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If you were to ask Lambert, he’d tell you foglets are the worst monsters out there.
Sure, drowners are gross, werewolves are fast and powerful, fiends are so freakishly large killing them at times is almost an impossible task (it’s a difficult balance between using potions to have enough energy to keep fighting them and keeping toxicity at a level that won’t kill you) and cockatrices' poison is so fucking potent Lambert never knows if he should be excited for the potential harvesting of ingredients or worried for his life when he finds a contract involving them but foglets, well, they’re nasty and get in your head (in Lambert’s head) as you try to fight them (or even before you even realise you’ve crossed onto their territory, sometimes, urgh). They’re right up there with cyclops (for dissimilar yet entirely adjacent reasons).
The first time he faced an actual foglet, Lambert had been on the Path less than three months, and all he heard was the screams of his year-mates as they were being killed during the Trials. He heard Voltehre calling out his name seconds before Old Speartip viciously killed him. It brought back memories Lambert had not been mentally prepared to face and it almost killed him. Left a nasty scar on his face, too, with a swipe of an arm before he managed to shake himself enough to dodge, roll away and throw a Moon Dust bomb at it and finally get the upper hand on the creature.
(Once it was dead and he’d made sure there weren’t more in the area, he’d collapsed against a tree and sobbed as he’d never sobbed before. He didn’t try to properly heal the cut over his eye, either. A reminder.)
In time, he somewhat got used to the screams he would hear every time he took a contract that involved them. Nowadays he could even pretend it wasn’t Voltehre’s voice that was calling out to him. Not always, but often enough. If you asked him, he’d gotten good at pretending. He rarely needed a moment to set his head straight, either.
Aiden had helped with that if he was being honest with himself. The Cat was much more open about emotions and feelings than any Wolf he’d ever met except for Eskel and the familiarity and casualness with which he shared them with Lambert had, eventually, made Lambert open up—slowly, carefully, whilst looking at the fire at night, when he knew there was a single other sentient creature for miles around them—about his teenage years and all the terrible memories he’d buried deep down. It took decades, but they got there.
Bless the Cat for his infinite patience with Lambert. Aiden was no saint, but he was a good man—the best.
When foglets set up camp near Kaer Morhen though, it was always harder—pretending he couldn’t hear them. His only consolation over the last few years had been when he and Geralt had finally killed Old Speartip together. That was one set of memories he could, somewhat, put to rest.
This year, Lambert had arrived at Kaer Morhen just after Saovine.
Alone.
He’d waited for Aiden at their rendezvous as long as he could without compromising his own safety too much during the climb of the mountain. He was no fool and he was going by foot, it took careful planning and full avoidance of sleet and snow, yet he’d cut it real close this year—he’d waited almost three weeks more than he usually would before he caved in and walked the trails that would take him home.
He had a bad feeling.
This wasn’t the first time Aiden missed or was late to a rendezvous, but it had been at least a decade since he’d been held up to the point that Lambert couldn’t wait any longer and had to either start walking the Path again or make his way back to the Keep for the winter without first spending a few weeks together.
It had especially felt wrong to leave without him this year since they’d tentatively talked about the Cat possibly wintering at Kaer Morhen with him. But Lambert knew it would be a disaster if he were to try to spend the winter in a town (he was not a people person, unlike Aiden) and on the opposite, he knew if worse came to worst, the Cat could either live among humans until winter made way for spring or track the Caravan and spend the harsh season with his brethren.
When Vesemir mentioned one morning at breakfast that he’d noticed something had set up camp in the woods by the lake, Lambert had immediately volunteered for the job. He felt restless and a good hunt would do him some good, keep him busy. Coën had promptly offered to lend a hand and he’d accepted. He genuinely enjoyed the Griffin’s company after all and he was better at keeping his temper in check around Coën. Besides, Eskel was too busy worrying about the fact Geralt hadn’t been spotted on the trail yet to be useful, he’d be too distracted, a liability in a fight.
After making sure they were well equipped and ready to face most monsters that tended to settle around the keep, they made their way towards the lake, chatting quietly. It was cold at the top of the mountain and with every breath exhaled a little cloud escaped their mouth.
Lambert thought he was ready when he noticed the fog slowly forming amongst the trees and a minute head tilt from Coën told him he saw it too. He grabbed a Moon Dust bomb, unsheathed his silver sword and stopped moving so he could focus all his attention on his surroundings and detect where the foglets would come from.
He was not ready for the voice shouting his name to be Aiden’s.
Thank fuck for Coën.
By the time Lambert was able to shake himself and join the fight, one of the necrophages had gouged his right leg and it bled freely. He felt nothing.
Numb.
The instant the last of the foglets was dead, Lambert collapsed against a tree and sobbed like he hadn’t sobbed in well over fifty years, Coën a silent yet comforting presence sitting at his side.
Eventually, once Lambert had finally gained control over his lungs, set his head straight and tears had stopped running down his face, the Griffin would convince him to clean up the wound on his leg.
He did not need the reminder, he told himself.