Chapter Text
“The three of us get together, always ends like this…”
(Eskel, The Witcher III: Wild Hunt)
“Geralt…"
“Hm…?”
“Geralt!”
“…Coën? What are you doing here?”
“You tell me. I’m not the one sleeping in the woods with his cock out.”
“What?”
“Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing out here, we’ll talk by the fire, drinking a good beer-”
“Do not say beer anymore, or I’ll owe you a new pair of boots.”
“Understood. But I have to bring you back to the keep. Come on, Geralt…”
“My head’s spinning…”
“Being old is not easy, you know…”
“Fuck you, Coën. Where are Lambert and Eskel?”
“They’re going back already. Vesemir’s really pissed off this time, you made him worry for good. What the hell happened, Geralt?”
“I don’t remember, well, not everything. Just the beginning.”
“Very well, then tell me what you remember. It will be a small distraction, while we walk back. And it seems to be quite the adventure.”
“Where’s Coën?” Geralt asked, sitting at the table.
“A village in the valley needed a witcher,” Eskel replied, scratching the scar on his face, “Coën was in the mood, we were not. So, here we are.”
“Vesemir?”
“He’s cleaning his blade. Again.”
“You also should do it, Lambert,” Vesemir said, approaching. He sure was old, but damn, he was still as silent as a cat. “It is the sword that makes us what we are. If you don’t take care of it, it would be like you didn’t take care of yourself.”
“I take care of my sword. Wait, what sword are we talking about?” Lambert replied.
“It’s getting late,” Vesemir said, ignoring him. “I’m going to sleep. And you three, as full-grown and responsible adults, should do the same.”
“Sure, papa Vesemir,” Lambert replied, greeting him with his beer mug.
“As always,” said Eskel.
“Promised,” Geralt added.
Half an hour later, the three full-grown adults had finished the first round of beer, and were drinking the second. They would have gone for another one: the tradition wanted that every witcher would pour once for his comrades. So, three rounds of beer were the least, in that case. They weren’t drunk, but Eskel was claiming he had fucked a higher vampire in Vizima.
“That’s a brothel, mate.”
“Lambert's right," Geralt said, "anyone can fuck a vampire in that place, if they pay well."
Eskel pouted. "Well, did you find anything better? Sorceresses don't count."
"Why?" Geralt asked, drily.
"I'm making you a favour. If I fucked them, I'd have more than you in my list."
"I shall believe you once I see this so-called list."
"Enough of this crap," Lambert said, drinking his last sip. "Eskel, it's your turn. Pour, I want to drink."
Geralt didn't say a word, and the third round started. The three old friends kept talking about their adventures, about love and war. The beer just finished too quickly.
"Anything else to drink?" Geralt asked. He wanted something strong.
Lambert smiled. "I have something." He left for a couple of minutes, and came back with a bottle full of a transparent liquid.
“Aged Mahakam spirit!” he announced, excited.
Eskel looked at the liquor, then at Lambert, surprised.
“When did you get it?”
“Some time ago, in Mahakam, as a bonus reward for killing a bunch of harpies.”
Geralt grabbed the bottle to have a closer look. “If harpies always paid so well, I would go hunt them only.”
“Not so easy,” Lambert said, sitting at the table. “It was just luck. Customer was a dead drunk dwarf, and let me choose my reward. Otherwise he’d never give it up.”
“For fuck’s sake, Geralt,” Eskel said, still staring at the bottle, “less talk, more drink. Pour.”
Lambert moved faster. He took the bottle from Geralt’s hands and stood up. “Not so fast, my dear friends! This liquor is far too precious to be drunk and wasted in a dirty kitchen. Let’s take my boat. To the lake!”
“Lambert…” Geralt said.
“What? Don’t be the party pooper, for once.”
“No, I am, for once. Do you recall the last time we three drank together?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
Lambert snorted. “So what?”
Eskel, who had been silent, suddenly stood up, raising his hands to shut them up. “Let’s vote. What’s better than democracy?”
Geralt coldly glanced at him. “Better if you say what you want to do right away.”
“Let’s go out.”
“And then? What happened?” Coën asked, smiling. They were getting closer to the keep.
Geralt waited for the piercing headache to give him some rest, then talked again.
“I’m trying to remember. It’s not easy.”
“I know, I know…”
“Cheers!” Lambert said, getting up and making the boat swing, “to you bastards. I can’t stand you, but I love you anyway.”
He took another sip, and gave the liquor to Eskel. The bottle was half-empty.
“Damn. I’ll puke my guts out, I’m sure of it.”
“Eskel, my turn” Geralt said, mumbling. He drank all the spirit left. “What now?” he said then, looking around.
Lambert looked like he was just waiting for that question. “Now this.” He took a box from under the seat. Eskel was curious. Geralt wondered why he’d not noticed that box before. Damn he was getting drunk.
Lambert sure was a bit high. He took a couple of minutes and several curses to open that box. And then, finally, everyone had his own bottle of vodka.
Geralt took a long sip. The liquor burnt his throat and guts. “What were you saying, Eskel? In the keep. You were talking about a werewolf.”
“Yes, right. So… we were fighting. That bastard was fast. He knocked me down, his huge paws were pressing my chest. I was sure he’d rip my face out-”
Lambert burst out laughing. “Could your face be worse than this?”
“Ha ha, very funny. However, I won. I slashed his throat with my silver knife.”
Silence fell, and the three witchers drank again.
“How many werewolves did you kill?” Eskel asked, after a while.
Lambert snorted. “Who the hell knows? I lost count.”
“Me too,” Geralt said.
“And the strongest monster you fought? You sure remember that.”
“A huge elemental,” Lambert answered, lost in his memories. “I’ve almost broken my sword.”
“A higher vampire,” Geralt said, after a while. “I’ve met many vampires, but that one was the worst I’ve ever found. And for a shitty reward …”
“I beat you both,” Eskel said, suddenly.
Geralt was skeptical. “What do you mean?”
“A giant. That’s what I mean.”
Silence fell once again. Then Lambert laughed. A dry laugh, more like a barking. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Giants don’t exist anymore!”
Geralt agreed. “Lambert’s right. It must have been a cyclops. Maybe it was dark and you didn’t count its eyes.”
“It was dark, but I counted them well,” Eskel replied, offended, “and there were two eyes.”
“Impossible,” Lambert said, “I’m younger than you, but not stupid.”
Eskel got up, making the boat swing again. “It’s true! Give me a giant and I will cut it to pieces right here! Fuckers.”
Lambert jumped up angrily. He had finished his bottle, and was definitely drunk. The boat almost went upside down and so did Geralt’s stomach.
“Impossible! I won’t find any giant for you, because They don’t fucking exist!” Lambert was screaming.
“Sit down, both of you,” Geralt said, glaring at them. “I have no intention of throwing up on this old tub. I don’t care if Eskel has killed a fucking giant or not.”
Then suddenly he had an idea. Damn he was a genius. “I propose a challenge,” he said, while his two friends sat down again. “Let’s go to the north shore. Do you have a band, a lace?”
“I have some twine,” Eskel answered, skeptical.
“A leather lace,” Lambert said.
“Good. Once we get there, we’ll go through the caverns, till we reach Old Speartip’s cavern…”
Eskel interrupted him. “Are you crazy? Are you talking about that Speartip?”
Geralt sighed, annoyed. “Do you know another Speartip? You are the one who claims he killed a giant. Cyclops are smaller and dumber.”
“What’s the matter, Eskel?” Lambert asked, caustic, “shitting yourself? Old traumas?”
“Fuck you.”
Geralt ignored them. “Once we get there, that old fart will probably be sleeping. The first of us that ties his lace to one of Speartip’s fingers, wins.”
Eskel listened carefully and drank his last sip of vodka. “You know what?” he said then, “I’m on it. I’ve already won.”
“Don’t count on it,” Lambert said, taking three more bottles from the chest. “Come on, let’s drink. We need energy to face the good Old Speartip.”
“Energy? Vodka? Really?”
“Shut up, Coën.”
The sun was rising. Geralt had remembered too much already. Three pints of beer and one full bottle of vodka had shut his brain down. And not counting the Mahakam spirit.
They finally reached the keep. Lambert and Eskel were there, sitting at the table. The guilty table. Both of them were literally wrapped in wool blankets, and both of them seemed to be very confused.
“Where did you wake up?” Geralt asked, sitting heavily on the bench. Too heavily. His headache came back, stronger than ever, so strong that he winced and nearly puked.
Lambert answered with a grunt. Eskel did not answer at all. Coën was smiling; he looked like he was having fun. “Eskel was in the trolls’ cauldron, and Lambert…”
“Wait, what?” Geralt said.
“Yes, the trolls were saying ‘Troll eat bad witcha’, or something like that.”
Their dialogue was interrupted by Vesemir, who had walked in the room. He was carrying six swords.
Their swords.
“Those trolls might deserve these swords more than you do.”
“Vesemir…”
“Not a word, Wolf. There’s no need. I think this experience was enough for a lesson. Drink this now.” He gave them a vial. Geralt opened it and sniffed the content. White Honey. But there was something different in it.
“I added an ingredient to accelerate the effect and to help your brain work,” Vesemir explained.
There was no reason not to trust him. The three witchers drank the potion at once. Geralt’s stomach tried to flip over, and it was clear that Lambert and Eskel were experiencing the same, hideous sensation.
Meanwhile, Vesemir sat at the table too. “Now that you’re clearing your mind, would you please tell us what happened?”
It was not easy, but the White Honey was helping a lot. Finally, Geralt could remember another bottle of vodka. And all the adventures that came along with it.
Definitely he shouldn’t have remembered.