Chapter Text
Geralt comes to slowly, sluggishly, almost.
His eyes open to complete darkness. Fully dilated, they catch but sketchy lines of rock and wooden beams above him – his mind, somewhere between sleep and consciousness, supplies home and safe and mine until it reaches Kaer Morhen, and Geralt shifts, sinks deeper into the covers.
They're warm and smell of his brothers – home, safe, mine – and only then does his drowsy senses register soft movements: an arm slung across his waist, a slack hand over his heart, two sets of lungs breathing aside of his own, deep and even. Slumbering still.
Geralt smiles without thinking.
It's been years, decades, since he woke up like this. It brings memories of cold winters and anxious mornings, the kind brought on by rapid change and a body that's unlike him, now – but also of long nights spent with wild tales and hushed laughter, three pairs of golden eyes glinting in the dark.
Vesemir used to scold them for staying up till the break of dawn. Despite the harsh words, his gaze had been fond, amused even.
Geralt lingers on that memory, longer than he could before; the expected ache in his chest is... less, out of reach if only barely, and so are the thoughts of the previous day. Lurking, ready to pounce.
Carefully, the witcher turns his head until his chin grazes short hair – rough, calloused fingers twitch against his side, then tighten. “Can hear you thinkin'”, Lambert's voice is low, heavy with sleep. He scoots closer and under Geralt's arm, plastered shoulder to hip against him.
“T'morrow, 'kay?”
To his right, Eskel stirs as well; light as a bird's feather, his lashes flutter against Geralt's skin. He rumbles “Go back t' sleep” into the crook of his neck, his knuckles rubbing over the center of his chest.
And Geralt does, the dual heartbeat to either side of him assuring no dreams will come.
*
“Ah, finally! Sleeping Beauty comes down from his tower.”
Geralt yawns heartily and rubs his eyes to soothe the headache throbbing behind them. Too much sleep, too little food, residue alcohol – his body is abuzz with signs of week-long deprivation. Geralt ignores them.
“Aren't you mixing metaphors?”, Eskel asks lightly from where he leans against a pillar, methodically shoveling what looks like oatmeal gruel into his mouth.
Lambert points his dripping spoon in Geralt's direction. “Maybe. Hair's almost long enough to fit both, though.”
There's ample left in the quickly-cooling pot. Geralt sniffs it, “Hm. Made by Eskel”, he notes idly, serving himself some.
Eskel's squinting at him when he starts eating. “What's that supposed to mean?” His tone is defensive to the point of sounding petulant. Geralt is intelligent enough to change the subject.
“How long was I out?”
Mouth full of gruel, his words come out a little messy. Neither of them particularly minds.
“All day”, Lambert answers before Eskel can. “Hogged the blankets, too.”
“I was cold.”
Eskel raises an eyebrow, his scars pulling taut. “Horseshit. You think witcher's would've settled here if we minded the cold?”
Geralt huffs. The phantom feeling of frost crawling up his neck makes his hands turn to fists, a desert of blue-ish ice flashing in his mind. “Perhaps.”
The rest of his meal is finished in pensive silence; around him, Eskel and Lambert keep bickering, until Lambert's voice rises, “Oh c'mon!”, and Eskel crosses his arms, gaze firm.
“The keep's stores are empty and whatever was left behind is rotten or worse. We need supplies.”
“Fine. I'll take fishing, you go hunt. Another day in the saddle and I'll go fucking insane.”
Eskel shrugs. “Fine with me. Scorpion's legs could use a stretch anyways.”
Cracking his neck, Geralt rejoins them. “I'll come with”, he says, and doesn't miss the short glance between them. This time he does roll his eyes. “Cut it out, I'm not gonna fucking break. That boat of yours still working?”
The question is aimed at Lambert, who smirks. “Of course. I built it, remember?”
Eskel nods. “Then it's decided. Be back by nightfall?”
“So long”, Geralt replies automatically, Lambert already off to search for their gear.
*
The sun is high in the sky when the lake comes into view, the pleasantly warm temperature carrying along the last vestiges of summer.
Despite his earlier complaint, Lambert had agreed to take the horses even if just to give them something else to look at other than the dusty stable walls. Roach had let out a joyous whicker upon Geralt's entrance, playfully nibbling at his hair – he ruffled her mane and greeted her also, mumbling sweet nothings that made Lambert scoff from where he was preparing his own horse.
There was no snarky follow-up, however. Still tiptoeing around me, Geralt noted silently, mulling it over on their way down the valley.
The water is near-translucent, bouncing off sunlight on glinting waves; dismounting Roach, Geralt blinks against the sudden brightness in front of him, so distracted the mare pulls at her reins impatiently, eyes and ears pointed at a juicy-looking patch of grass.
“Okay, okay, I got it. There.”
Lambert chuckles from where he's taking their fishing rods and a suspiciously rounded satchel out of his horse's saddle bags. “Aiden's the same... Greedy beasts, them”, he comments as he dumps it all into the boat that awaits them, firmly tethered this time.
There's a moment of hesitation on Geralt's part before he quietly asks, “Aiden, huh?”, and Lambert's gaze drops down and away.
“...Yeah. Hurry up, the bombs are getting stale.”
An echo from a lifetime ago, drop 'em in and scoop up whatever floats to the surface, and Geralt cracks an involuntary smile.
“Wait, you actually do that?”
As if nothing happened, Lambert mocks, “'You actually do that?'”, giving him a disbelieving look. “We've known each other for how long again? C'mon Wolf, give me some credit. It works. End of story.”
“Huh.” Geralt shrugs. “How 'bout we fish, y'know, like normal people, and then blow everything up? Don't feel like eating a side of gunpowder later.”
“Always gotta nag, don't ya? You have such a talent to turn anything fun into some boring, normal people, old man chore–”
“It's called 'common sense'. Look it up sometime, could blow your mind, though.”
Lambert's annoyed grimace is severe enough to show his teeth.
“Ugh just... shut up and get in the boat. Else I'll have to deal with two nagging old witchers tonight, and that's too cruel a fate even for me.”
*
A short while later finds them all set up in the middle of the lake; bait in the water, Geralt makes himself comfortable for a long wait, legs crossed, knees touching the railing, eyes roaming the view of the mountains to the North. The horizon is a sharp line between snowy white and spotless blue.
Something inside him softens. I missed this.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
Lambert's voice is, for once, free of sarcasm or bitterness. After spreading out as far as his half of the boat lets him, he cautiously leans his back against Geralt's and relaxes when he balances his weight automatically, readily accepting the touch.
“Yeah. Must've forgotten to look last time I was here. Damn mist didn't make things easier.”
“Not to forget that whole saving-the-world business.”
“Little hard to forget that”, Geralt muses grimly. He exhales, then, resting the back of his head on Lambert's shoulder. Clouds drift by, pushed along by a gentle breeze.
“Why do we keep doing this?”
“What do you mean?”
If Lambert is surprised his measured tone doesn't show it. Geralt tosses and turns words in his mind, looking for the right ones to express the vague feeling of not-quite-right in his gut.
“Witchering, I guess.” He hums to buy himself more time to think. “Leaving Kaer Morhen. Being on the Path. Accepting contracts. Different faces, same monsters, over and over. Helping people and getting nothing in return. It all seems so... pointless now.”
The last part is a quiet murmur but it's heard regardless. “Money”, says Lambert with a shrug, and it's not the reaction Geralt expected. “Gotta survive, keep moving. 's a shitty life but it's better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Dying.”
Quick, without hesitation, like a viper's strike. Geralt forces himself to pause, to consider his words despite the way his stomach drops.
Lambert shifts, slow as to not dislodge him.
“Look. I might not be the biggest fan of the job, 'kay? That's more Vesemir's thing.” A pause. “Was. Whatever. My point is: Killing monsters, taking coin for it – that's why we're here. Doesn't mean that's all it's gotta be, though.”
He sighs loudly. Getting annoyed, or steeling himself? Geralt waits.
“When Aiden and I were, hm, partners? I don't know... No, shut up, let me finish.”
Geralt's mouth shuts again.
“Thanks. So, two witchers, double the coin, right? Means we got the real nasty shit. A pair of archgriffins here, ancient leshens there. Some sick fuck wanted us to catch a fiend, for some reason. A huge one, too. We tried, pissed it off, almost died, ended up killing it. Didn't get paid, of course.”
Lambert huffs, shakes his head.
“Anyways. After a while Aiden must've gotten tired of my bitching because he said the exact same thing I'm telling you now. Got all in my face like, and yet you live, so stop complaining and make it worth the while”, his voice lowers an octave, an imitation but a fond one.
“Then he dropped my ass in front of the inn and rode off.”
“Were you pissed?”
Lambert's laugh is strained.
“Oh, you bet. Fucking furious, in fact. Still waited up all night for him; stared out the window like some grieving widow but he didn't show. He left me to stew on it for a full week. And when he returned, I finally got what he meant. You know?”
He remembers sitting by a fire on an abandoned island, barely blinking as he took in green eyes and ashen hair and a wound faded to a thin scar–
Geralt closes his eyes and nods.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Go back to that when you lose your way. Every single day, if you have to.”
There's grief in Lambert's voice, out of hiding and clear as day; but there's strength there, as well, and stubborn determination, the back pressed against his refusing to bow down a single inch.
Sudden, fierce pride warms Geralt's chest. His little brother has gone a long way since they met – maybe he doesn't need them anymore, him and Eskel, but Geralt's grateful that he came back for him all the same.
And that he stayed, after Geralt–
“Lambert.”
“Hmm?”
“I'm sorry. For going after you when–“
Lambert moves, leans forward and Geralt's hand shoots forward to catch himself against the railing. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds the other witcher smiling sweetly, golden eyes glinting with sly mirth.
And then he's pushed off the boat in one big, graceless splash. Geralt is quick to swim back up, already glaring through wet strands of hair before he even broke the water's surface; elbows on the railing, Lambert's head is pillowed on his arms. The picture of innocence.
“Okay, I deserved that.”
"Yup. We're even." Lambert lets out an amused breath. "And sadly, all the fishes are now gone. Eskel will be angry. Unless–”
“–We use the bombs, yeah, yeah. Am I allowed back on the boat now or...?”
“Guess.”
Geralt groans. “Right. See you back on shore.”
*
Days pass, then a week.
Life in Kaer Morhen comes easy to the witchers: countless winters they spent here, and the longer they stay, the more likely it gets they will remain for the one to come, as well.
At least Geralt will.
He doesn't really have anywhere else to go – there's Novigrad, sure, and as much as he'd like to see Zoltan and Dandelion again, the past months haunt him enough without retracing his own steps. He said as much in the letter Lambert bullied him into writing. “We wouldn't have known otherwise”, Eskel concurred, and his somber tone was the final blow to Geralt's resistance.
Once he had climbed the many stairs to the keep's highest point and sent a pigeon – one of the pitiful few that survived by themselves –, some of his restlessness had fallen away. The bird had gradually disappeared, carrying Geralt's words on swift wings.
The air starts to taste of snow: the valley is due to freeze over soon, and while his brothers glance at the heavy clouds now and then, none of them makes a move to leave. Instead, they take turns gathering supplies and patching up Kaer Morhen's crumbling walls, the memory of those they lost a physical presence in every stone and wooden plank keeping it all together.
It's... easier to bear, in a sense, every drop of sweat and every second invested a tribute to their sacrifice. Yet the keep was made for dozens of them, not just three – some days are wasted together, sitting and drinking and soaking in each other's company until hunger drives them out the gates again.
One of such days, Eskel watches Geralt tend to his swords, every movement executed with experienced hands. “What happened there?”, he asks eventually and Geralt stills. His gaze follows Eskel's.
Ah.
Running two fingers over the notches in otherwise flawless silver, Geralt answers, “Eredin, I think. Put up a tough fight. I wouldn't be here without this”, and lowers the sword so Eskel can take a closer look.
“Huh. May I?”
“Go ahead.”
Every witcher has their own way of trying out a sword: Geralt usually goes through a few of Vesemir's old routines to check the weight and balance; Eskel checks the sword's length and manoeuvrability, however, quick strikes and switching hands according to his more sign-based style.
“Got some fine work there. Wolven design, right?” Eskel appreciates the twisted wolf heads that make up the pommel. “Think you can get it repaired? Real shame to let it go to waste.”
“Hope so.” Geralt shrugs. “Got it made from this blacksmith in Novigrad. Owe him a visit next spring anyways, armor needs some patching up as well.”
“Might tag along, then. Treat myself to some new gear.”
They share a smile. Geralt takes the offered sword back. “Sure.”
Getting back to work, it only takes a few minutes to finish oiling both weapons. The steel sword goes through a similar trial by Eskel, gaining his approval also – Geralt reaches for it and Eskel's grip tightens on the hilt, the positioning close to a fighting stance.
“Rematch?”
Geralt's brows rise along with the corners of his mouth. His mind jumps years back, when Eskel had asked the exact same question, and the countless times before that.
“Again?”
The sword bobs in a come hither motion.
“Fine. Get your own sword, though, that one's mine.”
A second longer and Eskel flips it over, the symbol of their school pointed at Geralt. “Meet you outside, White Wolf.”
*
Heavy boots stir the thin blanket of snow over the courtyard. Tightening the broad leather strap across his chest, Geralt rolls his shoulders now covered by his armor; after months of constant wear, it's an extension of his body, even if it's the first time he's donned the full set in a while.
Eskel is similarly dressed, cracking his knuckles before he draws his sword with his right. “Signs or no signs?”, he calls over.
“Signs.”
Eskel's sword switches hands. “Sweet.” He waits. Geralt takes his own weapon in hand, falling into a defensive position by default. He nods.
Not a second later Eskel is upon him, right hand alight with Igni – Geralt's Quen takes the brunt of it and breaks, its golden fragments giving him a window to strike. Eskel parries and backs off, grinning.
Not a single word passes between them as they clash again and again, swords singing along to their dance; Geralt is faster but only by a narrow margin, the advantage countered by Eskel's powerful blows carefully measured to keep opponents on their toes without burning too much energy.
Then, with their panted breaths clouding in the cold, they circle each other like hungry wolves, slitted pupils dashing left to right, looking for an opening. Geralt's vision narrows on Eskel's side, the backhand carry of his sword leaving it momentarily unprotected; he makes his move in one, two, three rapid strides–
A distant boom crashes through his focus, eyes widening, muscles freezing up. Geralt's head snaps up, towards it, I know that sound–
A prick of pain blooms on his stomach but to Geralt it's a distant sensation: his thoughts tumble apart, his mind a constant chant of Ciri Ciri Ciri that steals his breath.
“–wrong? Geralt! Snap out of it!”
“It's her”, Geralt whispers – and everything falls into place as he runs, sword dropped and forgotten, the sharp sting of snow against his heated body spurring him on. An instant later the smell of magic hits his senses as his medallion jerks, warns him of a danger he'll wholeheartedly embrace if only–
The frozen ground below is slippery, making him stumble around the corner; Geralt rights himself against the bars of Kaer Morhen's gate, looking up, searching, near-frantic–
The air flickers where a portal is closing, in its midst a shadow stepping into the light – green eyes and ashen hair and a fading scar – and Geralt's knees buckle, the beat of his heart leaping into his throat, choking him.
“Geralt? Gods, Geralt–“
His world shifts, aligns itself as something – someone, Ciri, Ciri – barrels into him and they tumble down together. Geralt's arms wrap around her on instinct, crushing her close, face buried in the space between her neck and shoulder.
She laughs, breathless and wet with tears, before she starts to shake. “Sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried, I couldn't, Geralt–“
Geralt shushes her, “'s okay, 'm here”, one hand on her back and another in her hair, steadying her and himself, “You're home now–“
And with his brothers at his back and his daughter in his arms, Geralt is too.