Pipetting Hand Disease @ekiira - Tumblr Blog

Mar 8

Reset the Wounds

Lambert & Regis, Lambert/Aiden | 8,884 words, T | AO3 | for the @witcher-minibang | special thanks to @endymionatlatmus for betareading!

The night was tempestuous, yet the healer heard the knocking above the rattle of his shutters.

He rose without hesitation; whoever came to him at this hour certainly didn’t do so for trivial reasons. To his surprise, the figure slumped on his doorstep was no villager, and the man’s injuries spoke of far more than fever or a careless slip in the fields. Rather, who was soaking the modest doormat with blood was no ordinary man—it was a witcher.

Without a word, he reached out and supported the wounded man until they reached a niche in the room with a waist-high, handcrafted table he used for examination. During the day, the south-facing window provided light; now he quickly lit the numerous candles on the shelves. Finally, he turned back to the witcher, crouched on the cot, lips pressed together to suppress a groan.

“Lambert, right?”

The witcher regarded him with undisguised surprise.

“How’d you know?” he asked, as the man began to remove his armor and carefully examine his wounds, clicking his tongue in a peculiar way.

“Oh,” replied the other absentmindedly, completely absorbed in his work, “Geralt has told me a lot about you.”

Lambert flinched; it was clear that his first impulse was to push back the healer's long, slender fingers. He didn't, because it was obvious that the man knew his craft. Nevertheless, mistrust dripped from his voice like blood from his wounds.

“How would you know Geralt?”

The healer worked steadily to peel the witcher out of his clothes, and the repeated shaking of his head could have been a clue to Lambert about the seriousness of his injuries, if he hadn’t already known.

“I won’t insult you by pointing out the obvious,” he said as he rummaged through a table for his tools.

“Few physicians have ever treated a witcher before, even though we're probably good customers,” Lambert grumbled.

“Certainly, you've become too rare for that—no offense. But as for Geralt, well. We've known each other for a very long time. You could probably call us friends.”

Lambert cursed when cold metal touched his side, but there was more surprise than pain in his voice. He jerked back a little on the cot.

“You're not serious. You're Regis?”

“I see you are as perceptive as Geralt described you,” Regis replied calmly. “But he seems to have forgotten to describe me to you in equal detail. I can assure you that I pose no danger.”

“You're a vampire.”

Admittedly, with a bloody rag in his hand and his mouth open in a slightly broader smile than usual, Regis did not look particularly trustworthy—although the rest of his appearance made him seem like nothing more than an ordinary and friendly older gentleman. His black garments were simple but with a touch of old-fashioned elegance, and his sideburns gave him something of a scholar's attitude. And yet, he was a vampire.

“That's just a category,” he claimed. “It saddens me greatly that my kind must constantly endure comparisons to simpler creatures such as Ekimmas, with whom you are surely familiar.”

“Oh, sure,” Lambert sneered, “because higher vampires are incomparably more rare and dangerous. You don't seriously believe that I... that I...”

All the color had drained from the witcher’s face. It happened so suddenly that even Regis needed a moment to comprehend what was going on. Already his hands were on Lambert's back, and he murmured reassuringly, “Ah, don't worry. Don't worry.”

Lambert’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp in Regis's grip.

═══✴═══

It was hard to tell how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been very long: when Lambert came to, Regis was just tending him with a compress smelling of calendula. When he finally opened his eyes, the vampire had finished the last few touches.

“Ah, hello,” he said kindly, which only made Lambert feel sullen—or maybe that was because pretty much every bone in his body ached. “No, wait.”

Regis pushed Lambert back onto the cot when he half-heartedly tried to sit up. This was quite easy, either because of the vampire's superhuman strength, which Lambert knew only from hearsay, or because the witcher could barely move at all.

“I'm sorry if my company is so unpleasant to you, but I assure you again that I pose no danger. Incidentally, I must tell you that you are in no condition to get up.”

“Hm,” Lambert grumbled, but it didn't come out half as derisive as he might have thought.

“You must have had some really bad experiences with higher vampires,” Regis mused as he began sorting and putting away crucibles, scissors, and bandages on a small table. “It's actually surprising, considering how hard we try to hide, even to fit in. Have you met many of my kind?”

“Not a single one,” Lambert admitted after a moment of silence. “At least, I don't know of any.”

“So your... resentment stems solely from your profession, I suppose?”

“Guess so,” growled the witcher. “But—”

“Yes?”

“Geralt trusts you,” Lambert finally said reluctantly. “That may be foolish, he's not always the brightest...”

“I would say your mistrust is understandable and appropriate. And if you're implying that our mutual friend is sometimes too trusting, especially when it comes to women, I agree with you.”

Lambert couldn't suppress a hoarse laugh, but immediately grabbed his side with a pained expression.

“All right, tell me what’s the damage,” he demanded. “This was supposed to be my last job before winter, then I'm off to Lan Exeter.”

“Lan Exeter is far away,” said Regis, carefully settling himself on the edge of the cot.

Lambert furrowed his brows. “Out with it.”

“You're a witcher, Lambert. You felt it in the wind, didn't you?”

“It's getting colder,” Lambert said. “Spare me the weather magic. I want an honest answer.”

Regis nodded. “All right, there's no point in sugarcoating it. You've suffered serious injuries, internal bleeding—I took the liberty of administering one of your potions while you were unconscious, and I trust in your inner healing powers, but you absolutely must take it easy. On top of that, you have bruises and crush injuries, a broken ankle... Incidentally, it's a mystery to me how you made it to my door with all that. And deep wounds, apparently from claws that caught you on your left side. If I had to guess, I'd say you were a wyvern’s plaything.”

Lambert raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You’re trying to tell me you didn't notice the creature? I followed a contract from the village elder. The monster has already killed a few sheep. It won't come near the village unless winter starves it completely, but the farmers can no longer take their animals to pasture.”

Regis scratched his head thoughtfully. “Actually, I don't spend much time in the village,” he admitted. “This secluded place, my humble home, is ideal for my studies. I’m a barber surgeon to the people if need be, but beyond that, I have little contact with them. So there really was a wyvern nearby?”

“I'd laugh if it didn't hurt so much,” Lambert growled morosely. “It's still out there. Got me good, not the other way around—and thoroughly.”

“Indeed. I'm afraid you'll have to put your plans for Lan Exeter on ice. Literally, I suspect, if we're unlucky.”

Regis cast a doubtful glance out the window. In the darkness, the branches of the trees bent eerily in the wind. Looking back at Lambert, the witcher had long since fallen asleep.

═══✴═══

Something had changed when Lambert opened his eyes again. Something was in the air, even though it was warmed by a fire whose crackling logs he could clearly hear in the fireplace. It smelled of dried blood and ointment, which was to be expected, but also strangely of herbs, and it took him a while to realize that this particular smell was coming from the pillow under his head.

He was no longer lying on the examination cot, but in a soft bed in a niche behind an open curtain; apparently Regis' modest bedroom, into which the vampire – for whom this was easy – must have carried him at some point. Lambert was surprised that there was a bed at all. If he remembered the dusty compendiums of his youth correctly, higher vampires didn’t need to sleep. Moreover, Lambert mused, Regis was probably a true higher vampire. Even witchers knew little about these beings, and to be honest, it gave him a headache to even think about it. Maybe Regis liked fragrant pillows and woolen blankets, what did he know?

As if the man had read Lambert's thoughts (Lambert wasted a few rather drowsy thoughts on whether this was possible), his gaunt face with the silly sideburns now appeared. He smiled; it was a practiced, cautious smile that did not reveal his teeth. Good, Lambert thought, mistakenly (and again very drowsily) assuming that the vampire might also be acting cautiously toward the witcher.

“You're awake.”

“Guess so,” Lambert growled.

“How are you feeling?”

Lambert thought about this question for a moment, swallowing the harsh reply that was already on his lips.

“Better than I should,” he finally replied, adding cautiously, “Thanks to you.”

“Don't thank me too soon.” Regis' words came in a light tone, but as he sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, heaviness lingered in the air. “You've been asleep for two days. I'm somewhat familiar with the physiology of witchers, and this is probably not unusual. Nevertheless, I'm afraid your healing will take some time.”

Lambert sighed in frustration. “You're not telling me anything new. I suppose you're trying to say that—”

“That I would have had difficulty patching up an ordinary human? Let alone one who had survived a fever like the one you had on the first night?”

“I don't remember that.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Regis kindly, patting Lambert’s hand briefly with a doctorly gesture; Lambert seemed so surprised by this that he didn’t even flinch. “But yes, in summary: even for a witcher, you were lucky, my dear Lambert.”

“Well, as you said, witchers heal quickly.” Lambert’s involuntary grimace, caused by the pull on his stitches, did little to support his words.

“I'm sure I won't be a burden to you for too long.”

Regis raised his bushy brows. “What makes you think that—Lambert, weren't you listening? Perhaps I didn't express myself clearly. It snowed during the two days you were unconscious. I'm afraid that even if you make a surprising miraculous recovery, you won't be able to leave here for a while.”

Lambert blinked and sat up abruptly; Regis reached out a hand, but there was something so wild in the witcher’s gaze that his arm remained suspended in the air.

“Snow? So early? Are you sure?”

He seemed to be aware of how ridiculous these words were, but there was still something in his voice that softened Regis' gaze.

“I'm afraid so.”

Lambert, suddenly powerless, let himself fall back onto the pillow. Its scent of lavender and hops seemed to mock him.

═══✴═══

After that, silence filled the house, at least for a while. Lambert seemed to need time to digest this news, and Regis seemed to think that digesting was an apt concept in general – in any case, he withdrew, and since he had not drawn the curtains in front of the small chamber, Lambert soon watched him begin to busy himself with a pot and knife.

Some time later, a delicious aroma wafted through the house, waking Lambert, who kept drifting off into short periods of sleep. It was a strangely familiar smell that, for some reason, made his stomach churn. A simple soup made from winter vegetables that Vesemir always had the youngest children pull from the frozen earth; thickened with lentils and, if they were lucky, a little meat. That was exactly how it smelled now: like Vesemir's soup, like melancholy and resentment.

But this was Regis's soup, and it actually tasted different, which was comforting in more ways than one. Regis helped him sit up, pressed a bowl into his surprisingly weak hands, and watched him closely while he sat down on a stool next to the bed and stirred his own bowl gracefully. Lambert found it strange that higher vampires felt the need to consume anything at all, let alone something other than blood, even though he knew they didn't even need it to survive. But these beings had to live on something, even if it was just an amazingly spicy soup.

“If you need help...”

“I'll be able to eat on my own,” Lambert growled. As if to prove it, he took a spoonful and widened his eyes in surprise. “This is good,” he then admitted. “What's in it? Wait... lovage, of course parsley...”

Taking a second hasty scoop, he closed his eyes and pondered. Tension filled the air, almost as thick as the food in Lambert’s mouth. Finally, he opened his eyes, grinning triumphantly.

“Parsley, lovage, chives, chervil, thyme, sage, marjoram, hyssop, and… borage. Am I right?”

“A hint of caraway,” replied Regis, not without a certain satisfaction.

“Caraway?” Lambert tasted again, letting the soup play in his mouth like the Duchess of Toussant's sommelier did with wine. “Hmm, yeah. Should’ve noticed right away.”

“I'm amazed. Forgive my indiscretion, but Geralt claimed that Kaer Morhen’s witchers dreaded the days when you were on kitchen duty. Because supposedly, you can only cook noodles.”

“First of all, Geralt’s exaggerating wildly,” Lambert replied, pointing at Regis with his wooden spoon. “Secondly, I may know little about cooking, but witcher taste buds are anything but underdeveloped. And finally, I can cook more than just noodles. Someone taught me how to—”

He broke off. It was hard to tell whether speaking so openly about himself felt like it undermined his distance, or whether an unbidden memory rose up. If so, Regis couldn’t tell whether this was a good or bad memory.Finally, however, Lambert put the spoon back in the soup—it was just too good, and his growling stomach told him he could handle more.

“Speaking of Geralt. He mentioned you live in Toussaint.”

“Hmm, he mentioned to me that you never reply to his letters,” Regis countered.

Lambert looked at him with renewed interest, since the vampire seemed to evade the topic. “I'm not much of a letter writer. But we're very far from Toussaint here.”

Regis looked away. The unspoken question hung heavily in the room, and it seemed strange that he was avoiding an answer. Lambert, however, couldn't let the subject rest, and he pressed on with relish.

“How long have you been the healer in this village for? It must be quite a while, because your house seems... well, cozy. Leads me to believe that your home in Toussaint wasn't exactly in the cemetery either. And it's warm down there, the people are friendly, there's wine... what would make someone, anybody want to go North of all places? We're a stone's throw away from Velen, which is probably the ugliest place I've ever seen, and the weather here isn't any better, as you can see. It's always wet and cold and gray in the fall.”

“Hmm,” Regis agreed calmly, “the right mood for the season, don't you think? By the way, you're wrong, I actually lived in the cemetery for a while. Interesting that Geralt didn't mention that detail to you.”

Then he sighed. The small, separate sleeping chamber—little more than a niche—had no window, but he gazed at the wall as if looking into the distance. Finally, he spoke softly, almost thoughtfully, “It's true that Toussaint is a pleasant place to live. For my friend Dettlaff, it wasn't. Did Geralt—ah, I can see from your expression that he kept this discreet. Then I will do the same and only mention the following: my friend, to whom I owe my life, was in great trouble. So much so that he decided to leave the country and go into hiding. I've been looking for him ever since, not only because I feel I have a debt to repay... but anyway, my efforts have been unsuccessful so far. If he's in the North, he's hidden himself well.”

Lambert regarded the vampire thoughtfully; at that moment, he looked like an ordinary, somewhat weary older gentleman, just as Geralt had described him years ago. Those had been wild, crazy stories that had cemented Geralt's reputation and reinforced Eskel and Lambert's conviction that interfering in the lives of others beyond monster hunting was a waste of time and, moreover, dangerous. A mockery, considering that Eskel had also had his problems with his surprise child. In truth, they all had their stories, even Lambert.

“You were dead,” he stated matter-of-factly. “That's what Geralt said. But either he was mistaken, or the friend you speak of saved you in whatever remarkable ways. Not everyone’s so lucky, Regis. All I can say is: keep searching.”

He almost spat out the last words before sinking back onto the pillow, staring silently at the ceiling for a while until falling into a restless sleep.

═══✴═══

That night, the fever returned. While convulsions shook Lambert's body, Regis was busy mixing potions and boiling herbs into a paste for compresses, cooling the witcher’s forehead. In the middle of the night, without being fully conscious, Lambert uttered a name over and over again that Regis had never heard before. In the chamber filled with sweat and the scent of herbs, it fluttered around like an exotic bird, while Regis wondered what the name might mean.

═══✴═══

Lambert slept for another day. When he woke up this time, he didn't necessarily feel well — healing was often a rocky road — but he did feel as if he’d made it to the summit of a very hard climb. But also “like a rag after a full day of scrubbing,” at least that was his answer to Regis' question.

“A very colorful expression,” Regis noted.

Lambert shrugged, “Mopping the endlessly filthy floor was an essential part of my childhood training as a witcher.”

Regis tilted his head; he seemed to be wondering if this was one of Lambert's infamous jokes.

“Your wounds are healing well,” he finally said.

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But even a witcher’s bones don't grow back together overnight. You won't be able to put weight on your foot for a while. It hardly makes any difference, though, because it's snowing again.”

Lambert chewed at his lower lip as if chewing on Regis's words.

“Can you get outside?” he finally asked.

“Of course,” replied the vampire amusedly. “I don't particularly like snow, but it doesn't hinder me.”

“Good. Get me a branch. I'll make myself a walking stick.”

═══✴═══

Over the next few days, everything blurred together in Lambert's memory. In the end, it was Regis who made the walking stick, but he couldn't stop Lambert from trying it out right away.

Outside, winter had arrived far too early. It was still bitterly cold, with icicles on the eaves and fresh snow every night, which Regis effortlessly swept aside with a shabby old shovel. Often, he would hunt small game, and although Lambert regarded the first hare with skepticism—he seemed to be looking for bite marks—he was the one who suggested new ways of preparing it, which he clearly hadn't learned at Kaer Morhen. Regis didn't press the matter. Lambert was clearly not someone who opened up easily, especially not to a vampire, even if he seemed as friendly and modest as Regis. At least he didn’t open up with words.

He began to hobble around the house, and it was amazing how much he managed to achieve on one leg, leaning on his makeshift cane. Lambert busied himself stoking the fireplace, mending his clothes, and even assisting Regis with cooking—including some heated discussions about the proper use of spices.

While the world outside seemed to be freezing, Lambert's mistrust slowly melted away. One afternoon, Regis returned in the fading light of the dull winter sun with his bounty, a rare pheasant. Almost as rare, however, was Lambert’s smile when he returned with it. Perhaps it was more of a crooked grin; an unpracticed movement of the corners of his mouth for a man who seemed to perceive even smiling as cynicism.

He’d already prepared something. “I was tired of potatoes,” he said, pushing one of Regis’s wooden plates towards the vampire. On it lay a simple yet neatly arranged dish: diced beetroot mixed with oddly colored onion slices that gave off an intriguing aroma.

“In Kaer Morhen, the menu hardly changed, and we kept eating beetroot until even looking at it made us groan,” said Lambert. “Truth is, I actually like it well enough, and your pantry is, as expected, full of it... You need to try the onions, they're marinated.”

Regis smiled, took the spoon Lambert offered, and eagerly tasted the neatly arranged dish. After a pause, he said, “I’ve never had anything quite like this. Marinating is a sadly neglected art in this country, my dear Lambert… this is exquisite. Cumin, salt, pepper… hm, a hint of mint, isn’t it?”

He pointed the spoon accusingly at Lambert. “I don't have those in my pantry.”

“No, but you have them outside in your herb garden. It's a shame the frost has done a number on some of the herbs.”

“My herb garden is on a steep slope, Lambert.”

“Not particularly steep.”

“In the snow, with only one good leg? I don't think you—”

A knock at the door interrupted their little exchange.

═══✴═══

It was more like frantic hammering than knocking; it seemed as if only a mere spark of decency and politeness was preventing the person standing outside from breaking down the door.

Regis had his eyes fixed on the door as he rose in an almost automatic movement, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed Lambert's tense muscles. The witcher gripped his makeshift cane more tightly: a sturdy branch that, under normal circumstances, could well have been a weapon in his hands. It was remarkable—and somehow sad—that Lambert's first instinct always seemed to be to fight.

In two steps, Regis was at the door and opened it cautiously. Not because of what awaited him on the threshold, but because it had started snowing again. The hood of the man outside was caked with snow, his nose and cheeks reddened. The rest of his simple clothes revealed even to Lambert that he must be a farmer from the nearby village.

“Healer… you… you must come with me,” he stammered.

“What seems to be—”

“My daughter!” the man cut in, swallowing hard. “The monster… it got her. Please… help us, I beg you.”

“The wyvern?”

Lambert's staff thundered onto the wooden floor as he limped toward the door. The farmer flinched, then his eyes went wide.

“You're the witcher who—”

“Did it approach the village? Did your daughter go into the forest?”

Regis raised his eyebrows, “Lambert, I think...”

Lambert held up a hand, fixing the man with a hard stare. Regis fell silent, surprised at himself. The villager pushed snow-wet hair from his forehead and shook his head.

“You... you didn't come back, witcher. We need the wood from the forest. Winter came too early.”

“Let me guess,” Lambert replied sharply, “a few young people were keen on seeing a witcher’s corpse.”

The man flinched. “The beast… it might’ve been dead. But the elder said we should check on you.”

“Sure, he’d put down a good advance,” Lambert sneered.

Regis, however, thought that the truth probably lay somewhere in between—the villagers needed the wood, that was true, and it was also true that Lambert had not returned with a trophy. But Regis had known humans long enough to suspect that the recklessness of young people also played a role here.

“And your daughter? What’s she got to do with this?”

The farmer blinked in confusion, as if he had forgotten for a moment why he had come at all. A pained expression crossed his features.

“A few men went into the forest to see what had happened to the beast. My daughter and some of the other girls went to gather wood. Our houses are cold, sir.” He took a breath and continued hastily, “They only got to the edge of the forest when the monster leapt from the undergrowth. Everyone ran, but my daughter… she’s badly hurt, healer. You have to–”

“I'm coming,” Regis cut him off and grabbed the wool cloak hanging on a hook next to the door. “You can tell me more on the way. And you, Lambert—” He turned and looked at the witcher searchingly. “Stay here. I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't do anything, you hear?”

Lambert frowned, his jaw muscles working. Then it seemed to dawn on him that this was a veiled way of telling him that Regis wanted to take action. Lambert had no idea whether a vampire could take on a draconid, but he had a clear opinion on the matter.

“That's a witcher’s work.”

“Not now. And not for this witcher.”

Regis gave him a long look before closing the door. Lambert, however, stood there for a while, staring at it as if he wanted to tear it down with his eyes.

═══✴═══

An hour later, Lambert forced his way through dense undergrowth, cursing silently. Despite the bitter cold, he was sweating from the effort of squeezing himself into his armor. The leather rubbed against his bandages, but that was not a new sensation. He’d learned to ignore such discomforts, just as he ignored the fact that his foot was barely healed and it was far too early to be walking on it.

More difficult to ignore, however, was the question of why he was doing this to himself. What did these peasants matter to him, even the injured girl, who’d only herself to blame, really? He told himself that he was bothered by the fact that the contract had failed since he’d actually – and this was rare enough – received advance payment. Had he suddenly developed a guilty conscience for persuading the elder to do so, knowing full well that no other witcher would stray here for a long time to deal with the monster? Or because he hadn't managed to kill the beast the first time around?

It was strange, but Lambert had hardly ever thought of the people who hired him as... real people. His clients were mere names and faces he’d forgotten the next day. But in reality, they were farmers and landowners and parents and children and... whatever. Anyway, they were people who went about their daily business and relied on the witcher to do his job. There were consequences if he didn't, or if he did it badly, and that gnawed at Lambert more than he cared to admit. Perhaps he was getting soft, or old, or both, like Geralt, who could never stop meddling in other people's lives. Vesemir had called it responsibility, pah. Responsibility had cost the old man his life, and it would tear open Regis's skillful stitches on Lambert's wounds if he wasn't careful.

And yet here he was, at the edge of the forest, clinging to a young tree trunk, examining the traces left behind by the unequal fight. Bloodstains marred the blanket of snow on the ground. A gruesome sight for most, but to Lambert, the splatters revealed that the wyvern had not swooped down on the girl from above. Broken branches and tracks on the ground also pointed to this. “All right, you bastard,” Lambert muttered to himself as he leaned forward with difficulty. His breath formed small clouds on the furrowed ground as he tried to get a picture of the situation. “I guess that means I got you after all.”

The footprints crisscrossed the snow, clearly showing that people had fled in panic when the monster had stormed out of the forest. When they wanted to, wyverns could move extremely quietly – they liked to hunt sheep, but a herd driven wild by fear could quickly attract the attention of hunters. Like almost all monsters, wyverns had become rare because humans had spread everywhere like smallpox on an old whore. That's why the more intelligent ones among them were cautious.

It would be easy to follow the trail in the snow. The wyvern was injured. It was no longer bleeding—at least, Lambert couldn't see any obvious traces of blood in the direction of the forest—but the depth of its paw prints and the erratic pattern that its tail had swept into the snow here and there, as well as the fact that there was a larger footprint at all: all pointed to an injury slowing it down. Lambert had been targeting the monster's wings from the start. An inexperienced hunter might have focused on its head or soft belly. Lambert, however, disliked close combat with draconids as much as he disliked stale beer, so he preferred to use a good old crossbow on them. He’d fired two arrows into the wyvern's wings before the wind had changed and the pain-crazed beast had spotted him. Apparently, he’d aimed well enough: the wyvern could no longer fly, or did not want to because it was too painful. But that didn't make it any less hungry. The girl, if she was still alive, could consider herself lucky to have gotten away at all.

Besides, these damn creatures possessed a form of accelerated wound healing. It might be limited for another day, maybe two, but then the wyvern would fly again, and even if no one knew whether draconids had a concept of revenge, either way, the village would be its target.

Lambert couldn’t let that happen. Vesemir would’ve torn his head off for this sloppy work. Although moving through the snow was difficult and, to be honest, painful, Lambert found himself smiling. Surprised, he stopped. He raised a hand, almost hesitantly, and ran his fingers over the corners of his mouth. Was it nostalgia, or just cynicism? Once there had been someone who could have told him; a memory of the warmest summer he had ever experienced. Now, there was only winter and a cold that pierced his heart. Lambert shook his head as if to dispel the thoughts and trudged on.

═══✴═══

The wyvern was female, recognizable by its scales, which shimmered almost blue in the pale light. Otherwise, its leathery skin was red in color, dull and matte, covered in scratches and dirt. The monster stood out clearly against the snow in which it lay curled up; it settled in a clearing that it had partly cleared itself with brute force.

It was in poor condition, Lambert noted with satisfaction. This was not so much due to him, or rather the arrows he had shot into the monster, of which only broken shafts remained. Rather, this specimen was small and malnourished. Lambert did not feel pity for the beast; in fact, he felt nothing at all. It was a monster, and he was the monster hunter, whether he liked it or not. It was the only job he knew, and he was good at it.

“You were just lucky,” he muttered so quietly that no wind would carry his words to the wyvern, unsure whether he meant himself or the monster.

It was true, he wasn't as magically gifted as Eskel or as fast as Geralt—a fact that annoyed him no end, but the guy had long legs even as a ten-year-old—but he had his tricks. Lambert's hand instinctively reached for the small leather pouch on his belt. During their first encounter, he hadn't had time to throw the bomb, and despite Regis's lush herb garden and supplies, there were not enough ingredients to prepare a second one. Lambert didn't like to rely on luck, and certainly not on a single pinch of Dragon's Dream.

But that was all he had, and now was the best time, because the female was still weakened. And if she didn't recover as quickly as he thought she would, she would soon attack the village out of sheer desperation and hunger. The problem was that Lambert wasn't in the best shape either. He couldn't afford to make a mistake—it would surely be his last.

“No witcher dies in bed, as the old man always used to say,” he whispered, as if to encourage himself.

However, courage alone was not enough. Lambert shifted his weight, but even with Regis' herbs, which he had been chewing since leaving the house, and some Swallow – the potion was handy, attached to his belt – this was no walk in the park. A witcher's regenerative abilities were amazing, but even their bones healed slowly. Without magic, which even Regis did not possess, it would take a while, especially if he kept putting weight on his broken ankle in the meantime. Only a talented sorceress could have guaranteed that the bone would grow back together properly, but unlike Geralt, he didn't have a handful of them in his pocket.

It was no use. The monster was asleep, or at least resting, which meant that the opportunity was favorable. If he was going to stop it from reaching the village, it had to be now. The wyvern was driven by nothing but hunger and instinct, and in Lambert’s opinion, the only thing that could help was a good dose of Dragon's Dream—and a quick thrust with the silver sword.

═══✴═══

The wind picked up, blowing sharply around Lambert's ears; it carried a hint of snow. Lambert cursed silently. It would be more difficult to approach the wyvern now. Besides, he didn't want to be standing out here if a snowstorm hit. He squared his shoulders and fixed his gaze on the monster. A snowflake tumbled onto Lambert's nose and melted, and, for whatever it was worth, he took it as a sign.

A witcher who is at a disadvantage must use that to his advantage. Vesemir's words, of course. There had been other instructors, those who had conveyed their lessons in terse words and with a flat hand. Vesemir, however, had loved to regale them with lengthy (he had called them thorough) moral speeches. Lambert had to admit that, somehow, it had worked. The old man's words had burned themselves into his memory just as deeply as the movements had burned into his muscles.

In theory, it was simple. His fingers detached the pouch from his belt as he slowly approached the monster from behind, keeping his eyes fixed on it. One wrong step, one overlooked branch on the ground, or one step too deep that caused the snow to crunch – and it would all be over faster than he could say “shit.”

But despite the freezing temperatures, despite the wind and fresh snowfall, the wyvern's chest rose and fell evenly. It really seemed to be asleep, probably exhausted from its attack on the girls. The thought that the beast had already caused serious damage somehow gave Lambert a grim sort of momentum. His work might sometimes be thankless, but it was important.

The bag in his hand was light. Dragon's Dream consisted of light, partly volatile components such as powders, which only caused their deadly effect when combined. He checked the wind direction one last time, turning his body against the wind as he drew back. Then he threw the bag.

His arm swung the bomb high above his head in a perfect trajectory. It was as if time stood still, at least for a tiny moment: Lambert's gaze followed the bag as it spun through the air, and his fingers formed the Igni sign. It took only a fraction of a second, then the bag was directly above the wyvern, and Lambert released the sign, released the flames.

Then the wind shifted again.

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Once again, time seemed to stand still. Lambert watched in disbelief as his burst of fire hit the bag, setting its contents ablaze and causing it to explode—but the sudden gust of wind caused it to only graze the monster. Like a jet of flame defying physics as it shot down from the sky, the fire seared a trail into the wyvern's leathery skin, but it simply wasn't enough.

Bluish draconid blood stained the snow-covered ground, dripping from a deep gash in the female's back. Roughly awakened from her slumber by noise and pain, she was now full of adrenaline and wide awake. The wyvern roared shrilly, rose from the snow, and spun frantically around, trying in confusion to figure out what had hit it out of nowhere. It spread its wings, but only managed a small hop into the air; the pain from its previous and fresh injuries was too much of a hindrance.

Lambert awoke from his momentary stupor. “Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered; the mantra of his life, somehow. It was just a passing thought while his hand automatically reached for the silver sword. He had thoroughly screwed up, there was only the hard way left. But when was this shit ever easy?

He pushed himself off the tree he’d been leaning against, grabbed one of his potions from his belt and hastily downed it. That was all he had. It would have to suffice. With the sword hilt firmly in his hand, he ran towards the wyvern.

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Continuing to run, he swung the sword sideways above his head; the wyvern noticed him as he charged, but was perhaps too confused or too slow. Lambert pushed off, his bones—especially the barely healed one—cracking ominously, and leapt forward. The sword pierced the monster’s scaly hide, but the momentum was too great. Lambert barely pulled it free and stumbled to the ground, unable to roll properly.

The shock ran through his whole body, stealing his breath. Hot pain shot through his ankle, yet it only spurred him on. He had to get out of the danger zone: the wyvern was angry, in pain, and its hunting instinct had kicked in. Lambert could understand that, but he had no intention of playing the prey.

The monster's head whipped around, searching for the pest responsible for its pain. Lambert struggled to his feet, barely able to stand, and limped backward. He needed a better position, an escape, somewhere to plan his next move. But the wyvern had other ideas. It raised its left wing, on which the arrow wound was still clearly visible, and swung it down. Lambert saw it coming and dropped into the snow just in time; a whipping, icy wind swept over him, and the wyvern screeched in frustration.

Lambert rolled across the snow, gasping for breath on the half-frozen ground, and scrambled to his knees, filled with the thought that he could not allow the monster to catch him like that again. He realized—well, he had actually already realized it when he first woke up in Regis's house—that he had only narrowly survived their first encounter. A witcher didn’t rely on luck, even if he could use a lot of it right now.

The monster stamped its feet angrily. Its roar could probably be heard all the way to the village, where the people were now undoubtedly hiding in their huts, hoping that the witcher would do his job. Lambert calculated his options for doing just that. Maybe he could get the beast from below after all. A nice, clean cut to the belly...

The wyvern swung its tail, and this time Lambert couldn't escape. He saw the blow coming, but his barely healed foot wouldn't obey; it gave way, and he stumbled, cursing, twisting aside too late. The tail struck him in the side, lifting him slightly and hurling him through the air. Pure luck—something Lambert didn't even really believe in—prevented him from crashing into a tree trunk.

As he lay on his back in the snow, feeling every bone in his body, the monster's heavy footsteps shook the ground beneath him. Lambert gripped the sword hilt tighter as he desperately tried to slide backward to find something, anywhere, to hold on to so he could pull himself up. But the monster's foul breath was already directly above him, its snout so close that it could only be a matter of seconds before its enormous teeth came crashing down on him. Lambert tensed his muscles for one last push. If this was it, if this was the moment... he would not go down without a fight.

The wyvern's head jerked back briefly. It's taking aim, Lambert thought, fixing his gaze on the creature's clearly visible neck muscles. One well-placed cut... Lambert let out a final, humorless laugh and waited for the attack.

A shadow approached: a sudden, fleeting darkening of the already gloomy day at an improbable speed that defied all laws of physics. Something large and fast slammed into the wyvern with tremendous force.

═══✴═══

A wave of snow scattered through the air, washing over Lambert as he lay on the ground, eyes wide, struggling to breathe. Just in time, he broke out of his paralysis and rolled hastily to the side as the wyvern spread its wings with a roar and began its attack. Only not on Lambert—but on Regis.

For it was indeed Regis, as Lambert realized with surprise, in his vampire form. The friendly older gentleman with the sideburns had transformed into something monstrous. Lambert knew of such things only from hearsay, from old books in Kaer Morhen's dusty library. Usually, no one who had the misfortune of seeing a higher vampire in its monster form survived. It was... impressive. Lambert would never have gone so far as to claim that Regis' vampire form was in any way beautiful. But the combination of animalistic strength, speed shrouded in the finest smoke, and razor-sharp, far too long nails was certainly awe-inspiring. Especially since it wasn't directed at Lambert.

The female wyvern didn't stand a chance. Her fighting power was fueled only by pure rage and desperation, but the moment Regis intervened, it was over. The monster was still bleeding from the deep cut Lambert had inflicted on it; the new wound slowed it down and ensured that it was not half as fast as usual. The vampire, though, was incredibly fast, ramming his sharp, pointed nails into the wyvern's skin. It was a dance of its own, almost as if several fighters were wielding their swords in rapid succession. It happened so quickly and so brutally that the wyvern could barely catch its breath. It was clear it would bleed to death in a short time.

Lambert struggled to his feet again, leaning against a tree, its bark cutting sharply into his palms as he tried to regain his balance. Regis, however, suddenly paused in his almost manic attack. He had now pinned the monster to the ground, and the rapid advances and fierce attacks alone had rendered it immobile. Helplessly, it blew clouds of short breath into the air, its eyes wide with surprise and agony. Regis bared the animal's throat; when he finally spoke, it almost seemed to Lambert as if the vampire was presenting him with his prey in a deliberately animalistic gesture. As if they were equal hunters. It was a gruesome thought, yet there was a grain of truth in it.

“Lambert,” Regis said in a deep, dark voice that was so different from the melodious tone he usually spoke with, “finish it off. It is your reward.”

The witcher knew that this referred to the village's reward: the hard-earned gold coins that were always too little for an animal of this size and kind. And yet, at the same time, the remark seemed ambivalent to him. It was his reward, in a way. He pulled out his dagger.

═══✴═══

After that, they remained silent for a while. Lambert settled down on a tree trunk that had been knocked over by the wyvern, while Regis—now back in his human form—sat a short distance away from him. It was now late afternoon, and the cloudy sky had grown considerably darker, ready to draw a final veil over the day.

Strangely, the silence was not uncomfortable, even though Lambert half expected Regis to give him a dressing-down sooner or later for setting off despite his warning. Looking at the dead wyvern lying in front of them in the snow stained with its blood, he realized how close it had been this time. He felt a surprising pang of sadness at the thought that there’d be no boastful tales in the halls of Kaer Morhen this year, no comparing of scars. No ale with his brothers. No encouraging pat on the back from old Vesemir.

When Regis finally spoke, it was not the expected reprimand. Instead, he said, “Winter in Lan Exeter, huh? I hope the pay is worth it.”

“It's a bit fancy there, that's true,” Lambert replied, grateful for the conversational tone. But then he took a deep breath and pressed out a word that was strangely difficult for him to say. “Thanks.”

Regis glanced at him, but said nothing. It seemed as if he was patiently waiting for Lambert to draw his own conclusions. It was irritating, but at the same time liberating.

“For everything,” Lambert finally continued. “I... didn't wanna ruin your work, I really didn't. But this was my job. The scars, the pain... none of that matters, you understand? I had to finish it.”

“And you did.”

“With your help, and I'm grateful for that.“

Regis smiled, wiggled his index finger, and replied, “You'll be even more grateful when I get you back to the house, because it is not going to be a walk in the park, my friend, the way you look.”

Lambert let out a hoarse laugh that died abruptly. Regis looked at him with a mixture of genuine interest and astonishment, and perhaps that was what finally made Lambert speak – this feeling that he owed him something. Or simply the desire to get it off his chest at least once, something he’d never even told Geralt or Eskel and never would. It had just started snowing again, and Lambert watched the snowflakes thoughtfully.

“Lan Exeter is a mirage, a dream. Sometimes I think it's a nightmare—the place where it all began and where it all ended. Remember how I told you that you were lucky to have survived with the help of your friend? I wish I’d been that lucky, just that one time in my life. No, not like you think. The other way around. Aiden died, and there's nothing that can change that, nothing at all.“

Aiden. It was the name from Lambert's feverish night, even if he didn't know or couldn't remember it. Regis remained silent, equally captivated by Lambert's sudden openness and the story itself, which seemed to have so many layers.

“He was my friend, you know,” Lambert continued, “or let's say... well, more than a friend.” He exhaled deeply, almost a sigh. “He's dead, so I guess there's no harm in finally admitting it. I don't know what your friend meant to you, Regis, but since you've been looking for him for so long, I imagine a lot. Aiden… he was everything. The craziest, strangest, most beautiful and best witcher I ever knew. And so much more than that. My words aren't enough to describe him. Besides, I'm not that romantic.”

He laughed again, a very melancholic tone this time.

“I’d give anything to undo his death. Witchers are made to live long, to endure pain... have you ever heard of mad Kiyan? Endless torture robbed him of his mind. He survived every insane experiment, things that would’ve killed an ordinary person long ago. And I thought, why couldn't it have been the same for Aiden? Supposedly, an arrow hit him in the eye, so what? I knew a witcher with only one arm. Maybe he went into hiding because Karadin's men would have continued to pursue him. Maybe he was confused and couldn't find me. A whole mountain of maybes, Regis. And that's why I keep going back to Lan Exeter, arguing with the innkeeper where we stayed back then, to get the exact same room. For two nights, I drink myself under the table, waiting for a miracle I know will never come. Yet I have to go back to Lan Exeter. I'm the only one who remembers him, and I have to do it there.”

Lambert fell silent, exhausted. Regis sat motionless for a while, as if considering a reply; much later, after Lambert had thought about this conversation, he believed that Regis never had to think long about his words. During his days with the vampire, Lambert had understood why he and Geralt had become friends, and even more so after this fight. Regis was an astonishing character.

“Lambert. If I asked you whether the wyvern or I were more of a beast, you would probably answer that it is our nature that makes us both monsters, regardless of our form. I can only hope that I have gained a little of your sympathy over the past few days, but in this matter, of course, you would be right. By your standards, I am as much a monster as you are a witcher. But you and I both know that the world is not just black and white.”

Again, he raised a finger, like a schoolteacher trying to make a point. It was just one of his many little quirks that Lambert had noticed. He understood what the vampire was trying to tell him anyway.

“The witcher can't change his nature any more than the monster can, I suppose,” he went on. “And yet none of you I've ever met have lived up to the reputation you've been given. So it seems to me that whether witchers are really cold-blooded, unfeeling killers is more than a philosophical question. I believe rather that they do what is necessary in a world that has declared some to be human and others to be monsters. I often found it difficult to see myself as such, Lambert. Perhaps you sometimes found it difficult to see yourself as a witcher. But to cut a long story short – we both feel something that, by popular opinion, neither witcher nor monster should be capable of feeling.”

Regis leaned forward. In an encouraging gesture, he patted Lambert on the shoulder. Strangely enough, the witcher found it comforting.

“Hope, my dear Lambert. You and I carry this spark within us, ensuring that I will travel to the ends of the known world to find my friend, and that keeps you returning to Lan Exeter again and again. And that's why I advise you not to stop. Because hope only dies with certainty, and neither of us has that.”

“That's why we'll keep searching,” Lambert replied hoarsely.

“Exactly.”

Regis stood up, brushed the snow off his coat, and held out his hand to Lambert, who took it without hesitation to let the other man help him up.

“It will be dark soon,” said Regis, “we should return to the house. I would like to take another look at your ankle, even though I believe that, against all reason, you have not aggravated the injury. In a day or two, you should be able to continue your journey. We can return tomorrow morning if you need the head of this beast as proof for the village elder.”

Lambert shook his head as they slowly set off. The way back wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park, but there were worse things. “Did she make it, by the way? The girl, I mean.”

“Well, she's alive. If she survives the night without a fever, she should be fine apart from a likely unpleasant scar.”

“Doubt she’ll learn anything from it… However, I may return with a head or not, but news of the wyvern’s death will spread in the village. They won't be able to talk their way out of the reward.”

Regis smiled broadly and casually, his teeth flashing ominously in the fading daylight. “Well, if they do, I'll have to have a word with the elder.”

Lambert grinned. “As if I'd have to defend my honor with a vampire, that's how far it's come.”

They left the clearing. Soon the trees would swallow the last bit of light, and if there really were a few daring villagers hiding out there, it would look to them as if Regis and Lambert had simply melted into the landscape.

“Well,” Regis replied kindly, “maybe not from a vampire. How about a friend?”

Lambert paused briefly and looked at Regis intently.

“A friend, huh? You think a vampire and a witcher could be friends?”

Regis shrugged. “I don't think so. I know so. And as for you, my dear Lambert... I have hope.”