. “No we don’t?”
“Yes you do,” Lambert hisses. “Whenever I come up with something, all you can fucking say is how it’s not good enough yet!”
Eskel winces. “Ah,” he says. “Well, shit.”
“The last time I told you straight-out that I was impressed, you broke my nose,” Geralt points out, very gently.
“...You were mocking me.”
“I really wasn’t.”
Lambert glances back and forth from Geralt to Eskel. Eskel nods solemnly. “If we tell you straight out how impressed we are, you usually either punch us or go hole up in the basement for hours.”
“I -” Lambert puffs up like he’s going to object, then deflates abruptly. “Shit. I kinda do.”
“You kinda do,” Eskel agrees. “We figured out you punched less if we gave you somethin’ else to work towards.”
“...Oh,” Lambert says, very faintly. Eskel passes him the bottle and grabs another for himself and Geralt to split, and they drink in silence for a few minutes, letting Lambert turn the problem over in his never-quiet mind.
“You’re not mocking me,” Lambert says at last.
“Not usually,” Eskel says. “I mean, sometimes, when we’re all playing, but not for the stuff you make.”
“The potions, the bombs, the alcohol - not for those,” Geralt agrees.
“Why would we mock you for being good at something?” Eskel adds bemusedly.
“Because I’m better’n you,” Lambert says, curling around his bottle of Gull.
Eskel chooses his words carefully, fairly sure that if this conversation goes badly, he won’t get another chance. “I’m better than either of you at Signs; you tease me for it, but you don’t mock me. Geralt’s faster and stronger than either of us, and we give him shit for it sometimes, but even you aren’t nasty about it.”
“Pretty boy,” Lambert mutters.
“Maybe I like being called pretty sometimes,” Geralt says, and Eskel can hear how deliberately he’s keeping his voice light.
“Sure, we give you shit you about hunting mishaps or falling off of shit in training or being stupid enough to try to eat Nilfgaardian hot peppers whole,” Eskel says. “But we don’t mock you for what you’re good at. Never have, and never will.”
Lambert’s throat makes a sort of clicking sound as he swallows. He takes another deep drink. Finally he says, “I figured maybe the fuckin’ starbursts would be enough to actually impress you. I - I dunno what to do with you bein’ already impressed.”
“Be proud?” Geralt suggests. “If you promise not to break my nose for it, I’ll tell you straight out that your inventions are pretty damn amazing.”
“Likewise,” Eskel agrees. “Hell, it’ll be a relief not having to come up with something to critique.”
“Oh,” Lambert says, and lifts the bottle of White Gull, peering at it speculatively. “And this isn’t the batch with the mushrooms that turned out to be hallucinogens?”
Eskel sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Is it so hard to believe we really are genuinely impressed by our fucking brilliant little brother?”
“Yes,” Lambert says, lowering the bottle again. “It kinda is.”
“Alright,” Eskel says. “You promise not to break our noses, and we’ll promise to tell you straight out when you do something fucking brilliant, hm?”
“...Deal,” Lambert says softly. “No broken noses.”
“Thank you,” Geralt says. “How’m I supposed to stay pretty with a broken nose?”
Lambert snorts. “Fuckin’ ridiculous,” he grumbles, but he also relaxes a little. Eskel leans in, testing the waters, and is delighted when Lambert lets him shift closer, tightening their huddle. Geralt shuffles in on Lambert’s other side, sandwiching the youngest Wolf between them.
“So,” Eskel says. “Tell us how you make starbursts, then.”
“You want to know?”
“I want to hear you brag,” Eskel says.
“Mm,” Geralt agrees. “Our brilliant brother. Boast for us.”
Lambert takes a deep breath, glancing at both of them warily, as if checking one last time that they really aren’t mocking him. Eskel nods encouragingly. Geralt leans in to rest his head on Lambert’s shoulder, staring out over the ink-black lake with its spangles of reflected stars.
“Right, so,” Lambert starts slowly. “The trick is getting the proportions of everything exactly fucking right…”
Eskel takes another swig of White Gull and settles in to listen. He might not understand more than a third of it, but hearing Lambert talk about his enthusiasms is always interesting all the same.
And seeing the way Lambert slowly begins to light up, until he’s nearly as brilliant as his starbursts were, with the growing certainty that his brothers won’t mock him for his inventions…
Well, that’s more beautiful than the starbursts were, and those were beautiful indeed.