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It’s a lazy day. Well, as lazy as a day can get at Kaer Morhen in the deepest winter, anyway. The smell of slowly cooking meat wafts through the air, needing a few more hours until it will be done and tender as a bird’s first flap of wings come spring. Vesemir is satisfied with the smell, garlic and mushroom and herbs perfecting it in a way he is almost afraid will make the boys skip out on kitchen duty in the future again. A smile appears on his lips as he flips the page, taking a moment to listen to the sounds coming from the training grounds outside. The boys have chosen to make use of this day without snowfall or howling winds and expertly talked themselves out of their duties in favour of beating the shit out of each other. Vesemir has never had the heart to tell Lambert no when he, like an excitable puppy, challenged Geralt to a sparring match. Ever the younger brother, in soul if not in blood.
Only the Cub is still here with him, curled up in that bay window that has quickly become her favourite seat outside her bard’s lap. Exhaustion radiates from her like rays of the sun, and Vesemir is sure he can see wrinkles of melancholy around her eyes. Exhaustion and sadness and a trace of marvel as her eyes shine like the glistening snow she is watching.
In the months the old Witcher has known the Cub of Cintra, he has learned to recognise that look. Lambert once held the very same, though he was never allowed to just sit in the bay window and lose himself between the quiet world and his loud mind.
Vesemir aches for her, a minute feeling he indulges in for a whole two seconds before he shuts his book and rises from the armchair that nobody dares to occupy even when he’s not there.
The Cub doesn’t spare him a glance, doesn’t even twitch, that sheen of a different time she dreams of never leaving her eyes. It only reaffirms his decision that the Little Swallow, as her bard has been calling her since the moment he first saw her all this time ago, is in desperate need of a break. In desperate need of adventures out in the snow.
It used to help Lambert on his worst days, and since there are so many parallels between the Cub and his youngest pup, it’s worth a try.
An idea has already formed in his mind as Vesemir takes sure steps toward a part of the keep that he hasn't set foot in for decades now. Dusty layers cover even the ground now, the drafty winds howling through holes in the wall standing no chance against decades of disuse. The dust is thicker than even the snow creeping in. Still, despite everything, Vesemir knows where he must go. He knows the keep will hold like it always has, always does, always will. He knows his old lady and the secrets she keeps, and one of those secrets is at the far end of this corridor.
The door opens with a creak of protest, but the room itself greets him with silence and the same picture he saw when he closed it last.
There, leaning against the wall, looking the same as they did all this time ago, untouched by grief and guilt and the weight of Destiny, rest four sleds. Well, there are more than four in this room, but these four are special. He has built each of them himself. In secret. For Geralt when he finished his Grasses. For Eskel when he cried by his brother's bedside when he wouldn't wake up and his hair slowly turning white. For Lambert after he has been robbed of his Choice. For himself, after they requested.
These sleds are special. But so is the Cub, and this seems like the perfect distraction. The perfect addition to the collection of memories.
Yes, Vesemir thinks. Yes, this will bring more joy than nostalgia. This will be good.
At least that's what he hopes as he grabs two of them and leaves the room with a tiny smile tugging on his lips.
He tells the Cub to go get her coat, and this time she reacts with a wide, confused eyes. "There's something I want to show you," he explains, his gruff voice almost gentle, and he enjoys watching the tension drain out of her shoulders. It hits him once more that she has been brave enough to learn how to trust these strange, dangerous Witchers. How she has defied all her instincts and all the cages of her trauma and let them get close. Vesemir really owes the bard for the way Cirilla nods and walks past him to get ready.
No words yet today, the melancholia too heavy on her chest, wafting through the air and filling it with the scent of summer rain on a field of flowers.
A smell he has grown accustomed to. Things could be worse, but he still intends to make them better.
A short while later, she comes back downstairs, fully dressed in her warm fur coat, thick boots, and leather gloves. There is a determined look on her face, expecting yet another lesson, another challenge, another call to evolve. Oh, how he knows that look. His boys still carry it to this day whenever he is being vague with them - which, granted, is most of the time. But as long as she doesn't look scared or haunted, he can't help but admire the strength she might not even realise she holds in her heart and in her mind.
"Come now," he tells her gruffly and pulls open the heavy gates.
Icy cold air blows in his face immediately and he sees the Cub hiding a shiver. She'll get used to the cold. It's not too bad today, the sun still spending whatever warmth she can, unobstructed by heavy clouds for once as it can shine freely.
A few steps into glistening, untouched snow, she stops, her eyes shining once more. But there's a gentle, almost dazed, secret little smile on her lips. Vesemir stops and lets her have her moment. He half expects her to fall back and make a snow angel. He half wants her to.
She doesn't move, though, lost in her head once more now that she stands in the fields of white glitter.
"I've never seen so much snow," she says, and Vesemir still is not used to how freely she has been using her words lately. He smiles at the marvel in her voice, but he doesn't say anything. "Cintra never had snow as long as I lived there. Never like this. It's... it's so beautiful."
Vesemir nods and takes a moment to admire his surroundings, wishing to himself he could see the world through the innocent eyes of a child once more if only to find his appreciation for the mundane again. Things like snow.
And yet, there is not a lot about the Cub that is innocent anymore, and she was never allowed to just be a child. So maybe it's not about children at all. Maybe it's about those who hurt the most and how they choose the smallest things to soothe their pain.
She looks up again and meets his eyes, coming out of her marvellous daze, the redness on her cheeks coming either from the cold or from a blush. Maybe both. He smiles.
"You wanted to show me something?"
"I did," he nods. "But we can admire the snow for a while longer, the sun is about to set within the hour. There is no rush."
She looks grateful and a bit overwhelmed by it, but with another parting glance around the untouched planes of white, she crosses the distance between them with all that determination Vesemir admires so much.
Without another word, he leads her through the deep, deep snow, knowing every root, stone and treacherous ice patch that could appear under his feet, yet still bidding her to take careful steps only. "Not too far now. Only up that hill."
Ciri doesn't say anything and Vesemir doesn't need her to. He'd rather she takes secure steps than be distracted with idle chatter -- much unlike her bard in that regard.
At last, they reach their destination. The top of a small hill set into the mountain. A small valley – if one could even call it that. Not safe enough for animals to seek shelter, yet safe and familiar enough that there is no danger of misstepping or veering off the side of the mountain. It's safe. It's old. It's secret. But most of all, it's familiar. Like a gift from the otherwise so ruthless mountain, a nook safe from the unforgiving winds, a place only for them.
Vesemir sets down the sleds in front of them, still a few feet away from the steep drop of the hill. The Cub only seems to really notice them now, eyeing her own with an air of confusion, trepidation and curiosity.
"Do you know what this is?"
She shakes her head, meeting his eyes.
"It's a sled," he says, nudging his own with his boot, relieved that the metal fitting on the bottom of the vats makes for an easy slide through the snow. "To ride through the snow. Down the hill. Great fun," he promises.
The curiosity wins over the other emotions battling for dominance inside her, and Vesemir feels victorious already.
"How does it work?" she asks.
"No science behind it, really, though Lambert will disagree. You sit on it. You push off from here and hold onto these bars to keep from falling off. But you'll land softly if you do fall off, and this valley is far enough away from the sides of the mountain. Nothing can happen here, it's safe."
She keeps looking at him, then down at her sled, clenching and unclenching her hands. She wants to try it, he realises with a warm feeling spreading in his chest.
"If you love the snow, you're gonna love this even more, little Cub," he promises.
She swallows and he waits patiently.
He's just about to offer going first so she can watch him and decide if it's a risk into the unknown that she is ready to take -- but then she sits down with determination, looking way too fierce for a lost princess sitting on a ruddy if stable old sled. He almost laughs, the warmth spreading even further.
"Just push off?"
"And hold on," he nods.
She swallows once more and glares at the valley, and this time Vesemir doesn't hide the grin.
With a push both strong and hesitant, she moves forward, inching closer and closer to where the hill begins to drop down, until— with a shriek of surprise, she slides down the hill, the ice below the snow making for an easy glide even through fresh and untouched snow. Her first attempt ends abruptly as she jostles herself and loses her balance, the sled falling over in almost comical slowness, and only a moment later, the princess lands face-first in the snow.
She doesn't move for a while. Vesemir is just about to start worrying when, finally, she turns around to lie flat on her back. Free laughs fill the air between them, travelling up the hill and down into the valley until for a moment, the whole world is made up only of her giggles and laughs.
"You okay?" he calls down to her just to be sure, but her laugh only gets louder as she raises a shaking arm, holding up her thumb. He huffs out a sigh of relief and sits on his own sled, expertly steering it around the princess and all the way down, laughing as he hears her cheers. It comes just as naturally to him as he left it all those decades ago, and he breathes another sigh of relief.
Vesemir gets up and drags his sleigh up the hill again, pulling it behind him on a thin but sturdy rope. He stops by the princess and holds out his hand for her to pull her up. She's still laughing, her eyes glistening for a whole other reason now.
Her second try goes better than her first, though this time she falls off the end of the sled halfway, her giggles even louder this time and if Vesemir didn't know better, he would almost think she's doing it on purpose. He knows she doesn't, but he wouldn't mind it if she did.
They keep going and she gets the hang of it eventually, reaching the end of the hill with shrieks and cheers and victorious laughs.
The smiles are permanent on both their faces now, and Vesemir realises that he may have needed this as much as she did.
It's not long before the little Cub's laughs travel down to the keep and Vesemir can hear the boys approaching. Lambert's roaring laughter and Jaskier's excited chattering soon reach his ears, further settling his heart in his chest and the smile on his lips.
Naturally, it doesn't take more than a few minutes for chaos to unfold then as the setting sun paints the world in golden hues. Jaskier joins his little Swallow in giggling and laughing down the hill, the two of them even sharing a sled as they race Geralt. Who, as Vesemir observes with amusement, doesn't handle his sled with the practiced ease he knows the pup possesses. He lets them win — and as it turns out, he's not half as sly about it as he thinks. As soon as they reach the foot of the hill in the little valley, Jaskier and Ciri jump off their sleds and accuse Geralt of cheating and letting them win, tackling him to the ground. Geralt stands no chance against them — but once again, he doesn't even try.
Meanwhile, Eskel and Lambert race each other down the hill, too, but in a much more vicious and Wolf-like manner. Halfway down the hill, they jump off their sleds and try to tackle the other into the snow that by now carries none of the pristine beauty it possessed before their intrusion. Lambert roars as he tries to jump Eskel who in turn stops his sled, veers off to the side so that Lambert misses him and lands face first in the snow. Then, with a triumphant laugh, Eskel tackles Lambert viciously until a sparring match unfolds. And still, breathless laughter fills the air and Vesemir's heart as he stands on top of the hill, watching this... this family. Smile still in place. It might not leave until morning.
The bard and the little Cub are shivering, their teeth clattering and their grinning lips blue when they finally decide to go back to the keep and warm up. Lambert and Eskel race each other the whole way back, stumbling on hidden roots and rocks, slipping on patches of ice, pushing and shoving each other. Their sleds trailing behind them makes for a hilarious picture, as though they were nothing but the fresh, green pups they were decades upon decades ago. Some things never change, Vesemir thinks gratefully.
Jaskier has decided — no, demanded, with all his noble air — that Geralt pulls him on the sled back to the keep. Vesemir thinks he saw a tiny smile on the pup's lips, but he keeps his mouth shut. Gods know that these two have faced enough hardships and he is happy to see them so easily affectionate.
He is lost in his thoughts as he watches his boys. When a gloved hand nudges his own, he is taken by surprise and meets the Cub's eyes. Those bright, wide eyes that have lost all traces of melancholy sadness, ache and yearning. She stops and smiles at him, pulls his hand to stop, too, and Vesemir stills without protest. Not a second later he has his arms full of princess as she wraps her arms around him. It's not what he expected, nor is it what he's used to -- but still, his arms wrap around her in return after only a moment's hesitation.
She doesn't say anything, doesn't whisper between them now that the others can't hear. But she doesn't have to. Those laughs of hers that filled the air for such a long time now are more than any of the words she could have said.
It did work in the end. He got to bring her a bit of joy. Nor only her. His whole family.
No words are needed when his heart already feels so full.