I have this idea I've been ruminating on for a while. Putting it in a small post because I doubt I'll ever get round to writing it.
I've been reading widely about other cultural belief systems/practices from the practice of wakashūdō among the samurai to Zoroastrianism (literally anything to avoid reading about the Yorkist rebellions for work because fucking hell is that not my area of interest...)
The latter gave me a story idea based on their guardian angels known as Arda Fravash.
They originally patrolled the boundaries of the ramparts of heaven (Bd6.3, Zs5.2), but volunteer to descend to earth to stand by individuals to the end of their days.
Eskel is one such "guardian angel", who chooses to descend to protect Geralt. It's the boy's cries as his mother abandons him that draw Eskel's attention. The cloud of destiny hovers over that mop of red curls, and Eskel knows he will be needed. He takes the form of a toddler too, so the boy won't be frightened and they grow together. No one else can see Eskel. The instructors select Geralt for the extra mutations because he seems to be the strongest. Special in ways the others aren't. Eskel holds him through it all.
And continues to hold him as the years pass. Figuratively. For he cannot actually touch Geralt unless it's to save his life. He is there for every contract, every scrape, every bad decision and every good one. He is there for Blaviken, the Cintran ball, everything.
As time drifts by, Eskel can't help but fall in love. It's a draw too strong to resist. He yearns to hold Geralt, to press his lips to the palm of his hand, card his fingers through his silver hair. But he can't. It's fine though, he shows his devotion in other ways, and Geralt is grateful. Even though the rest of the world hates him, Eskel will never abandon him.
When Geralt falls for Yennefer, Eskel is there to listen to their trials and Geralt's hurt, leaving them in peace when he feels the warmth of Geralt's affection peak after each reconciliation. Eskel helps them raise Ciri, who is the first person other than Geralt to ever see him. It's their secret. Although he is certain that Yen, and sometimes the vampire, Regis - "I fucking told you, Geralt, and you wouldn't listen" - are looking right at him.
When Geralt's time comes, when blood flows through the streets of Rivia, Eskel is yanked to the otherside because he's not allowed to change Geralt's fate. Some things are written in stone and cannot be altered.
Eskel shouts, and fights, and screams, because the wounded look of realisation on Geralt's face is too much to bear. He thinks Eskel has left him to perish. But Eskel can't do anything; he has to watch as Geralt fades with his lady love.
Then something miraculous happens.
Ciri opens a path through the mist and suddenly Geralt is right there. When Geralt rises from that boat on the otherside, he helps Yen to shore first, and then approaches Eskel. "So, this is him," Yen says, and Eskel blinks in surprise. She knows. Eskel is bewildered, but as he tries to bluster through an explanation, Geralt reaches forward.
"It is," Geralt replies, and touches the battle scars on Eskel's face. Touches. Geralt's fingers carve a trail of molten heat over Eskel's skin that makes him gasp, his stomach flips, his knees shake, threatening to fail.
Eskel captures Geralt's hand before it can pull away, firm, real, and kisses his palm, savouring every precious first moment. Geralt smiles that beautiful, crooked smile he always called ugly, and pulls Eskel to Yen to make the introductions. Eskel kisses Yen's hand, and they walk together into the mists.
They live happily ever after, together, in Avalon.
Major Character Death. Spoilers for the saga.
The real consequences of Jaskier's "heartbreak".
"Burn, butcher, burn."
They say as they tie Eskel to the stake in the middle of the town square. The price of the contract was too high in the end. He had frowned when the alderman declined to pay him, and the ugly scars had twisted his broken face into an intimidating scowl. Eskel, tired and hungry, had been no match for the town guards and now he hangs his head, stripped of his armour, his medallion, and resigns himself to his fate. They'll bury what's left of him in a shallow grave and his loved ones won't even know he's dead.
"Burn, butcher, burn."
They scream as they beat Lambert to death in a tavern. He lost patience with his Gwent partner for yet another slur against him. One of the hundreds; one too many. Since that fucking song came out, it's all he's heard in every backwater shit-heap in which he's had the misfortune of searching for work. It's the last thing he hears as the final boot kicks him unconscious. He doesn't wake up. They leave his body for the necrophages.
"Burn, butcher, burn."
The sailor spits in Coën's face as the knife pierces through his back. He didn't even see it coming. All he did was smile at a pretty serving girl as she swayed through the tables. He was so taken by the daydream of what it would be like to hold her in his arms that he missed the flash of steel. His heart gives one final, fitful stutter before it peters out and his blood soaks the floorboards. His murderer won't face justice; he'll spend a day in gaol to sober up before he heads out to sea and about his life. After all, it was only a witcher he killed. They're all butchers. They all deserve to burn.
"Burn, butcher, burn."
The words echo in Geralt's head as he listens to the screams in the streets. He's just decided to retire. No more witchering. He'll settle in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere. Just him and those he loves. But as he listens to the banshee cries of the murderers pouring through Rivia, he grabs his sword and heads out. Time to defend the innocent one last time. Time to get involved one last time...
...but butchers don't deserve happiness. They don't deserve a second chance.
Geralt treats the inevitable chafing from Jaskier's random and unnecessary swim.
Rated M for Manly Parts.
When Jaskier thrusts his coat and waistcoat at Geralt, he scrambles to catch them and then waits for the trews and boots that never come. Instead, Jaskier wades into the water, prattling away as he is wont to do, and Geralt stares in confusion.
It's not Jaskier's impressive physique that catches his attention. Why would it? They had travelled together for decades, and he had seen Jaskier in all states known to a healthy man in his physical prime. There was a reason so many young men and women fell happily into Jaskier's bed, and it had nothing to do with the many avian metaphors he used to woo them. No, Geralt’s confused because Jaskier had decided to bathe more or less fully clothed. His boots will squelch with every step, his britches will rub his thighs raw, and for the rest of the day, he will carry the odour of a damp dog.
Geralt, no stranger to an uncomely sweat rash between the thighs after a long day on the road, winces in empathy at the thought as Jaskier sloshes around in the water. Surely, it couldn't be some newly discovered sense of propriety? That felt entirely out of character. Perhaps Jaskier had a dose of the clap and didn't want Geralt to see the state of his loins? But Geralt would be able to smell the infection, even beneath the floral hints of Jaskier's cologne.
Geralt is so embroiled in his internal deduction, that he engages in the conversation on autopilot, taking each revelation with an even expression.
As expected, Jaskier trudges uncomfortably for the rest of the day, and is swearing colourfully by the time they made camp. "Geralt, I feel like I've walked all day with gravel between my legs," he grumbles, face twisted in an unsightly grimace as he peels his braies off.
They had paused only thrice on their walk, each time for Geralt to pluck a particular bloom or fungus that caught his attention at the edge of the road. Horse and bard both patiently waited each time, before resuming their incessant trundle onwards, Geralt’s harvest tucked safely away in a saddlebag.
Geralt hums, those very same saddlebags open at his feet, and glances around from his pestle and mortar only for a moment to glimpse Jaskier’s discomfort. Jaskier huffed. "Your bedside manner is as comforting and warm as ever." He flops onto his side, only to 'ahh-ahh' softly as his thighs touch together.
Silence fell but for the slop and grind of Geralt's quiet machinations and the last lonely birds in the canopies above. When he’s done, he shuffles over to Jaskier on his knees and places the bowl to the side of his sleeping mat. "For the rash," Geralt says.
"For the what?" Jaskier sits up, wincing as his legs shift.
"Your thighs," Geralt points, "they're raw. From wet clothes. This'll numb the sting."
Jaskier picks up the bowl, gives it one sniff and pulls a theatrically exaggerated face of disgust. "Revolting."
"The cure is often worse than the prevention," Geralt says, parroting back a lesson Vesemir had drilled into his head from day one. He was about to shut up and leave Jaskier to it, but he has to know. A quick glance at Jaskier's nethers confirms that they are healthy enough, of natural colour and proportions, if a little red from the chafing. "Jaskier, why did you bathe with your boots and britches on?"
"Brevity. Efficiency. They would rinse while my legs were submerged, I... didn't think. You know, my head is empty, silly, useless bard can't even apply his singular brain cell to bathing."
Geralt doesn't answer immediately. He turns away, leaving Jaskier to dip his fingers into the ointment and feel its consistency between finger and thumb. Jaskier’s hand hovers over his thigh, face screwed up in a grimace, breath held. Geralt glances back, and Jaskier lets out a frustrated sigh. "Devil take it."
"What?"
"I can't, I'm yellow, it'll sting," Jaskier says, morose. "An idiot and a coward."
Geralt's lips set, and he reaches for the bowl. His fingers are rough, but they’re clean. Vesemir has taught them to cleanse their hands before iatrochemistry, because all number of impurities can ruin a good brew; there’s no telling what has touched a witcher’s hands as the day progressed. Jaskier watches him, eyes wide and hawkish, but doesn't flinch away when Geralt's ointment-greased fingers hover near his thigh. "May I?" Geralt asks.
"You may," Jaskier croaks, lower lip between his teeth, a stitch in the middle of his brow.
Geralt’s as gentle as he can be, conscious of how weathered his hands are and how easily a stray callus could snag on tender skin. He leaves a thin, glistening layer over every inch of reddened, raised flesh, and minds each of Jaskier's soft gasps to map his route. He pauses when Jaskier has bunched up, the stinging pain at a crescendo despite the cool ointment acting quickly. The fire’s warm at Geralt's back and sweat beads on his neck, beneath his arms, but it does nothing to drown the scent of Jaskier’s so close. Geralt will have to tie his hair up before seeing to the maintenance of Roach's tack, and his attention is briefly rescued.
However, it’s entirely impossible to miss the plumping of Jaskier's prick, and Geralt’s careful to avoid brushing it with his knuckles as he works higher. It’s a perfectly natural response to a tender touch here, and Geralt’s kinder than to tease his friend for it when he’s in pain.
He can feel Jaskier's pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering and fast, and hear the soft pants of squirming embarrassment as he dips around the back of his leg; Geralt continues only until every inch of red is covered. "It's suitable for your intimates if needed, but they don't seem too bothered."
A'right, he couldn't resist a little tease.
As Geralt draws back though, Jaskier's hand darts out to take his wrist, "I should like to be better safe than sorry."
Geralt nods, intending to make a little more for a second application if that was the case, but it’s then that he glances up and catches Jaskier's stare. He knows that look. The lustful, wanton gaze of a man possessed by a deep-seated longing. Jaskier has levied it on many a buxom girl in the past, but... on Geralt? Geralt had never been arrogant enough to even think...
"I should also like, since you appear to be such a dab hand, for you to apply it." Jaskier nibbles his lip, hesitates, and then sighs, the same frustrated puff. Like he can’t quite find the words to express what’s behind that yearning gaze. Now that is entirely out of character.
Geralt turns his wrist in Jaskier's grasp to take his in turn, fingers resting over the hammering pulse on the soft under skin. He can see the flush in Jaskier's neck, and he would pass it off as the rising heat from the fire if it wasn’t for the way his blue eyes darted nervously. "Would it please you?" asks Geralt.
Jaskier swallows hard and fixes Geralt with a worried eye. "Only if it would please you too. That is important, Geralt. Important to me."
Geralt smiles. A small thing, for he knew how ugly his smiles were and he had no wish to ruin the moment. "It would." He pauses for a single beat, giving Jaskier a moment to withdraw his affections because it wouldn’t be the first time Geralt has misread a person’s heart. But when Jaskier’s lips part, his pupils blowing wide in the dim firelight, Geralt reaches forward with his lips and his hand in unison, capturing Jaskier's first gasping breath of pleasure all for himself.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Lambert (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Lambert-Typical Nerdery, Lambert-Typical Swearing, Friends With Benefits, Embarrassment, Game-Canon Lambert (The Witcher), Show-Canon Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Part 2 of The Lamb and The Lion
Summary:
Jaskier stumbles across an amusing log in the back of Lambert's journal detailing their sexual encounters.
Partner and I are listening to Turandot over our eggs and bacon this fine Saturday morning, and my brain returned to its favourite headcanon of Eskel being able to sing. But instead of his usual husky, country singer-vibe, slap a set of Luciano Pavarotti pipes on that lad.
Let him be discovered by Jaskier when he and Geralt meet up with Eskel on the Path. It's been a year or so since they lost Vesemir, and they've been making an effort to see more of each other.
Eskel's vibrato fills some little woodland. Geralt has a stupid grin on his face, because this was the exact reason he wanted to track Eskel down. He won't sing in Kaer Morhen. Never has. But in the wilderness with no one for hundreds of miles but the birds? Eskel opens up.
Jaskier is absolutely stunned. He begs, and pleads, and grovels for more when Eskel stops abruptly upon seeing Geralt has a companion. Geralt is smug as fuck because he gets the double whammy of "I told you so" with Eskel and making Jaskier lose his shit. He sits back and basks while Jaskier gushes in words and phrases Eskel's never heard before.
By some kind of miracle, Jaskier eventually convinces Eskel to give a performance in Oxenfurt. The biggest issue? The most popular librettist in Oxenfurt, and thus the person that controls every music hall from there to Vizima, is Valdo-fucking-Marx. Eskel will have to give a private performance if he ever hopes of doing more than entertaining at the local docks.
Jaskier manages to get Marx to turn up by offering the opportunity to belittle Jaskier's lack of taste/talent/state of dress/face. Eskel steps up on stage and Marx rolls his eyes. He thinks this is going to be hilarious. Look at the absolute state of the creature--
And then Eskel starts. His voice fills the auditorium like it belongs there.
And Marx's mouth falls open, his eyes glistening, his fingers turning white as he grips the armrests.
Jaskier doesn't even try to hide his smirk.
Has Eskel had formal training? Where did he learn? Is this some kind of trick? A witch's spell? Has Jaskier drugged them all? Marx demands his answers and Jaskier gives them. Eskel is a rare marvel. One of a kind.
Marx demands Eskel for the opening night of his next performance. He'll pay anything. Anything.
Eskel's hesitant. It's not Witcher work. Not even close. But that amount of money would fix up Kaer Morhen's watchtower, and then some. So he agrees. He stays in Oxenfurt with Jaskier, attends all the rehearsals and the costuming. Every person involved goes through the same process of doubt and denigration before they hear Eskel for the first time.
Opening night rolls around. Eskel performs spectacularly well. Gossip is all abuzz at the interval and Jaskier receives several offers of patronage, but it's the closing aria that knocks the breath out of everyone. Eskel hits that tenor high C and the audience moves from stunned silence to standing ovation, drowning out the gods-be-damned orchestra.
Eskel does a circuit with Marx. His reputation explodes. Both as a novelty and a musician in his own right. The fact that he's scarred and broken adds the mystique; the whole "ugly duckling that can sing" rags to riches story. He doesn't really care, not like he's proud. When the circuit comes to an end, he heads home to the empty halls of Kaer Morhen as he does at the end of every year (despite saying he never would again, old habits, and probably some underlying shit he needs to work through).
He's never sung a single note there. Kaer Morhen isn't a place for music. It's a place of pain, memory, mourning and ghosts. Been even worse since... well, since Vesemir. But something takes hold of Eskel as he dumps his bags, brimming with fine shirts and beautifully made weapons, on the floor. He stares into the emptiness and pretends his fallen brothers are still there, with Vesemir sitting on the bench at the front, and he starts to sing.
As he hits that high C in the halls of Kaer Morhen, the acoustics of the cavernous grand hall carrying his voice higher, Eskel imagines the only standing ovation he ever cared about.
For my dearest friends @pressedinthepages and @tumbleweedtech, because holding a letter from your friends is like a hug from afar when you're feeling lonely. Thank you. [Rated: T, no warnings, hints of Geraskier, potentially]
Jaskier receives a letter from his family to remind him that he's loved. Geralt decides to send a few of his own.
“Bard!”
The innkeeper barked at Jaskier as he ducked through the door. Barely a step behind him, Geralt squared his shoulders and turned a wary eye around the other patrons in search of trouble. It wouldn’t be the first time they had entered a public house and been immediately accosted by a spurned lover, impatient creditor or critical… fan.
Jaskier put on a brave face—his most beatific smile—and spread his arms wide. It could be that their fine host had noted Jaskier’s lute and hoped to hire him for entertainment. He couldn’t recall any recent liaisons, gambler's debt or impish rhyme that might have made him unwelcome in this town. “That I am. May I offer a song to your fine establishment? Perhaps a poem? I have quite the back catalogue—”
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Jaskier the bard?”
Well, that was worryingly specific.
“That rather depends on who’s asking,” Jaskier said carefully, blue eyes narrowing, “and the… nature of the business.”
With an impatient grunt, the innkeeper bent down. Geralt tensed, half expecting a crossbow to emerge above the bar, and Jaskier tucked himself behind Geralt’s arm in a practised little side shuffle. Their reticent host didn’t produce a weapon, but a small parcel with a letter attached to the top. “This arrived for you two days past.”
Jaskier sighed in relief. “Oh, lovely. Let’s see there.” He retrieved the parcel, ordered two drinks, and headed to the far corner of the tavern in search of a little privacy. Geralt followed, his curiosity piqued.
“What is it?” Geralt asked, shrugging his swords from his back as he hooked a chair out with his foot.
“A letter from home and—oh, well, this is…” Jaskier tugged open the knotted twine of the parcel and the brown paper fell away to reveal a shockingly ugly scarf. It was an odd shade of burgundy, with emerald-green spots and yellow tassels on both ends. “Grandmama must have visited Cidaris recently.” He shuffled the gift aside and plucked open the letter next.
Geralt watched Jaskier’s expression melt from pensive to affectionate as he worked his way down the neatly written paragraphs. The drinks arrived, but Jaskier didn’t look up. He placed the letter down and smoothed out the creases so that he could continue reading, hand darting out absently to skirt the lip of the tankard. Geralt leaned forward as discreetly as he could but was soon caught. Jaskier kicked him in the side of the boot. “Don’t you know it’s rude to read over a man’s shoulder?”
“You don’t say anything when it’s your poems I read.”
“Yes, well… poems are my business, my creations. I spin them myself, select every word to communicate my desired message. Family is a matter of… something else entirely. They are chaos, and embarrassing, and so very awful. I mean, look at this gods-be-damned thing, simply odious. You wouldn’t stare at a man’s bare arse in the communal baths, would you? Now, Geralt. Manners.” Jaskier said all this with an affectionate smile, his be-ringed fingers caressing the soft material of his scarf. Geralt had never heard someone use the word odious so lovingly.
“How did they know where to find you?”
“Oh, in my last letter home I told them we were heading this way, following the migratory patterns of—what did you call them?”
“Graveir,” Geralt said over the lip of his ale.
“Ahh, yes, Graveir. Will we be heading out to find those soon, or—?”
“Jaskier.”
“Yes, yes, quite.” Jaskier put his elbow on the table, chin in his palm, and stared out the window wistfully.
Geralt didn’t follow his gaze. Instead, he stared at the letter, with its elegant handwriting densely packed onto a handful of pages, and… wondered. Jaskier said it was embarrassing but his expression said otherwise. The moment he had realised the gift was from his family, his shoulders had relaxed, his face had opened up, and now he was smiling softly. Geralt knew bits and pieces of Jaskier’s family. His parents were eccentric; his father was a Kovirian inventor, and his mother a harpist at the Cidrian court. As for the extended gaggle of brothers, sisters, third cousins, nephews and miscellaneous blood relatives, Geralt only knew they were numerous, and all encouraged to spread their wings and see where the current of destiny carried them.
“Do you—miss them?” Geralt asked.
“Of course I do,” Jaskier replied, blue eyes abandoning the murky street view to settle on Geralt. “They may be staggeringly uncouth, embarrassing beyond belief, and when I visit? Oh, Geralt, the bickering. My older sister, she’s just—urgh, do you know what? I think Yennefer would adore her, and my middle brother, a prankster through and through. I lost my finest doublet to him not two winters past. But,” Jaskier touched the scarf again, “I love them dearly. When they send letters, it’s like I carry a small piece of them with me. I am reminded that I still matter, that I’m still in their hearts, even if I haven’t seen them in nigh two years.”
I’m still in their hearts.
Geralt carried the thought with him to bed that night. Predictably, his mind drifted back to Kaer Morhen, back home. He saw his family once a year if he was lucky. It had never occurred to him that they might miss him as much as he missed them. Loneliness was part of a witcher’s lot but that didn’t make it any less… debilitating when it sank its claws in. Most of the time it was a dull ache deep in his chest, easily subdued by the pressure of survival. But occasionally, when Jaskier was in Oxenfurt, when the skies were bleak and the rain heavy, the ache became an acute pain. He had no choice but to weather it of course, but the thought of his family—Lambert, Ciri, Eskel, Yen, hell, even Vesemir—suffering the very same twinge left him feeling melancholy.
Could something as simple as a letter help them smile like Jaskier had? Would they even read it? It was stupid, really. No one had time to read letters on the Path. Especially letters that were superfluous and whimsical. Especially letters from him.
Hmm.
Perhaps. Maybe. You know, he could…
…just do it and see. They would probably get lost before they reached their destination anyway.
The next time Jaskier left for Oxenfurt, Geralt sat down at a small, rickety table at the back of an inn, and put quill to paper. He sat there for three hours, replacing his drink only when the innkeeper began to tut in disapproval; a sober patron was a Crown lost, after all. By the time he was finished, Geralt had written five letters. Now all he had to do was put them in the path of their intended recipients.
--
Sheltered from the driving rain by the long limbs of a willow tree, Eskel pulled the crumpled note from inside his gambeson and began to read.
‘Dear Eskel,
I hope this letter finds you well. I know you hunt along the Pontar this time of year. I came across this interesting game in Ebbing and thought you might enjoy it. You must arrange the numbers one to nine in each of the boxes, ensuring each number is not duplicated in each line. I know that you like puzzles and…’
Eskel read the letter five times before he folded it away gently and found some charcoal to complete Geralt’s gift. Even with the wind howling around him and icy rain sneaking past the seams of his old cloak, the scarred witcher felt warm. He had not been forgotten to the darkness of the Path by those he loved.
--
Lambert knocked out the last brawler before he righted a chair and fell into it. The crackle of paper as he sat down reminded him of the letter he’d found pinned to the town noticeboard with a knife. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and tugged the letter from his trouser pocket. He’d recognise Geralt’s untidy scrawl anywhere. Bastard never could get the hang of cursive…
‘Hey fucknugget,
I found proof of that speckled basilisk I was talking to you about last winter. You owe me a bottle of Mahakam ale. I’ve enclosed some skin and a sketch for you. There’s a Gwent tournament at the start of Samhain in Vattweir. I won’t make it, but one of us might as well go clear up the winnings…’
Lambert examined the sliver of skin that fell out the envelope and grinned. Well, well, Cream Puff hadn’t been talking out his arse for once. Lambert would have to stop by the dwarves on his way back north. He didn’t look up from the letter as he kicked his felled opponent in the head, knocking him unconscious. Lambert would have to find an even more interesting relic or beast to top Geralt this year.
--
“Cirilla!” Yennefer called from inside the atrium. She had Ciri cataloguing and documenting each of the medicinal plants in the temple’s overflowing flowerbeds and Ciri was grateful for an end to the tedium. Small shears abandoned, she joined Yennefer on the blanket surrounded by bookmarked and annotated volumes. As she smoothed her hands down her skirts, Yennefer passed her an open letter. “From Geralt, my ugly one.”
Ciri smiled as she pulled the letter into her lap.
‘Dearest Yen and Ciri,
I picked these blooms just outside White Orchard. They’re the most peculiar colour and I remembered that Ciri is currently cataloguing the temple’s herb garden. I remember finding that particular part of my education unbelievably tedious…’
Ciri grinned at Yennefer, who rolled her eyes. The pressed flowers slipped from the envelope: one purple bloom speckled with yellow flecks, and another with brilliant white threaded through its deep, verdant leaves. Ciri ran her fingertips over the velvet petals as she read, and Yennefer watched on fondly. It was comforting to have a small piece of Geralt nearby as she continued to fumble her way through teaching, and bonding with, Ciri. She could lean on his strength, even though he was on the other side of the world.
--
Vesemir loaded the last of the crates into the wagon and stretched his back. Most of the time the cold didn’t reach this deep into his bones, but after a day on the trail, he felt every damned break.
“Oh, Master Vesemir.” One of the young Squirrels trotted over with a letter in his hand. “This arrived a few nights ago. Addressed to you.”
Vesemir paid the lad with an oren and hopped into the driving seat. The old mule knew most of the way and would only need help to navigate the steep slopes later, so he opened the letter to read.
‘Vesemir,
I hope this arrives for your summer trip to the foot of the mountain. If not, I suppose I can collect it on my way home. I’ve been thinking a lot about loneliness. I know the way of things, how a witcher’s duty is to walk the Path. I know that witchers are lone hunters, but I often wish we could walk the Path in pairs, or perhaps more. I remember when I first told you I wished to be a knight, and…’
Vesemir almost lost track of the wagon’s progress up the mountain. When the mule stopped with a judder, he almost fell from his perch. Vesemir would read the letter several more times by candlelight that evening. It was the first time since he had become an instructor that one of his boys had written to him from the Path, and it made his old heart rest a little easier.
--
“Ah, Geralt!”
Jaskier waved at him from the city gate. Geralt pulled his final letter from inside his cloak and stepped forward to present it to Jaskier. They had been apart for a few weeks now, but Geralt had agreed to collect Jaskier on his way north. He could have posted his note of course, but Jaskier had told him that more than one set of eyes passed over the mail that arrived at the university, and Geralt would rather keep family matters private.
“Oh,” Jaskier said, a wide grin splitting his face as he took the letter from Geralt’s outstretched hand. “Well, what a coincidence. It just so happens that I have quite a lot of post for you, my dear witcher.”
Jaskier reached inside his satchel and pulled out four letters. He let out a soft huff of laughter as he offered them, for he had never seen Geralt smile so brightly.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Characters: Coën (The Witcher), Lambert (The Witcher)
Additional Tags: Background Relationships, Background Poly, Christmas, Meet-Cute, Meet the Family, First Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Game-Canon Lambert (The Witcher), Book-Canon Coën (The Witcher)
Series: Part 14 of Fuck That Kinda Destiny
Summary: Lambert has been put on the most unpopular shift of the year, and lucky him, he gets a call at 4am in the middle of a storm. Little does he know, he's about to do the most unlikely first meeting to first kiss speedrun.
I listened to Werewolf of Steel by Carnal Agony (listen to it; it's hilarious), and this WIP popped fully formed into my head. It's already about 3k in, but won't be published for a while... I'm just so excited about it. @skaldingrayne and @tumbleweedtech helped me fully flesh out the world so I could start writing (their ideas not included here).
Premise: Lambert is a famous comic artist and author. His prize-winning work, Werewolf of Steel, is about a superhero werewolf who goes around rescuing dames, solving mysteries and kicking ass. He's a cishet male power fantasy and it's raked Lambert in a fortune. Nobody knows his secret...
Warnings: Lambert's father, brief violence against a child, the murder of Lambert's father.
Twelve year old Lambert's father is a top executive in a Big Bank and an absolute asshole. He's disloyal to Lambert's mother, shady, dishonest and just an all round massive shithead. One evening, Lambert catches him banging his secretary when he gets bored waiting around in a conference room for his dad to remember he exists. His father drags him out of the building and decided if he puts the fear of God in the kid, then he'll stay silent. This isn't the first time. Not even close. The noise of Lambert's pleas for him to stop, his screams for help, are largely ignored by passers by. Not their business. But a homeless man interrupts.
The homeless man warns Lambert's father to stop in a deep, metallic growth. He appears to be staggering, clutching his head, and Lambert's father assumes he's another drunk. He tells the man to fuck off and turns back to Lambert, who is crying and shaking. The homeless man, upon hearing Lambert's cries and the threat of continued horrors, transforms with a series of agonised yelps and cracking bones.
He's a werewolf.
The werewolf strikes Lambert's father down. It's not too horrific. A slash across the throat. It's quick and efficient. The wolf pins Lambert down and sniffs him. Lambert is ready to accept his fate. His life's a crock of shit anyway. But Lambert sees shame and fear in the wolf's eyes.
It runs away.
The police arrive.
No one believes Lambert.
They think he's traumatised from a horrific mugging. He goes to therapy. His mother moves on and finds another abusive asshole to shack up with. Lambert never forgets what happened that night. He doesn't see the werewolf as a monster that murdered his father, but believes he was saved by a hero. He grows up into a comic artist and his hit bestseller is Werewolf of Steel. A heroic everyman, who's roguish with a heart of gold. He gets all the girls, rescues the vulnerable and howls at the moon.
We're talking movie deals, a TV series on Netflix. Lambert's hitting the big time, and his agent, Kiera, is pushing, pushing. He fancied her once but she told him that "cute, single nerds do better in the business", so that dream went poof. There's even a catchy theme tune to the new series and Lambert has to include the chorus on the inside of his next issue.
But he never forgot and never stopped looking. His obsession is good for his work, because every dead-end leads to a new story. But there's one tale he can't tell because it doesn't fit with the cishet male power fantasy of the Werewolf of Steel with women falling at his feet.
Lambert draws a second comic. One where he falls in love with the werewolf. He keeps it secret, stashed away in his desk, occasionally he'll work on it, drawing loving erotica and heartfelt romance.
One night he comes home after drinking heavily at the local bar to find a strange man standing in his study. He grabs a cricket bat and challenges him, but the intruder lifts both hands in immediate surrender. Lambert flicks the light on and two things knock the air from his lungs: 1) the intruder was leafing through his private comic, the one where he's wrapped in the wolf, his hands buried in its fur, and 2) he recognises that face. The face he'd seen moments before it turned into a wolf. It's the werewolf from all those years ago. He looks... embarrassed, rather than scared.
He gives his name. It's Eskel.
They stare at each other for a long while. Neither moving. Eskel offers to go out the window and disappear, Lambert tells him that if he does Lambert will hunt him until the end of time. He wants answers.
Eskel agrees, but Lambert sends him to the shower first because he fucking stinks.
Eskel showers and reappears just as Lambert places two empty mugs on the kitchen counter. There is something far too erotic about seeing the man of his dreams in his sweatpants, with damp hair and a naked chest, and Lambert tries to focus on making the coffee.
Lambert makes him put on a dressing gown, because tits that good would get him an NC17 rating on his next comic. And Lambert watches Eskel eat leftover chicken and drink black coffee; he studies those bright, golden eyes and the jagged scar down his face, the thick coils of muscles revealed in a 'big man wasted too thin' kind of way.
Lambert's first question to the man he has searched for, dreamed about, his entire life: "Does it hurt?"
