i wonder how the wolves reacted,
when they heard about geraltâs new moniker as the butcher of blaviken. they hear about him slaughtering an army of men, reducing the roads to rivers of blood, how the screams and pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears but echoed around the town for many nights after. how it was over a girl, how it was over coin - but most of all, how it was down to witchers being merciless, emotionless monsters borne of nightmares and death. the rumours spread like a plague, growing more toxic with every town it consumes, until the entire continent fell victim to the clutches of prejudice.
and⊠his brethren worry.
for geralt is brash and charming, they know him to be cocky, to indulge humans in an exchange of insults, to be a touch too arrogant at times, but he knows when to back down. when to bow his head and drop the issue. he has never pressed his blade to the throat of an innocent, and his fights never evolve into outright carnage and bloodbaths.
lambert is concerned, but the feeling is swept under by the waves of abject fury - the reputation of witchers have never fallen so low, especially for those who were the symbol of the wolf. they had been renown for being dependable, successful, reliable. any coin is worth spending on a wolf, for you were sure to get a professional service.
and itâs all been thrown away, in a single fucking day.
eskel is lost, confused, for his brother is partial to a pretty lady, but not enough to murder half a town. he had gone to blaviken, the moment whispers had greeted the wind, swirling through the air and fluttering through his ears - he had ridden hard and strong through the night, intent on learning all he can.
he doesnât learn much - bar the fact that stones sting more than he remembers.
vesemir is worried, for he knows geralt. he knows geralt does not shoulder pain like he or eskel - rather, heâs like lambert. sensitive creatures who hold onto their agony, allowing it to fester in their hearts until itâs close to consuming them whole. he gets word that eskel is riding to blaviken, hears nothing from lambert and instead, sets forth on returning to kaer morhen.
at the very least, when the world is against him, geralt still has a sanctuary to return to. a place where his side of the story will be listened to, where heâll have the chance to defend himself and feel supported - a place where his family will protect and guide him.
but - the white wolf does not return that winter.
he does not visit the winter after, either.
eskel paces, fluttering between wounded empathy and flaring annoyance, where as lambertâs fury simmers down to irate impatience, which covers the lingering hurt at the thought of geralt not trusting them. surely that has to be the reason behind his reluctance to return - he canât be dead, for they most certainly would have heard the charming songs detailing the death of the white wolf.Â
still, vesemir tells his boys to settle, to calm, to wait - for geralt will return when heâs ready.
and then - three winters pass, and eventually the white wolf pads through the gates, his tail tucked between his legs as roach lopes behind him. he keeps his eyes averted as he approaches vesemir, a faint frown between his brows. the older wolf does not like what he sees - for the white wolf seems⊠beaten. cowed. reduced from a strong man to shy pup.
he canât remember a time when geralt had ever found it difficult to meet his gaze - even as a lad.
âgeralt - itâs good to see you,â he greets evenly, keeping his body language open and nonthreatening. he doesnât know where geralt has been for the past three years, doesnât know where heâs wintered - but he finds he cares very little for detail, for geralt is here now. safe, alive, wounded in vastly unseen ways, but here.
âis it?â geralt replies, finally lifting his gaze from the ground to meet vesemirâs - his amber eyes look drained of life, tired and soulless in ways which speak more than mere restless nights. the wolf is haunted, dogged by nightmares - and not all which come for him during slumber.
âdepends on who you ask,â vesemir admits, his ears pricking when he hears the telltale stomp of boots. geralt must hear them too, as his back straightens up as alarm flickers over his features. he flashes roach a considering look, before he wets his lip and shoots vesemir a sheepish look.
âthink i have enough time to hightail it out of here?â he asks, half-jest, half-serious.
âdonât you fucking dare!â lambert answers for vesemir, his voice echoing across the courtyard. he storms across it with eyes which burn, piercing gold against the starless sky of winterâs evening. eskel follows suit - his gaze simmers softly, a warmer honey, compared to lambertâs cold chips of amber.
vesemir almost laughs at the startled look on geraltâs face,
almost - for he can recall a time when geralt would have responded to such a challenge by tackling the younger witcher to the ground, demanding respect and his dessert for the next three months.
he hopes wintering at kaer morhen will draw his pup out of the erected walls he has built around himself - for geralt does not need to feel defensive, alone, attacked.
âyou absolute prick,â lambert greets with a drawl, crossing his arms as he stalks up to geralt, eskel hot on his heels, âyou fucking arse - no, you donkeyâs arse. you damned, half-brained bastard. youââ
âi think he gets the point,â eskel sighs, his eyes alight as he takes in geraltâs appearance - vesemir has to bite back a smile. honestly, all these years and eskel still sees himself as his brotherâs keeper, âitâs good to see you in one piece.â
âno, he doesnât and no, itâs not,â lambert snipes back, before he glares at geralt, âand fuck no, iâm not finished.â
âgo on then,â geralt says, gesturing encouragingly with his hand, quiet amusement clear in his words, âget it out your system.â
and eskel can only groan as lambert rears up with a wicked smirk,
âwhat the fuck is wrong with you? sure, take out half a village alongside our reputations, why not? do it all because of a girl, whatever. get yourself a shiny new nickname because youâre not special enough, fine. but, i cannot fucking believe you made me wait three damn years, three whole fucking years, to yell at you for being such a prick,â lambert says, shaking his head, âi had the most creative insults prepared - what a damned waste.â
âlambert,â vesemir sighs, for they had spoken about this for the past three years, they know to keep the accusations out of their mouths, to not corner geralt, but⊠but he supposes it wouldnât do the man any good to coddle him either.
âyou could carry on insulting me now,â geralt suggests, cocking his head, âwould that make you feel better?â
lambert snorts, âas if i can fucking remember them now!â
âwell, for your sake, i hope they were better than donkeyâs arse,â geralt snorts, his drawn expression growing softer with every moment which passes.
âwell, i guess youâll never fucking know now, will you?â lambert replies scornfully, before he sighs and regards geralt with a steady gaze. vesemir isnât sure what the surly, young witcher finds, but the fight deflates out of him in one prolonged sigh, âwhy did you do it?â
geraltâs gaze skitters away as he curls into himself protectively,
it takes a moment for him to steel his spine,
to answer his brother - and though vesemir sees eskel ready to excuse geralt from answering, the white wolf lifts his head up high and replies,
âi was tricked,â he admits quietly, âa mage wanted me to kill a young princess who had escaped his grasp. the young princess wanted me to kill the mage. i told them both that i didnât meddle in personal affairs but⊠it got messy. and the princess⊠she⊠the mage got what he wanted. and he still turned the town against me - had them spread tales of the butcher of blaviken, but i didnât⊠i didnât want to kill them,â geraltâs tone turns fiercely urgent, âi had no choice, i needed to protect myself.â
vesemir nods, âi see,â he says, slow and musing.
âdid he pay you?â eskel asks, oddly curious.
âno,â geralt replies, shaking his head.
vesemir sighs and folds his arms, âthe tide is turning for witchers - and i fear we will all drown under its weight,â he says, which has lambert rolling his eyes and muttering darkly under his breath, âit is not your fault geralt - you were used. it happens to us all. iâm just sorry it happened so⊠viciously, for you.â
geralt nods, before a pained furl appears between knitted brows.
âiâm not sure it isnât my fault,â he says, gazing down at his hands with wounded eyes, âi could have stopped it, could have persuaded renfri to leave, to move on, to not become the monster everyone sees usâ see her as.â
âyou could have made the most compelling argument alive,â vesemir replies, with stern, fatherly eyes, âit would not have softened a stubborn heart.â
geralt hums with affectionate lament, âthat she was - it kept her going. made her respected.â
âthen all you can do is keep that memory of her alive - honour her and keep going,â vesemir says. geralt nods and nods and nods; the frown has grown deeper on his face and the older witcher is certain his lessons will not sink in so easily this time around.
the courtyard grows tensely quiet, with geralt staring at his clean hands, surrounded by the men who understand that he can see the blood which lingers just beneath the surface. the stain of death, the sting of betrayal, the mournful ache of loss⊠none of it can be easily washed away by water.
lambert opens and closes his mouth - wanting to say something, but uncertain of how welcome his comments would be.
vesemir simply waits, for he knows his wolves are impatience at the best of times andâ
âand eskel breaks the silence by throwing his arms around geralt - his grip is strong and secure. itâs a familiar sight to vesemir, having seen those same arms rock the white wolf to sleep when he was young and wracked with nightmares.Â
the sight must ignite something within lambert, as the young witcher squints at the embrace before begrudgingly throwing his arms around the pair with a gruff, âdonât get used to this,â spitting out his mouth.
vesemir hums and wonders when he had last hugged his boys - and realises it, there and then. when they were boys, for they are men now and he probably wonât get this chance again.
so, cautious and aware that this is not something they necessarily do, vesemir approaches the three men and cages them with his arms - his hold is steady, firm, but manages to catch them all in his warmth. he feels them tense, before geralt lets out a shuddering breath and melts into the protective circle surrounding him.
in the middle of the courtyard, with only their horses and the walls of kaer morhen as their witnesses.
they stand tall and strong, supporting a member of their pack during a dark time in his life - for there will come a time when they will all require the guidance of family. where they will retreat to the familiar embrace of kin and brethren. eskel will need this one day, lambert too - despite his vocal revulsion of kaer morhen and all the memories which haunt its halls.
they will all need this at some point - but for now, geralt needs them most.
and they are all too happy to be there forâ
âif i ever come across that bastard mage, i will rip his damn eyeballs out and shove them up his arse, just so he can watch me kick the fucking shit out of him,â lambert says, feeling oddly honest when shielded from their gaze, âwhat a fucking pisshole.â
thereâs a beat of stunned silence, broken only by eskelâs shaking body as he tries desperately to quell his laughter,
âthatâs a good insult,â geralt murmurs, voice muffled under unadulterated affection, which has eskel throwing his head back and chortling freely.
âwhy, thank you,â lambert replies warmly.
and vesemir cannot help but tighten his grip around his three boys,
just to keep them safe a tad moment longer.
2087
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