Chapter Text
"So," Lambert started, elongating the word in a way that completely nullified the casual tone. He put his tankard down on the table and peered at Geralt. "A fucking Cintran princess."
They were sitting huddled close to the fire, basked in the dim red glow of it in the otherwise dark hall. It was nearing midnight. Both Vesemir and Ciri had already retired to their rooms for the night, leaving the three brothers to nurse their drinks in the near silence. The winter had already managed to set in, Geralt having arrived much later than it was safe by any stretch. He appeared in the courtyard the previous morning, dragging behind a shivering, sodden figure of a girl, bundled in several layers of cloaks and furs. The pair of them emerged from the rapidly gathering storm, pushing through the mounds of snow piled by the gate. Eskel rushed to help, startled by the sudden appearance. They were not expecting Geralt to be arriving this year, late into the season as it was, let alone with a half-frozen child in tow.
Geralt didn't look up at Lambert, just let out a low humming sound, gaze fixed on the fire dancing in the pit.
Lambert didn't look deterred.
"Which you claimed as your child surprise," he continued, tone flat.
Geralt just hummed again.
"During a royal banquet."
Geralt glanced up at him then, finally tearing his gaze from the flames. Lambert fixed him with a look, letting the silence stretch.
"In fucking Cintra."
Geralt turned to fully face him, placing his mug on the table. The sound of it rang out in the cavernous space, joining the cracking of the burning wood and the booming howls of the storm hitting against the stone walls.
"Yes," he said.
Lambert regarded him silently.
"And the entire fucking Nilfgaardian army is now looking for her."
Geralt didn't reply to that, none of them needing the confirmation. He had already explained the reasons for his late arrival at the keep, and the circumstances of him claiming Ciri and bringing her in. His gaze flicked briefly to Eskel. The older witcher was sitting at the edge of the table, closest to the fire, silently watching the exchange. He met Geralt's eyes, but didn't speak.
Lambert sat back in his chair and picked up his drink. He sipped at it unconcernedly, seemingly oblivious to the calculating stare he was being levelled with. Geralt finally looked away, gaze back on the fire. When the air of wariness started to seep out of his countenance, Lambert broke in again:
"Say, Geralt," he remarked, in a chipper tone. "How's your bard?"
Geralt tensed up in a millisecond.
"My bard," he repeated, turning back to Lambert and levelling him with a stare. It was the kind of look which would send any sane person running away screaming. Lambert just smiled.
"Ah, you know," he said. "Tall, loud, chatty, easy on the eyes..." Something flashed in Geralt’s eyes and Lambert grinned, honing in on the reaction like a shark scenting blood. "Followed you around for a couple of decades—"
Geralt interrupted him with a growl.
"What about him," he spat.
Lambert widened his eyes, a picture of guileless innocence. "Oh, I don't know," he said. He placed his legs on the table and leaned back. "You tell me. You're his friend."
The visible flinch on Geralt's face had Lambert flashing his teeth. Geralt looked away from him, working his jaw.
"He's fine," he ground out.
"Oh?" Lambert inquired, raising his eyebrows. He picked up his tankard and started playing with the lid, the thing squeaking obnoxiously at the tiny, worn hinges. "Must have been a different bard, then,” he continued, mouth stretching sharp and wolf-like on his face, “that I kicked out of my room in the morning."
Eskel made a loud snorting sound at that, inhaling some of his drink. He broke out into a series of coughs, wiping at his face and covering his lips. It was his first contribution to the discussion so far, other than the keen looks he kept shooting at the both of them.
Geralt didn't even spare him a glance. He snapped his eyes at Lambert, zeroing in on him like a predator stalking its prey. He shifted his stance, golden orbs boring into Lambert with burning intent.
"What," he growled, jaw clenched so tight that his voice audibly vibrated with it.
Eskel cleared his throat. The jagged, gravelled sound of it ripping through the tension like a dull knife. He straightened up, took a long wheezing breath, and went to explain:
"We ran into Jaskier on the way here," he said, voice still a bit raspy from his choking fit.
Geralt's eyes slowly shifted towards him.
"He was singing in a tavern we stopped at," Eskel continued, making a sharp, shushing gesture when Lambert opened his mouth to interrupt. "Got drunk, and then passed out. We took him to our room to keep an eye on him."
Geralt's jaw didn't unclench, but he no longer looked like he was about to murder someone.
"When was this?" he demanded.
"About two months ago, near Tretogor," Eskel said. He paused, taking a moment to scrutinize Geralt. "He told us about the mountain."
Geralt turned away, before either of them could identify the emotion on his face. His eyes fixed on the fire and stayed there.
Eskel and Lambert didn't find it necessary to interrupt him. They both watched, eyes sharp and gleaming in the flickering light, though in Lambert's case, there was a clear tint of mean satisfaction lining the gold. The silence continued to stretch, the hum of the hearth and the howls of winter wind once again dominating the space. Gradually, the aggression lining Geralt's shoulders started to dissipate, leaving him slumped in his chair. He leant forward with a sigh and rested his elbows on his knees, palms rubbing against each other in fitful twists.
"How was he?" he breathed, voice barely audible over the snap of the fire.
Eskel seemed to mull it over, before he spoke.
"Tired,” he said. “Pretty sure he was running a mild fever. Absolutely fucking pissed at you."
Geralt frowned, eyebrows drawing together in a deep crease. He kept staring at the flames, the muscles around his mouth twitching for a time, until they settled into a tight, mulish expression.
"He's better off without me," he grumbled, not looking up.
Lambert let out a loud snort.
"Oh yes," he mocked, voice so casual it was practically leaking scorn. Eskel didn't silence him this time. "He will be getting lots of attention now, that's for sure. Being famous as the White Wolf's bard."
They saw it finally click, a look of cold horror settling on Geralt's face. His gaze shot up at Lambert and he straightened, lips parting around a gasp that would have been completely soundless to anyone not possessed of a witcher hearing. The little color he had to his skin drained completely away, leaving him looking sickly white in the orange cast of the firelight. They could hear his breaths accelerate, heart pumping blood through his veins in quick, irregular pounds. He stared at his brothers, frozen in shock, something close to panic building in his eyes.
Then, the expression on his face morphed into that of steel determination, jaw bones shifting and jutting out. He stood up.
And turned on his heel.
"Hey!" Lambert startled. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"To find him," Geralt barked through clenched teeth, not looking back. The heavy stomps of his boots hit the bare walls of the hall and resonated back in a quick, resolute echo.
Lambert and Eskel exchanged a look. There was a moment of shocked silence, then Eskel leaped up from his seat, racing after him. He caught up with Geralt and grabbed him by the arm.
"Geralt, wait," he called, trying to arrest his movement. "You can't be serious. There's a fucking snowstorm outside!"
Geralt ripped his hand from Eskel's grip.
"I have to find him, Eskel," he growled.
"Yes, I know, but—"
"No!" Geralt snarled, turning on him. There was a wild, almost feral glint to his eyes.
Eskel didn't back down, despite the obvious threat in Geralt's pose. He stood in his way and squared his shoulders, returning the glare. For a moment it looked like Geralt would push him, muscles bunched up and thrumming with barely contained violence, but instead, he closed his eyes and took a few loud breaths through his nose.
"No, Eskel," Geralt repeated, more calmly, this time, though his voice still trembled slightly around the words. He opened his eyes and stared at his brother, gold flicking through gold in quick, imploring shifts, willing him to understand. "I have to."
Eskel studied his face.
"I know." He reached out to place a calming hand on Geralt's arm. He spoke in a level tone, gazing up at Geralt with a serious expression on his face. "But if you go now, you will die," he stated, no trace of doubt in his voice. "Jaskier needs you. Ciri needs you. You're no use to them dead."
They kept looking at each other for a moment more, frozen in place. Then, as if his strings were cut, Geralt deflated, the fight leaving him.
"Fuck," he cursed, emphatically, clenching his fists.
"Yeah,” Lambert called out from his seat. “I thought so too.”
Both Geralt and Eskel turned to glare at him.
Lambert raised his hands in mock surrender and rolled his eyes. The wood creaked when he shifted, muttering something under his breath, the words, thankfully, not loud enough for the others to hear. They all seemed to have decided, in a rare show of unanimity, that it was better this way.
"Go get some rest," Eskel instructed, turning back to Geralt. He clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "We'll talk more in the morning. Make some plans."
Geralt sighed wearily, but nodded.
"Thank you, Esk," he muttered, gazing at his brother with an earnest expression on his face.
Eskel flashed him a faint smile.
"Sure."
With a defeated set of his shoulders, Geralt once more made for the door, his footsteps softer and much less urgent than moments ago. He reached for the handle bolted to the heavy wing, gloved hand touching on the rusted metal, when Eskel's voice echoed through the hall:
"For the record..."
Geralt stopped in his tracks and glanced back.
"You're a right bastard, Geralt," Eskel said, making sure he got Geralt's full attention. His usually gentle eyes were hard, voice soaked in harsh disapproval. "Hope you know that."
Geralt's lips quirked a little at the corners, but there was no mirth to the expression.
"Yeah," he said. He looked aged in a way which was at complete odds with the magically enforced youth of his mutated body. "Yeah, I know."
"Good."
Geralt nodded in silent acknowledgement and turned away. The door opened for him with a screeching whine of rusted hinges and heavy scrape of metal on stone. Cold gust of wind sweeped into the space, carrying with it a small flurry of snow. It brushed against the witchers in a cooling breath and danced in the hearth, casting everything in rapidly blinking shadows. Geralt made to step out, but halted the movement at the last moment and turned around, his eyes fixing on Lambert. The younger witcher glanced up at him immediately.
Geralt held the eye contact, piercing Lambert with one, last, withering glare, then left the hall.
The door closed after him with a resounding clang, cutting off the howling wind and the shifty quivering of light. Eskel stood in the center, basked in the calm dimness of the room, and inhaled. What he puffed out seemed like all the air he'd breathed in throughout the entire evening. He turned around and returned slowly to the table, falling onto his chair and picking up his tankard. He dawned the ale in one go.
There were exactly two minutes of weighted silence. Until Lambert broke it with:
"That went well."
Eskel snorted so hard that he nearly spit on the table. He shot Lambert an incredulous look, eyebrows shooting up. Lambert smirked at him from under the tangle of thick facial hair. He looked incredibly proud of himself.
"I should have just let him kill you," Eskel said, shaking his head. He made his voice disparaging, but the corners of his mouth curled slightly up.
Lambert dismissed the notion with a careless wave of his hand. "I could take him,” he bragged, standing up. He went to the cabinet by the eastern wall and grabbed one of the flasks, going for the one with an especially potent batch of White Gull. Eskel didn't berate him for the choice. “Gods, Geralt's such an asshole,” he added, sitting back down and pouring them a drink.
Eskel raised a sardonic eyebrow at him.
"Oh fuck off," Lambert huffed, catching the expression. He took a generous swig from his tankard. "Besides, I probably just saved the bard's arse."
"Do you think Geralt will get him?" Eskel asked.
Lambert didn't immediately reply. He fiddled idly with the bottle stopper, then turned his eyes towards the fire pit, gazing at the flames in silent contemplation. Eskel didn't call him out on how much he resembled Geralt at that moment. The wood burning in the grate cracked several times, before Lambert finally spoke:
"He better."