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Aiden is many, many things, Lambert has learned over the years.
Terrifyingly, attractively competent with swords and daggers. A world-class sneak. An excellent cook. Surprisingly intense about his morals, as skewed as they may be. Disgustingly charming. Prettier than should be allowed for a witcher of his age.
A godawful alchemist Lambert is surprised didn’t manage to poison himself to death long before they ever met. An impulsive thief. An unhesitating killer. An incorrigible flirt. An absolute bastard when he decides to be.
One of the best men Lambert has ever known.
Currently, Aiden is a drunk idiot seemingly convinced Lambert is a convenient piece of furniture or perhaps a particularly large child’s comfort toy, if the way he’s forgotten the sanctity of separate seats on the bench they’re sitting on and sprawled himself halfway into Lambert’s lap, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other around his waist and face pressed insistently into the junction of his neck and shoulder is any indication.
Lambert told him that challenging Geralt and Eskel to a drinking contest was dumb. He’s tried it himself enough times that he really should have listened to him. But he didn’t, and now he’s a drunk idiot trying unsuccessfully to merge himself with Lambert’s person while on the other side of the table Eskel sits with his head buried in his arms and Geralt tries to pretend he isn’t fighting the urge to copy exactly what Aiden is doing with Jaskier–Lambert has been watching him clench his fists and stare longingly at the bard he’s brought up the mountain five times now for better part of the last hour. It’s awful. It’s disgusting. It’s really, really sad, honestly.
Of course, Lambert might have joined them in their contest anyway, but he already woke up this morning feeling the after effects of too much White Gull, so he–wisely–decided to pass.
Besides, someone should be able to think tomorrow morning. Aiden’s old man constitution surely won’t do him any favors when the sun comes up, even if right now he’s perfectly content, purring so loudly Lambert would almost think he was doing it to drown out any other sound.
“I was wondering,” Jaskier says across the table, breaking the momentary silence. He’s leaning against Geralt’s side like it’s his gods-given right to do it, a glass of wine cradled in one hand, “I saw–when I was reorganizing some of the journals in the library, there was one that mentioned something called a,” Jaskier squints, as though trying to read the name off of a memory of a page, “...Metinnese Devil?”
Eskel draws in a breath and lifts his head up.
“Jaskier–” Geralt starts.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, cutting him off. Geralt frowns but stops speaking. Jaskier turns slightly to look at him, pulling away from him and frowning. “You said to ask later. It’s later now and I still want to know.”
Geralt looks down at him. Lambert sees the second he crumbles faced with the pipsqueak of a bard–admittedly a pipsqueak that has gotten quite lethal with a dagger in the last several years of training during the winters, but Jaskier is still just a bard–obvious as it is as he slumps and looks away. He hums an unhappy note.
He’s undoubtedly pouting. It’s fucking pathetic, if you were to ask Lambert.
Jaskier smiles and turns back to him. “So! What kind of monster is this devil and why doesn’t Geralt want me to know about it? Is it very rare? Very dangerous? I’ve never even heard of it before.”
Lambert scoffs. He picks up his tankard to take a drink–a distillation of his own and a very good one if he says so himself–moving only the arm that hasn’t ended up slung around Aiden’s waist and as little of the rest of him as possible to avoid dislodging him. As if he could, as glued to him as Aiden is.
“Pretty boy probably just didn’t want you to have nightmares with your constitution,” Lambert teases. Jaskier rolls his eyes at the admittedly low-effort dig, but doesn’t otherwise respond. “And the Metinnese Devil wasn’t a what, it was a who.”
Jaskier’s eyes light up in interest. “Oh, it’s a person?” he asks. Then he blinks. “Oh. Was. Did something…?”
“Nobody has heard from the fucker in years,” Lambert says. “Last time was probably before you were even born.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says, frowning. He makes a face. “But then why would I be scared of a man who is long dead?”
“He might not be,” Lambert says. He feels Aiden shift where he’s pressed into his side, his shoulders shaking and arms tightening around him. He makes a mental note to make sure he pries himself away from him long enough to make sure the fire in their room will burn through the night when he they eventually stumble their way to bed. Because he doesn’t want to listen to Aiden complain about how the cold makes his joints hurt, obviously. No other reason. “His death was never confirmed.”
Lambert feels Aiden shift again, only this time it’s to separate himself from him enough to look at Jaskier, a wide, mischievous grin on his face.
“Who knows,” Aiden says. “Maybe he’s still alive, biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to snatch a little bard away for himself.”
Jaskier scoffs. “I doubt he could get me here, even if he were still alive,” he says with all the reckless confidence of someone entirely sure of their safety.
Aiden laughs. His grin widens. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, little song bird,” he says. “This keep can be just as much a cage as a safe haven, this time of year.”
Geralt is glaring at Aiden, probably because he’s obviously trying to scare his bard. Too bad for him, Lambert thinks that’s hilarious. He glares back at him.
“And he’s–what? Going to make it through the snowed over pass just to get to me?” Jaskier asks, doubtful.
Geralt growls. “He’d have to get through me, too,” he says, looking pointedly at Aiden.
Which–Lambert wasn’t thinking of it before, but it would be a pretty great prank, abducting Jaskier from right under his nose. They could even get Jaskier in on it, maybe, after scaring him a little….
Aiden smiles innocently back at Geralt. “Of course,” he agrees.
It only makes Geralt bristle, at least until Jaskier reaches over and pats his arm absentmindedly.
“I have a hard time believing that I’m in any danger from this Devil,” Jaskier says. “Especially if it’s true that no one has heard from him in decades. I doubt he’s going to suddenly pop out here, of all places, after all this time.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Aiden says, cryptically. Jaskier frowns, squinting at him suspiciously.
“The Metinnese Devil’s specialty was doing things that should have been fucking impossible,” Lambert says, digging in his memory for something to support the prank Aiden is obviously setting up. “Well, aside from the killings.”
Jaskier looks at him in wary interest. “Killings? Who exactly was this Devil? What did he do?”
“He was the bogeyman of the south,” Eskel props himself up to say. He looks haunted in a way that makes Lambert wonder what the hell could have happened to him regarding the Devil before he disappeared. “He broke into high security vaults, stole priceless artifacts, stole people, all without anyone ever seeing him and living to tell the tale.”
Jaskier makes a face. “I suppose that isn’t–good, but I still don’t think we’re in any danger from him. And it’s not as though this Devil is the only person to have ever done all of that.”
“No,” Eskel agrees solemnly. “But he was the most prolific, and the most dangerous.” He shivers. “You don’t understand. Mothers frightened their children with his name. There was nowhere you could be sure you were safe from him. He stole a Nilfgaardian general right out of the center of their camp when they were at war with Metinna.” Eskel swallows, lifting a hand to rub at his neck. “He could sneak up on you, get so close he could slit your throat if he wanted to, and you’d be none the wiser.”
“Huh,” Jaskier says. He looks almost like he’s reconsidering his confidence in his safety before he shakes himself. “Okay. But did he ever do anything interesting?”
Eskel blinks, pausing as a confused expression passes over his face. Aiden, though, stops frowning contemplatively at Eskel as he’s been doing since he started speaking to brighten and say, “Oh, yes. Loads.”
“Like…?” Jaskier prompts when Aiden simply smiles at him and doesn’t elaborate.
Aiden hums and tilts his head. “Do you want to hear about the more interesting assassinations, the abductions, or the thefts?” he asks, as though that’s a normal thing to ask someone. Lambert can’t help but to look over at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing.
Jaskier blinks. “...One of the thefts?” He says. It comes out as a question.
“Alright,” Aiden says. He leans in conspiratorially. “Did you know the Metinnese Devil stole the Sunrise Emerald straight out of its vault?”
Jaskier’s eyebrows fly up. He leans forward, interested. “The Sunrise Emerald that went missing seventy years ago?”
Aiden nods. “The very same,” he confirms, grinning.
Aiden starts spinning the tale, then. One that, the longer it goes on, the more Lambert recognizes.
It’s a story Aiden has told him about his own escapades before they met, Lambert realizes, only shifted to be about the Metinnese Devil and the Sunrise Emerald instead of about himself and whatever gemstone it was that he was bragging about having stolen when they were both drunk off dwarven spirits underneath the stars.
Lambert is almost surprised it’s not a story Jaskier has managed to finagle out Aiden before, but then Aiden never has much liked talking about the more dramatic things he got up to before they met, except for when he’s drunk or in the quiet moments before they fall asleep. Not that Lambert can blame him–there’s plenty of shit he’s done or had done to him he doesn’t want to just bring up, and Aiden is much older than him.
By the end of it, Jaskier has put down his wine glass and gotten out the journal and stick of charcoal he always keeps about his person–because inspiration is rarely convenient, he always says.
Geralt and Eskel, however, are looking at him strangely.
“You know a lot about the Devil,” Geralt says.
A strange look flashes over Aiden’s face, there and gone in a second before smiles prettily at him. “Is that a crime?”
Geralt hums, looking at him suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything else.
Jaskier, though, tilts his head consideringly at that. After a moment, he asks, “Did you know him?”
Aiden hums. “You could say that,” he says, grin turning sly and secretive.
Jaskier gasps. “Who was it?”
“Now, Jaskier,” Aiden says, chiding. “That would be telling.”
Jaskier pouts. “But surely there’s something you can tell me? Just a hint?”
When Aiden just smiles in response to his puppy eyes, Jaskier huffs and looks around the table at the rest of them. “Were there any popular theories about who the Devil was, at least?” he asks.
Almost as one, they all turn to look somewhat awkwardly at Aiden. Jaskier notices, looking at them curiously.
Eskel clears his throat. He coughs. “One of the more popular theories was that the Devil was a witcher.” He says. He pauses. Then, “A Cat.” After a moment, he adds, “Or a Viper, possibly.”
From what Lambert had gleaned from the gossip he’d heard on the subject when he was younger, the work was allegedly said to match that of one of the Schools. And, well, Metinna was closer to the Stygga in Ebbing than it was to Gorthur Gvaed, more in line with Cat territory than Viper. And then the Devil disappeared shortly before the absolute shitshow that was the Tournament that sparked the blood feud between the Cats and the Wolves. The timing alone, even if it wasn’t proof per se, had been taken as tacit confirmation of the Devil’s identity, at least among the Wolves.
Next to him, a wrinkle appears in Aiden’s forehead for a moment before it smooths out.
Jaskier’s eyes drop down to the Cat medallion hanging around Aiden’s throat.
“Oh,” he says. He looks up. “But the Metinnese Devil is dead, right? No one has heard from him in decades?”
“Yes,” Eskel confirms hesitantly. “He’s dead.” Quieter, he adds, “He has to be.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Geralt drags his tankard closer to brood into it. Jaskier frowns contemplatively. Eskel stares at the table with haunted eyes. Lambert subtly shifts so he can lean his shoulder against Aiden.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lambert watches Aiden look at each of them in turn, brow furrowed. His frown gets deeper the longer they stay silent.
“Alright,” Aiden says finally, breaking the silence. “I thought I knew what we were doing, but it’s starting to seem like I don’t.” He looks around, almost nervous. “So, sorry to ruin the joke, but–why are we all talking about me like I’m dead?”
Lambert looks at him. “What? We aren’t talking about you, dumbass,” he says. “We’re talking about the Metinnese Devil.”
Aiden must be even drunker than Lambert thought for him to be losing the thread of their conversation this quickly. Lambert is glad all over again he chose to limit himself. Aiden will hardly be able to walk in the morning if he’s this hammered now.
Aiden squints at him like he’s trying to figure out some kind of complex puzzle.
“Yes,” Aiden says slowly. “The Metinnese Devil. Which is me.”
Lambert stills. He stares, Aiden’s confused face looking back at him.
“Or, rather, it was.” Aiden tacks on when no one says anything. “It’s been a long time, as we’ve said.”
“...What?” Lambert asks. He’s so confused he can’t even swear about it. He glances down at his tankard, wondering if maybe his brew was more off than he thought it was.
There’s echoing noises of confusion across the table. Lambert doesn’t pay any attention to them.
Aiden looks around. His brow pinches. “Was that not…?” He stops himself there, humming.
Jaskier recovers first. “You’re the Metinnese Devil?” he asks, eyes bright with interest.
Jaskier leans forward, only to be stopped by Geralt grabbing his shoulder. Jaskier frowns and slaps at the offending hand.
“Geralt, stop it,” he chides, like Geralt is a misbehaving toddler. “Let go.” With one final, sharp hit across his knuckles, Geralt releases him, looking almost shocked at himself for having done so.
“Honestly,” Jaskier huffs. “It’s not like Aiden is going to hurt me.”
Geralt hums. Jaskier turns on him like he’d hurled an insult, shoving at him. “Don’t you hmm me,” he says, mimicking Geralt’s hum almost exactly, “I’ve been alone with Aiden countless times and he hasn’t hurt me once. You don’t get to start treating him like a threat again now.”
Because Lambert is still watching him, he sees the way Aiden’s eyes go wide, then soft at Jaskier defending him, almost like he didn’t expect it, despite the many, many times Jaskier has gotten on Geralt’s ass about being a dick to him.
Lambert frowns. It pisses him off, actually. Aiden shouldn’t have to be scared that their opinion of him is suddenly going to change because of someone he hasn’t been in decades. Aiden is a good man right now today, no matter how he got there or how long it took, and Lambert would trust him with his back without hesitation, does trust him with it. He’s earned it, over and over and over again.
“Piss off, Pretty Boy,” Lambert snaps at Geralt. “Right now I’m more likely to jump over this table and cave your face in if you don’t shut the hell up than Aiden is.”
Jaskier nods approvingly. “Aiden is still the same person we knew yesterday, not the person he was years ago,” he says. He smiles then, sharp and pointed, like an arrow aimed straight at his heart. “Unless you think we all should be judged on the mistakes of our pasts?”
Geralt clenches his jaw. He looks away. Jaskier smiles.
“Good,” Jaskier says. He eyes Geralt, then Eskel, who has yet to say anything but is stuck staring at Aiden like he’s trapped in a nightmare. “Now that that’s settled, I suppose the most important question is: would you go back to being the Devil?”
Aiden grins, and it’s the first one Lambert has seen on his face since he decided to drop a bomb on the table. His eyes twinkle mischievously.
“Truthfully, I couldn’t,” Aiden says. He looks at Lambert. Something in his expression goes soft and gooey and warm. It makes Lambert want to punch him in the mouth. Maybe with his own mouth. “It would make Lambert upset.”
It doesn’t even sound like a lie.
Jaskier coos at the answer. Lambert tries to ignore the burning feeling in his ears, taking a drink from his tankard instead.
Geralt looks up. He looks at Aiden suspiciously.
“Does Vesemir know that you were the Metinnese Devil?” he asks.
Lambert feels something cold drop into his stomach. He had been unsure of Aiden’s welcome when he’d brought him to Kaer Morhen that first time just knowing he was bringing a Cat. This is the fifth year that Aiden has spent with them and Vesemir hasn’t thrown him out yet, but if he didn’t know and they told him–
“Vesemir knows,” Aiden says, like that’s not earth-shattering information. “We talked about it the first day.”
“Vesemir knows?” Lambert says. “How in the fuck does Vesemir know?!”
Aiden opens his mouth.
“Shut up,” Lambert snaps immediately. Whatever Aiden says is going to piss him off, he can just tell.
Aiden closes his mouth.
“More importantly,” Lambert says, thinking of a much better question. “Why the fuck did I not know this about you?”
Aiden blinks. He takes a moment to look around the table, contemplative. “...You guys really didn’t know?” he ventures. “At all?”
“No,” Lambert says flatly. “But who cares about them? Why didn’t I know about this?”
Aiden sits back. “Huh,” he says. It’s a soft, surprised sound. Lambert's eye twitches. “I really thought Sorel would have snitched. I guess he didn’t after all.” He shrugs. “Glad I didn’t end up tracking him down, then.”
“Sorel–” Lambert says, frustration creeping into his tone. He chooses not to ask why Aiden would have thought about tracking down a man he thought would snitch on him and instead focusing on why that would have meant Lambert would know the real name of the Metinnese Devil. “Who the fuck is that and why should I know him?”
Aiden frowns. His eyebrows pinch together. “Didn’t you?” he asks. “He was a Wolf back then and I don’t think he would have defected…. He was certainly aligned with your values enough to storm off when he found out.”
Lambert stares at him for a long moment. His voice comes out half-strangled to death. “Sorel as in Trainer Sorel?”
Aiden brightens. “Oh! So he did become a Trainer like he talked about? That’s great!” Aiden says, smiling. Then he winces, smile dimming, and makes a vague gesture at the empty hall they’re in and probably also the ruins of the keep as a whole. “Well–not, you know, now, but–” he waves the thought away. “Makes sense why I never saw him on the Path again even before. I thought he was just avoiding me.”
Lambert hears a gasp and then Eskel’s haunted voice mutter something about Sorel and never wanting to leave the castle.
Lambert thinks he half remembers a fragment of a rumor about him. Sorel was hardly the worst Trainer in the keep–he was all about order and following rules and acting honorably or some shit that Lambert hated as a kid but at least his punishments were tolerable–so he never paid much attention to the older witcher. But he does remember that Sorel wasn’t young so much as he was much younger than most of the other Trainers. His reasons for choosing to forgo his seasons on the Path so early in favor of staying to train the newest candidates were often debated.
There were many stories, most half-baked or impossible. It was rumored that he pissed off the king of Kaedwen and would be beheaded the moment he stepped down from the mountain, that he had died young and was a ghost forever doomed to wander the halls of Kaer Morhen, that he was cursed. The most prevalent rumor was that Sorel had a scorned ex-lover he was hiding from.
“How did you know Sorel?” Lambert demands before he can think better of it.
Lambert watches as a glint enters Aiden’s eyes and his smile turns downright lecherous and feels a shiver down his spine, something like the screaming making itself known in the depths of his hindbrain.
“Do not answer that,” Lambert snaps just as Aiden opens his mouth to stay something that would doubtlessly scar him for the rest of his hopefully very long life.
Aiden pauses with his mouth open. Lambert watches him consider saying it anyway, but eventually he just chuckles and leans his head onto one of his hands, arm propped up on the table.
“Lambert,” Aiden says, amused. “Surely you know that I had a long life before I met you. It’s not as though I popped up out of the ground on the very day we met with the express purpose of falling in love with you.”
Lambert scowls at him. Contrarian that he is, it only makes Aiden melt, expression going all soft and affectionate and disgusting.
Aiden lifts a hand to cup Lambert’s cheek, his thumb petting over his skin. “Though I suppose I can’t blame you for forgetting. I certainly fell hard enough that I might as well have.”
Lambert feels the tips of his ears burn. He shoves Aiden off the bench.
Aiden doesn’t fight him at all, which is probably the only reason Lambert manages to unseat him. He hits the ground with a soft oof. Lambert can only watch, ears continuing to burn, as he curls up on his side and honest-to-gods starts giggling.
Lambert presses one hand against his eyes, turning away from the idiot on the floor to lean against the table.
“I hate you,” he grumbles.
“You don’t,” Aiden sing-songs through his giggles, the same way he always, always does.
Lambert sighs, though it comes out more like a groan. He collapses forward, burying his face in his arms.
Very, very quietly, he says, “I don’t.”
Just like he always does.