Red Rowan

by Indiannahjones

With the Wild Hunt defeated and Empress Ciri on the throne, Geralt thought he and Yen would be free to retire to Toussaint and settle down... but it seems the ghosts of Geralt's past are intent on coming back to haunt him. Geralt/Yen, past Geralt/Shani. [Inspired by a letter found in Witcher 3 if Geralt took the alchemists' potion in Witcher 2.]

20. Lotus

Marlene had never been trained in medicine, but she knew enough to help Geralt dress his wound, and he hissed as she wrapped a boiled cloth around his frostbitten arm, pressing its warmth gently into his punctured skin. She had prepared a topical mixture of chamomile and horsetail, as per the books in Shani's clinic, but Geralt knew it would take more than herbs to fix the damage from the vendigo's bite. Still, he thanked Marlene for her help, nodding his appreciation through gritted teeth, before holding his throbbing arm as he made his way back to his bedroom, having all but lost his appetite for the evening.

He wished Yennefer were here – he wished any of them were here, even Dandelion – and he let out a long sigh as he settled into bed, letting his arm come to rest across his chest, keeping it from wetting the covers. Perhaps it was for the best that no one was home to see him like this, he thought; Yennefer would have his head for getting injured so badly after promising to be careful, and Shani would no doubt scold him for planning to travel while still healing. Dandelion would undoubtedly want to turn the whole ordeal into a song, Geralt thought, and he made a face as he tried to think of what kind of ballad might come from the story of a fight with a vendigo.

Grabbing a bottle of Swallow from the nightstand, he pried out the cork, spitting it onto the floor, before bringing the bland-tasting potion to his lips, wondering as he drank if perhaps Shani had a point in all her mothering. Perhaps he really could give himself a few days to heal, allowing a small bit of downtime before heading back out on his task – two days, or even two weeks, was not very much in the grand scheme of Shani's pregnancy, and with the speed at which he was completing these tasks, he would undoubtedly finish the third in no time as well. Setting the empty potion bottle aside again, he sighed, looking down to his bandaged arm, realizing with a bit of melancholy surprise that he had grown so used to Shani's care that he felt almost incomplete without it. His days of using Swallow as a cure-all were still barely behind him, but he still made a face as he felt his wounds knitting, having to resist the urge to scratch at the itchy sensation as the potion did its work.

"Take a few days to heal," Geralt told himself, laying back on his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. "Couple days can't hurt. What Shani would say. Can't keep pushing myself. Gonna burn out eventually." He paused again, making a face as he realized how insincere the words sounded, coming from him, before he finally let out a short, sharp huff, turning over and settling in for sleep.

---

The trees grew close together here; he had noticed that on his previous visits. The ring of trees surrounding the clearing stood bark to bark, so close Geralt figured they had to have been grown that way intentionally, and he felt frustration creep over him as he realized where he was, followed quickly by a rush of panic. Swallowing back the sensation again, he took a deep breath, telling himself that this dream would be over soon, just like the others—this place, and this dream, were nothing new – an illusion, like the spoons spread out across the forest floor – but as he looked across the clearing for what had changed this time, he realized with a bit of unease that the forest seemed almost oddly… pleasant.

There were no sweltering mud-holes to swallow him, no freezing winds to whip at him until he bled; instead, the leaves had turned a vibrant shade of green, with the soft sounds of birds permeating the air, a few pale rays of light dotting the ground, dappling the ever-present carpet of spoons. Geralt made a face at the unsettling calm, finding it impossible to trust this place and its intentions – it had tricked him too many times before for him to expect anything different this time. Looking over the clearing, he noticed that the stump from Vilgefortz's dream had been removed, replaced instead by two large stones, with a figure sitting on the furthest one. He did not immediately recognize the person in the clearing, which surprised him, but as he took another step forward, the figure looked up at him, smiling coldly as he entered the light.

"Hello, Butcher," Renfri greeted him, her green-blue eyes vibrant in the sunlight washing over her face. Unlike the others he had dreamed of, she still seemed very much alive – unscathed, her cheeks still rosy. Indicating to the stone across from her, she inclined her head, causing her choppy blonde hair to feather across her neck. "Please," she told him. "Take a seat. It's been a while since we've had a chance to talk."

"Thought I was done with you," Geralt admitted, in no mood to be yanked around. "After De Aldersberg and Vilgefortz, didn't think there were any of you left. Can't figure out what makes you turn up. Near-death experiences, or—"

"We show up when we feel we need to," Renfri answered, shortly, cutting his sarcasm off. "When our spite towards O'Dimm grows stronger than our hatred for you. It simply took longer for me to reach that stage." She smiled again, though he could tell it was getting harder for her to fake, before she indicated towards the stone across from her again. "Won't you take a seat?" she asked. "It's rather awkward to have you stand, while I can only sit."

Geralt hummed darkly, but did as he was asked, taking the stone seat across from Renfri, and she looked up at him with a thin, grim smirk as he settled in, taking him in with the sharp eyes of a predator. There was something unnerving about her eyes, he noticed, and as he stared across at her, he quickly realized what it was: they were the same odd blue-green as Deidre's eyes, Syanna's eyes—and, he realized, Rosie's eyes. "Where are the others?" Renfri asked him, clearly noting the intensity with which he was staring at her. "The others said to be afflicted by my Curse."

"They're fine," Geralt answered, frowning at the question. "Deidre's in Caingorn, with her brother. And Syanna's in Beauclair, with her sister."

"Under watch, you mean," Renfri returned, causing Geralt's brow to furrow deeper at the response. "They've been caged like animals. Both put in situations where they could be controlled, under fear of repercussions. Or death."

"Don't see what that has to do with you," Geralt admitted, unable to help glancing down to her lap. He had tried to keep his eyes from straying, but he could not help a gnawing, morbid curiosity, and he thinned his lips as he noticed a small dribble of blood edging down the rock from between her legs. It was barely a drip, something he would not have even noticed, had he not been looking for it, and he quickly turned his gaze back to her face again, trying to ignore the blood running down into the dirt. He remembered his fight with Renfri well; he had accidentally nicked her femoral artery in their duel, and had had to watch helplessly as she bled out in the street before he could do anything to save her.

"It has everything to do with me," Renfri answered, her stern expression never changing. "Wasn't that exactly why Stregobor hired you to hunt me down in the first place? Because he knew that I couldn't be controlled?" She pursed her lips as she stared across at him, allowing him a moment to remember, and Geralt steeled his expression as he stared back, trying hard not to glance down at the blood. It had started as only a drip, but now was moving into a heady trickle, and he wondered if he would have to watch her bleed out all over again before his time here was through.

"Still doesn't tie your death to O'Dimm," Geralt answered, shaking his head with an unsettled huff. "Vilgefortz and De Aldersberg botched his plans directly—you posed no threat to anyone but Stregobor."

"You think I never threatened his plans?" Renfri insisted, almost sneering the question. "You're so content to kill without bothering to learn more. Do you not remember who Stregobor served, witcher?"

Geralt paused to think, before shrugging. "Your father," he answered. "Still doesn't mean anything to me."

Renfri hummed, looking down to her strangely-cut skirt and smoothing it for a moment, giving the witcher time to squirm. "You're short-sighted, then," she finally said, shaking her head as she looked up at him again. "My father had great respect for O'Dimm. After all, Kovir's main export is glass. O'Dimm showed great favour towards our kingdom, even going so far as to give my father a personal gift: an hourglass, one everyone thought to be broken, but my father knew otherwise. He knew it to be magic." She paused at the thought, letting her hands come to rest on her knees as she stared at the man across from her, her expression unmoving, unflinching, even as the stream of blood from between her legs began to trickle faster.

"My father… he was a great believer in the power of time, in the strength it possessed as a magical conduit," she continued after a moment. "And when O'Dimm implied I should be gotten rid of – placed that thought in my stepmother's head through use of her Mirror of Nehalenia – my father didn't question it. His new wife had told him that I meant her harm, and Stregobor… he supported her in that. When I escaped from their hired thug, however… that's when my father lost favour with O'Dimm." She paused again, before smirking, her thin lips twitching into a smile that looked as if it caused her great pain, and Geralt noticed that her cheeks looked hollower, her face more pallid, as if she were finally starting to feel the effects of the blood running down her leg.

"That's when the devil went looking for another pawn," she continued, undeterred, her eyes flashing as she stared across at him. "And you just happened to be right where he needed you, at the exact moment he needed you most. You might say your timing was impeccable… but that would give far too much credence to chance." She paused, a bitter smirk curling her pallid mouth, causing a chill to run up Geralt's arms, but he said nothing, only sitting in silence as he waited for her to continue speaking. "Not long after you slew me, my father's kingdom fell," she said after a moment, almost aloofly. "My father was killed in the siege, and O'Dimm's magic hourglass… was never seen again."

"So he punished your father," Geralt said, his frown deepening. "What does that have to do with you?"

"What it has to do with any of us," Renfri answered, coldly. "Any of us unfortunate enough to be marked from birth. We're not monsters, Geralt – we were all only Sources. Sources like the rest you've killed, only othered from birth by a celestial fluke. Ours is a social curse, superstition spoken into truth… call someone a monster enough, and eventually they'll come to believe it." She made a face, wrinkling her nose, before scoffing, as if smelling something foul. "That seems like something you of anyone would understand," she told him, looking up at him again with judgemental eyes. "As a witcher. Called a beast, freak—mutant. Yet you were only too eager to pick up your blade and hunt me for coin, just as O'Dimm knew you would."

"Not true," Geralt answered, shaking his head, feeling a bit on edge as the topic continued. "Only struck you down when you went after Stregobor after saying you wouldn't. Don't appreciate being lied to. When you refused to put down your blade, figured—"

"That I was too dangerous to let live?" Renfri guessed, lifting her chin to look haughtily down at him. "You, and everyone else, Butcher. Yet somehow, you claim no recognition of O'Dimm's motives. We were all too dangerous to let live as we were—all of us. Yet instead of giving me the option of regaining my crown like the others, you slew me in the street. Like a dog."

"Deidre and Syanna were taken back under strict supervision of their royal siblings," Geralt challenged, gritting his teeth. "You don't seem the type who would accept regulation. Trade in your freedom for a comfy cage."

"I suppose you'll never know who I could have been," Renfri answered, raising her brows in disdain. "Perhaps that's a common theme for you—cutting lives short before they've a chance to bloom. Or is that offer only on the table if you can get someone to fuck you for doing it?" She smirked coldly at the implication, watching as the blood drained from the witcher's face, and he clenched his jaw, feeling a muscle twitch in his cheek at the inference. "Oh, do calm down, witcher," she told him, scoffing and waving a flippant hand. "I was only teasing. I'm sure there are other ways you've wooed your wife, apart from offering to abort your bastard foetuses."

"Why are you here?" Geralt growled, feeling his heart hammering angrily as she spoke. "Everything you've told me, I already know. Don't see the point in any of this."

Renfri took a deep breath as she looked down at him, taking a full moment to think before answering again. "I didn't realize you had a schedule to keep, Butcher," she finally answered, dismissively. "As far as I knew, dreams don't follow the same constraints of time as everything else. Here, anything is possible—and we have all the time in the world to do it." She smiled again as she said this, and he could see that her lips were pale now, almost blue as they stretched, her once eerily vibrant eyes dull and grey, like a sky poured free of rain. Her cheeks had grown white as a ghost, her hair thin and stringy as it fell about her face in choppy torrents, looking almost as if she were slowly rotting like a corpse before his eyes.

"My point in being here is simple, if you must know," Renfri continued after a moment, her smile dropping as she began to speak again. She sounded much more authoritative now, angrier almost, making Geralt frown as he tilted his head forward, listening. "If you think O'Dimm will stop at me – at us – you're sorely mistaken. His ambition doesn't stop with us, or even you, witcher. Not until he has killed or taken into his control all Sources on this plane will he be satisfied that his work is complete."

"Dunno what that has to do with me," Geralt said, his frown deepening. "I'm not a Source."

Renfri paused as he answered, observing him for a moment, before a faint, conspiratorial smile began to flicker at the corners of her mouth, but it was gone again an instant later, making him wonder if he had truly seen it at all. "There will always be mages," she told him, seeming to ignore his interruption, continuing her train of thought. "But only the most powerful of us have the potential to pose a threat to his plans, his… particular style of magic. Only a Source has the capability to force his hand—to go toe-to-toe with him at his own game. That's why he wants us all dead, serving his cause, or locked away, where we can do no more harm to his plans."

She paused at the thought, before lifting her head again, looking down at the witcher past her regal, upturned nose. "Did you not lock Ciri away in Vizima for fear of her powers making her a target?" she asked, pointedly. "Is that your course of action for all the women in your life? Locking them away in an effort to protect them?" She smirked at the question, letting out a chilling chuckle that turned Geralt's blood to ice, and he gritted his teeth, doing his best not to look down at the rock she sat on, now slick with darkening crimson. "Of course, it would be awfully convenient for O'Dimm if someone were to strip Ciri of her Source powers for him," she added, snidely. "Or perhaps if she were to conveniently die, while someone she trusted was attempting… I don't know. A Trial of some sort?"

Geralt scowled, clenching his jaw until he could feel a dull pain thrumming in his skull, and he let out a low breath as he realized that, even after death, Renfri still managed to be a headache for him. "So you're saying Sources have the ability to… what, use time magic against him?" he asked after a moment, narrowing his eyes. "Never met a Source who could rival his powers. Most don't receive training until it's too late – if they get it at all. Even Ciri doesn't have full control of her abilities. Doubt even she could go up against him in a battle of magic."

"But Ciri does have an ability that O'Dimm lacks," Renfri pointed out, undeterred by his arguments. "She can travel to other worlds using her ability. Go to places he can't follow unless summoned, with the world gates shut as they are. Doing that, she can escape the reach of his powers. You can understand how that might not sit well with him."

Geralt thinned his lips at the argument. "Still doesn't explain the others," he returned, unconvinced. "Ciri's powers are unique. Doesn't explain why he'd want to kill other Sources. People like Jacques Du Aldersberg—"

"Who can travel through time without having to rely on O'Dimm?" Renfri cut him off, still unfazed. "People who can alter past events without his consult, potentially creating infinite divergent timelines for him to tend to? You don't see how he might dislike some mortal having these powers—powers solely unique to Sources?"

Geralt made a face at the thought. "Can't be the only reason," he argued, still disbelieving. He had always known O'Dimm to be vindictive, but that seemed a little too vindictive, even for him. "Has to be another. Hard to believe he'd be killing people over an… inconvenience, at most."

Renfri smiled coldly, tilting her head so her stringy hair fell across her sunken cheek, and Geralt had to hold back a grimace, realizing how much more like a skeleton she was looking by the minute. Her eyes had begun to sink into their sockets, paling from a stormy green to a ghostly white, and he held his breath as he watched a lock of her hair slide down her face to land on her shoulder. "You really are enchantingly dim, Butcher," she told him, letting out a wheezing chuckle. "Perhaps think about the meaning behind things before you decide or dismiss them so fervently. Too many times you've allowed your own perception of a situation to be your downfall."

Geralt frowned, opening his mouth to ask what she meant, but his question was cut short by a sound like wet, tearing cloth, and as he looked down, he saw a slab of rotting meat starting to slough away from her leg, down to the bone. Her flesh was grey and slippery, putrid like a corpse left out to decompose, and Geralt had to hold back the urge to vomit as he watched black carrion flies start to emerge from the wound, landing on her lap and in the puddle of gore still spilling down the rock. The rock between her legs was nearly black with blood, the buzzing of the flies growing ever louder as he stared, and he looked quickly back up to Renfri's face again, only to see that she was staring back at him with empty sockets now.

"If there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that people will generally say what they mean," Renfri continued, her voice unchanged, even as her appearance began to deteriorate before his eyes. "It's only the folly of those who think they know better that causes them to be tragically misinterpreted." She grinned at him at this, the action splitting her lips, causing her skin to peel back from her skull, and Geralt jumped up quickly from his rock at the sight, feeling his boots squelch down into something soft and muddy. The sound reminded him of the carpet in the front-room, wet with their efforts to scrub the carnage of the sorceress from memory, and he took another step back as Renfri reached out towards him, her hands barely more than bones as they grasped for him.

"You're not as unique as you think, Butcher," Renfri hissed, her voice still clear as day in his head. She tilted her head again, and Geralt gagged as he watched her jawbone break, dangling to one side of her face on a strip of rotten skin. "What makes you think you won't be next, once he no longer has a use for you?" she insisted, her voice ever more adamant. "What makes you think he won't find someone to do to you what you did to so many others?"

"I'm not a Source!" Geralt shot back, taking another step back and feeling as warm liquid began to slosh around his ankles. He looked down in horror, realizing that the clearing had started to fill with blood, with the spoons floating serenely on top; everything was covered in blood – the trees, the rocks, even his armour was caked in her blood, and he wiped his hands frantically on his gambeson, trying to get some of it off in a blind panic. Looking back up to where Renfri sat, he saw now that her head had fallen off her skeletal neck, and was bobbing alongside her in the lake of blood, staring up at the trees with hollow eyes.

"You think so small," Renfri's disembodied voice hissed, drilling his senses like the buzzing of a million carrion flies. "That's why you're the perfect patsy. You refuse to listen when someone tells you the truth." Geralt shook his head as the voice continued, reaching up to clasp his hands desperately over his ears, trying in vain to block her out as the wave of blood rose ever higher, swirling in hot torrents around his waist, and then his chest. "Perhaps instead of always listening to what is said, you might try listening to what isn't said instead," Renfri told him, her voice filling his head as the wave rose ever higher, filling his mouth with blood. "You might find more of your answers that way. Godspeed, Geralt… and good luck."

---

Geralt opened his eyes with a start, taking in a deep breath as the world around him shifted into focus—he was back in his bedroom, with the first wan strains of morning light streaming over the covers. Sitting up in bed with a heavy sigh, he rested his head in his hands, still shaken from his dream; he had hoped his nightmare with Vilgefortz might be the last to steal his slumber, but it seemed his subconscious was not yet through tormenting him with thoughts of where O'Dimm might have sown his influence over the years. There was something uniquely disturbing about the thought that their paths could have crossed as far back as Geralt's encounter with Renfri, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind, instead pushing the covers away and getting out of bed.

O'Dimm only had an interest in him now because he had made the mistake of finding the devil first, Geralt told himself – any other reason was just paranoia, his mind wanting to make sense of a situation where nothing seemed to fit. Taking fresh clothes from the clothing-chest, Geralt turned, catching his reflection in Yennefer's vanity-glass, and he frowned at the sudden sight of his weathered face, at his tangled hair and growing beard, at the many cuts and bruises that had blossomed into puffy reds and purples overnight. He hummed at the sight of his battered form, thinning his lips as he raised his bandaged arm to the mirror, before letting it fall to his side again, unable to help his gaze from returning to the dark circles under his eyes.

"I'm not a Source," Geralt muttered to himself, the thought slipping out without even meaning to, making him realize as he said it that there was something unnerving about the way it sounded – something frightened, almost desperate, as if pleading for it not to be true. Eskel had told him that witchers could not be Sources, as their mutations cancelled out most magic, but he had also mentioned that preexisting Source powers could cause unknown complications in the mutation process. Geralt's frown deepened as the thought returned to him, and he found himself reaching up to brush absentmindedly at his snow-white hair, before he let out a frustrated huff instead, turning away from the mirror to start putting on his clothes for the day.

Roach was grazing lazily at a trough of oats when Geralt finally went out to the stables to check on her, and he grinned as he rubbed her velvet nose, earning a soft, tired snort in return. "Been through a lot this week," he told her, rubbing his thumb over her soft ear, causing her to flick her ears in agreement. "Don't think you've ever been through a portal before. First time for everything, I guess. Now you see why I hate them." Roach blustered, shaking her mane, before she lifted her head to nudge his hand, shoving it up to pet her blaze, causing him to chuckle as he did as he was told.

"Don't know what I'd do without my loyal steed," he told her, causing her to snort in what he guessed was agreement. "Lots for us to do together still. Adventure's not over yet. Not by a long shot." Roach gave another bluster in response, leaning heavily into his hand for another pet, before she suddenly lifted her head again, causing Geralt to frown as he turned, following her line of sight.

A black kestrel sat perched on the stable gate, its angled head sunk into its mass of dark, dishevelled feathers, its sharp yellow eyes boring into the witcher as it stared him down, as if trying to look straight through him. The bird looked as though it had been through some sort of ordeal, with its feathers sticking out, unkempt and fraying, but its eyes stayed locked on Geralt as it watched in eerie silence, as if waiting for him to do something. Geralt sighed at the sight of the bird, having all but forgotten about his Yennefer's kestrels, before he turned to pick up a nearby saddle-blanket, waving it at the bird to shoo it away. "Damn bird," he swore, giving the blanket a shake. "Go on. Get outta here. Nobody wants you here."

The bird did not respond to the shoo-off, only lifting its head, lengthening its body into a rumpled dart, looking the world like a snake prepared to strike as it stared at him with its eerie, unblinking eyes. "Been watching you," the kestrel squawked, drawing out the words in a way that his skin crawl, before it leaned forward towards him, its pupils shrinking first into dots, before flaring into eerie black marbles.

Geralt shivered at the sight of the bird, before starting to wind up the blanket in warning. "Don't wanna kill a bird," he told the creature, giving the blanket another good twist. "Especially one of Yen's. Thought we had an agreement. You stay in your tree—"

"One of Yen's," the bird repeated, cutting him off with a long keen. "Made by Yen. But I don't belong to Yen. And neither do you."

Geralt faltered at the bizarre observation, before letting out a frustrated huff. "Fuck off," he growled, snapping the blanket towards the kestrel, causing it to give a loud shriek of surprise. The kestrel flapped its wings, taking off from its perch and into the sky, heading off into the blue and out of sight with another agitated trill. Geralt grunted as he watched it leave, before turning back to Roach, who had pricked her ears in curiosity. "Don't worry about it, girl," he told her, giving her another soft pat on the nose. Roach only blustered in response, before returning to her oats again, content.

---

Geralt had tried to take Shani's advice to heart, convincing himself to stay out of trouble until his wounds had fully healed, but after a week of waiting around, he found he could no longer distract himself from the mission ahead. As many times as he told himself that the time limit on his tasks was of no concern, he was finding it harder to ignore the more he tried to put it out of his mind.

"Is one week's rest truly enough, Sir?" Barnabas-Basil had asked, when Geralt told him of his intent to leave. "I know you're quite used to that sort of thing, but I can't help but worry for Roach. She is only a horse, after all. Perhaps a few more days might do her good, after your last endeavour? She still seems a bit shaken up after coming back through the portal from… wherever you last took her."

Geralt frowned, realizing that Barnabas-Basil was right—Roach had been through more in the last two weeks than most horses went through in a lifetime. He could not help wondering, on that thought, how well Scorpion had taken the portal to Blaviken, and he told himself that he would have to ask Eskel about it once he finished his visit with Lambert in Poviss. "Roach can stay here," he determined, trying to think how much of her supplies he could transfer to his own hip-satchels. It was hard to think that Lambert would not be willing to share his own supplies with an old friend, but he was not exactly sure what to expect from the younger witcher on his arrival. "Give her a warm bath while I'm gone," he added, jerking his chin in the direction of the stables. "She deserves it. Probably thinks I'm some kind of monster, putting her through a portal like that. Twice."

"I'm certain she thinks no less of you, Sir," Barnabas-Basil assured him, tilting his head forward at the thought. "She's quite well bonded to you. I doubt one or two portals would change that. A bit of respite, and she'll be good as new."

Geralt grunted at the reassurance, reaching a grateful hand to clap the majordomo's shoulder. "You're a good man, Barnabas," he told him, squeezing his arm. "Glad you're here to be my voice of reason while Yen's away."

"I wouldn't dream of speaking over Lady Yennefer's advice," Barnabas-Basil answered, offering a polite chuckle in return. "But if it keeps you out of trouble, then I'm at least content to have done some of my part to help."

Geralt nodded again, content, before turning to start for the manor gate – the portal amulet was still new magic to him, and though it had worked well on his journey to Kaer Morhen, he still did not trust it to function entirely as promised, considering what Triss had told him about how little time they had had to make it. Magical backlash on the hill outside the grounds would damage far less than in the middle of the courtyard, and he was in enough of a precarious spot with Yennefer already without adding scorch damage to his list of transgressions. As he passed beneath the garden tree where the kestrel had made its nest, he paused, taking a moment to look up into its branches, squinting as he checked for the bird in its usual spot.

The kestrel peered down at him from its spot in the tree, its beady yellow eyes nearly lost in its little arrow-shaped head, and he narrowed his eyes as he watched it, half-expecting it to pop up and say something abrasive at any moment. The bird had clearly preened its feathers from the last time he had seen it, though he had to admit he had never actually seen it preen, nor had he ever seen it move very much to have gotten as rumpled as before. Now, the bird only stared back at him just as intently as he stared up at it, and Geralt let out a huff at the standoff, waving a dismissive hand towards the creature as he started to turn away again.

"Don't know why Yen likes you so much," he told the bird. "Give me the creeps. Got an issue with me, should just say it."

The kestrel trilled at this, raising its head to peer over the edge of the branch. "Issue?" it asked, its voice crackling. "I belong to Regis. Can tell Regis your issue. Need a haircut? Need medical assistance?"

"No, that's—" Geralt paused, before letting out another hard sigh. "Nevermind. Fucking bird."

The kestrel gave another soft peep at the dismissal, before tucking its head into its neck again. "You need a haircut."

Geralt grunted at the kestrel's advice, before turning to make his way for the edge of the grounds, stopping as he came to stand beside the sign, giving it one last look before reaching for his portal amulet. He closed his eyes as he fingered the amulet, thinking back to the one time he could remember travelling to Gladsko – it had been on a short fact-finding mission, taken while investigating a rash of foglet appearances in nearby Badreine, and though the trip to Gladsko had been relatively uneventful, he still remembered the village clearly. Perhaps it had been the lack of strange occurrences on his visit that had etched it so neatly in his mind, but he took a deep breath regardless, concentrating on an image of the mountainside city, before lifting the portal amulet to his lips, feeling as it fogged with his steadying exhale.

"Va aép… Gladsko," he murmured, before looking up again as the warm winds of the portal whipped his face, the swirling vortex inviting him in towards the next leg of his journey.

---

Gladsko was smaller than Geralt remembered, though he supposed his last visit had left him a bit biased – compared to the sleepy hamlet of Badreine, Gladsko was a bustling cityscape full of life, but next to the gleaming metropolis of Beauclair, it seemed more like a farming village in size. The city had been built into the side of a mountain, giving it access to Poviss' infamous salt mines, and Geralt glanced up towards the slope in interest as he made his way through the puddled stone streets towards the local tavern. It had never occurred to him just how narrow these city streets were, but now, compared to the broad thoroughfares of Beauclair, he could not help but feel a bit claustrophobic as he made his way through town, taking in the sights and sounds.

He remembered his last visit to Gladsko, with the shepherd who had greeted him on his first arrival, and he grinned as he looked out towards the grassy hill just outside town, wondering if the same man still tended his flock out there. The shepherd had joked with Geralt on his arrival about the man's wife being a bit of a beast, and he chuckled as he remembered how friendly the people had been to him back then, even knowing what he was. It was a pleasant town, all things told, despite the dreary, cramped surroundings, and one he figured was as good a place as any for a witcher and a sorceress to settle down and disappear.

Stopping in front of a hopeful-looking building, Geralt squinted at the wooden sign hanging overhead, figuring that this place seemed as likely as any to be the town's tavern. Bartenders were always a good source of local information, though he had to wonder how helpful this one might be; Eskel had mentioned Lambert's disapproval in Eskel finding out where he lived, so there was a chance he might not take kindly to yet another witcher coming to the same conclusion. Letting out a huff at the thought, Geralt reasoned that the only way to know would be to ask, and so, ducking inside the tavern, he moved to settle down at a spot at the bar, clearing his throat for the barman's attention as he tried to decide how best to word his inquiry.

The barman let out a low hum as he turned his gaze across to the newcomer, and Geralt reached into his coin-pouch, pulling out two gold coins and sliding them across the bar to him. The barman frowned as he stared at the coin, before looking up at Geralt again, seeming unimpressed. "Looking for another witcher," Geralt informed him. "Lambert. Wolf School. Travels with a sorceress. Was told he'd last been seen around here. Wanted to see if it was true."

The barman's bushy brow furrowed at the mention of Lambert, and he slapped his cleaning-cloth over his shoulder, stowing it. "What business do you have with Lambert and the sorceress?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, almost bear-like. "Last I heard, they weren't interested in associating with your kind no more. Witchers and the like."

Geralt shrugged, showing no sign that anything the barman told him was new information. "Lambert's an old friend," he said, honestly. "So's Keira. Wanted to see how they were doing. Take some time to catch up." Pulling another gold piece from his pouch, he added it to the two already on the counter, but the barman's brow only furrowed deeper as he looked down at the coin, seeming more insulted than intrigued.

"Hm," the barman grunted. "Funny. Never heard Lambert mention any friends."

"Sounds like Lambert," Geralt agreed, folding his arms on the bar. "Truth is, got some important business with him. Can't go on my way until I see him. So either I can knock on every door in town, waste everyone's time… or you can just tell me which house is his."

The barman narrowed his eyes, leaning on the bartop to counter Geralt's action. "What value is your time to me, witcher?" he asked, a clear warning in his voice this time. "Sounds to me like I can just call the locals, have you thrown out. We don't much care for strangers coming in, threatening us."

"Wouldn't really call it a threat," Geralt answered, not moving to back down. Then, shifting his body a bit so his hand was not visible to the rest of the bar, he lifted his wrist from the counter, casting a stealthy Axii on the barman. "Tell me where Lambert is," he said, keeping his instructions clear and simple. "Won't tell him you told me. Just need to find him. Be gone before you know it."

The barman faltered at the instructions, blinking a few times as a faint fogginess collected behind his eyes, before he leaned back from the bartop again, sliding the cloth from his shoulder to continue his cleaning duties. "The witcher's house is fifth from the end, near the mine entrance," he said, starting to wipe down the bar again. "On the quiet side of town. It's the one with the white flowers growing out front. Mountain flowers, for his potions."

Geralt nodded, satisfied with the answer, before pulling two more coins from his pouch to add to the pile, sliding the five crowns across the bar and patting them once, before getting up from his seat to leave.

The walk through town was uneventful, though the gathering darkness had begun to draw out the city's nightlife, and Geralt nodded in acknowledgment to a group of prostitutes lounging outside a well-lit bordello, waiting for their shift to begin. The nightlife in Gladsko was impressive, something he remembered from his last visit to town, and he was sure that a city with a healthy night scene and no healer would be in desperate need of someone with Keira's range of talents – not only for her quick-fix solutions to the obvious problems that came with such things, but for magical prophylactics and enhancements some might otherwise not know where to look for.

Yennefer had once been known for her own magical expertise in such things, Geralt remembered, so he knew it was something sorceresses were more than capable of offering assistance in. He lowered his gaze as his thoughts returned to Yennefer, unable to keep her from his mind for long, and he grinned to himself as memories of her uses for those particular talents flooded back to him, warming him down to his boots.

The house with the white mountain flowers growing out front did not take long to find, and Geralt paused at the end of the walk, noting with some surprise how strangely modest the place was. It was barely larger than Keira's hut back in Velen, a house he distinctly remembered her hating in its lack of grandeur; Keira had always been one to prefer the flashier things in life, he knew, but this house was the furthest from flashy he could think of, a fact which probably helped in the couple's efforts to hide from the world.

The house was quaint, with a straw-thatched roof above a rustic wooden frame, and a fenced-in yard behind it, holding a patchy grass enclosure and small wooden shack. Geralt wondered for a moment if this smaller building might perhaps be Keira's alchemy study, or some sort of workshop for Lambert, somewhere for him to continue making his witcher potions in peace. Whatever the case, he supposed they had picked this house with full intent – no one knowing Keira would ever suspect her of settling down somewhere like this, and no one knowing Lambert would ever suspect him of settling down at all.

Making his way to the door of the main house, Geralt gave a few solid knocks on the wood, before taking a step back towards the garden and listening for some response from within. After a moment, the sound of moving around behind the door reached his ears, before the sound of an agitated scoff came through, as if of someone annoyed at having been disturbed at home.

"Business is closed." Lambert's voice was unmistakeable, even through the heft of the door, and Geralt grinned at the curt response, before stepping forward to speak through the wood again.

"Don't have any coin anyway," he answered. "Was hoping this one could be a freebie."

A pause followed his response, before the sound of whispered voices began to hiss from behind the door. Then, another moment later, he heard the sound of a plank being lifted, before the door swung open to reveal a familiar, cantankerous-looking face in the doorway. Lambert looked much the same as he always had, though Geralt could see obvious signs of aging in his face – his hair was longer now, and had begun to grey at the temples, and there was salt in the pepper of his growing beard. He wore simple clothing, a plain white shirt with slacks scuffed with dust from the mines, but Geralt could see his familiar leather jacket hanging inside the door, cast aside after a long day of witcher's work.

"Who told you where to find me?" Lambert insisted, seeming in no mood to echo Geralt's teasing. His voice was harsh, but Geralt could still sense the smallest hint of relief at the sight of someone familiar.

"Nobody," Geralt said, shaking his head. "Arenaria out front's a dead giveaway."

Lambert grunted, narrowing his eyes, seeming not to believe the explanation. "Eskel, huh?" he asked after a moment. "Fine, come in. Can't exactly deny it, now that you're here." Waving a hand for Geralt to follow, he turned, heading back inside the house, brushing a hand across the back of a wooden chair that had been pulled out from their table, indicating for his guest to sit. Keira stood by the stove as they entered, but she turned to look over at them as Lambert came back inside, before wrinkling her nose as she noticed Geralt, turning to look at Lambert again, as if hoping for an explanation. Lambert smirked at the sorceress, sweeping a sarcastic hand back to indicate his guest. "Guess who came to see us, dear?" he asked, making no effort to hide his vitriol.

Keira huffed, turning to look at Geralt again, her expression twisted. "Well, well," she said. "If it isn't the White Wolf, himself. I thought ignoring Triss' letters would be enough to keep all of you off our backs."

"Hey, Keira," Geralt greeted her, lowering himself into the offered chair. They were making it as uncomfortable as possible for him to be here, but he guessed that was what was to be expected – he had invaded their private lives with his presence, and he knew that fact was going to make for a long night.

"You want a drink?" Lambert asked, lowering himself into the seat across from Geralt at the table. "Might as well, now that you're here. Was just about to open a bottle, myself." Reaching back to the sill behind him, he grabbed a bottle from the ledge, starting to pry it open, before sliding it onto the table and turning to glance over at Keira again, still standing in the kitchen. "Keir, would you get us two mugs?" he asked. "Geralt looks thirsty. Takes a lot of effort, getting into everyone's business." Then, turning to look at Geralt again, he stared at him, his expression unmoving, not even bothering to look up as Keira came over, setting two mugs on the table between them.

"Here you are, Lambert," Keira told him, before turning to look at Geralt again. "Geralt."

Lambert huffed, before reaching out a hand towards Keira, placing his over hers and running his thumb fondly over the back of her hand. "Thanks, love," he told her, quietly. "Maybe you should go lie down now. You look a little pale." Keira paused at the suggestion, seeming uncertain, glancing for a moment across the table at Geralt again, before she looked back to Lambert, watching as he picked up her dainty hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. A small, wan smile flickered at the corners of her mouth as she retrieved her hand at last, before she finally turned, starting to head into the next room and closing the door quietly behind her.

Lambert watched as Keira disappeared, staring for a long time at the solid door, before he looked across the table to Geralt again, letting out a long sigh as he picked up the bottle, starting to pour them both a drink. "Kiera hasn't been feeling well lately," he explained, picking up his mug for a swig. "Some kind of stomach bug. Something going around, we're guessing. But we'll be fine. We always are."

"Hm," Geralt answered, nodding, unable to keep his own gaze from straying to the door. He could hear the faint sound of retching coming from behind it, but he could tell Keira was trying to be quiet about it. "Good to hear."

"Yeah," Lambert answered, looking up again, his golden eyes sharp. "Heard about Shani, by the way. Figure that's why you're here."

"Heard she's pregnant?" Geralt asked, reaching for his mug to take a swig.

Lambert nodded, swirling his vodka. "Yep," he answered, his voice oddly stiff. "Heard it's yours."

"You heard right," Geralt answered, taking a drink.

"Also heard about the bounty on her," Lambert added, causing Geralt to look up again, wary. Lambert's tone had not changed, but there was an odd challenge to it now, as if hoping to get a reaction.

"From who?" Geralt insisted, trying not to bristle. "Who told you?"

Lambert shrugged, his nonchalance clearly faked. "Someone in town, passing through," he answered after a moment. "Some kind of merchant. Didn't catch his name. All I know is, Shani's a pretty damn hated woman in the magical world right now."

"Hm," Geralt grunted, still on edge. "Don't suppose this merchant was selling mirrors."

Lambert let out a scoff, sitting back in his chair. "Lucky guess," he said, taking another swig. "Doesn't take a scholar to figure out we're right next to Kovir. Glass export is huge over there. Not that unusual for glass merchants to come through."

Geralt frowned at the easy dismissal. "This one would've stuck out," he pressed. "Shaved head, dark eyes, yellow tunic?"

Lambert nodded, setting down his mug again. "Yeah, actually," he agreed, looking a bit concerned now. "Don't suppose he sold you a bad mirror, and that's why you know him."

Geralt grunted again, darkly. "Something like that," he answered, taking another drink.

Lambert paused, seeming unsure what to say. Then, taking a deep breath, he picked up the bottle again, refilling his stein. "Figures you'd be the first witcher to beat your sterility," he said after a moment, picking up his mug again. "You always did get the best of everything. Surprised it's not Yennefer carrying your child, the way your luck always goes." He stopped to take a drink, allowing an uncomfortable silence to pass between them, before he set his mug down again, letting out a long sigh as he stared across the table, waiting for a reaction. "Not too surprised, though," he added after another moment, causing Geralt to look up again, narrowing his eyes. "You never could control yourself around pretty women. I'm surprised Shani's the only one you got pregnant. …At least, that you know of."

"Don't even joke about that," Geralt shot back, his shoulders growing rigid at the thought.

Lambert scoffed again. "Who says I'm joking?" he asked, before bringing his flagon up for another drink. Licking his lips, he set the mug down again, his brow furrowing as he stared down intently into it, before he took another deep breath in, turning his solemn yellow eyes up to Geralt again. "Anyway, we're not interested in hurting Shani," he said, his tone solemn, no longer in the mood for joking. "We wouldn't want to bring kids into a world like this. What with all the shit going on, people killing each other over… scraps of bread, stupid political wars."

"Hm," Geralt grunted. "Funny. Seem to remember Keira saying she wanted kids."

"That was a long time ago," Lambert countered, the retort a bit too quick to be entirely true. Geralt raised a brow at the answer, but Lambert only thinned his lips, forcing a flat expression. "And even if it wasn't, not much I can do to help her there," he added, more bitterly this time. "Other witchers've still got—mule balls, y'know. We're all just… scrambled eggs, down there." Geralt faltered, not sure how he was meant to respond to that, and Lambert took another quick drink, realizing he had said something out of the ordinary. "Listen," he pressed after a moment. "We're done getting mixed up in your problems. You want help, go somewhere else. Keira and I—we're happy here. We don't want to get involved in… whatever it is you started."

"Don't need help," Geralt answered, flatly. "Just trying to fulfil a task."

At this, Lambert huffed, picking up his mug again. "Oh yeah?" he asked, sarcastically. "And what is that?"

Geralt paused before answering. "Need to kill a Wolf School witcher," he said, his inflection never changing.

Lambert did not even blink at this, only continued staring across the table at Geralt, his thumb moving thoughtfully over the curve of his mug as he considered what to say. "And what?" he asked after a moment. "Is Eskel too ugly to count?"

"Tracked down Eskel first," Geralt admitted. "Thought about killing him. Couldn't do it."

"So you tracked me down instead," Lambert concluded with a huff. "Guess that makes me your favourite. Don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

"Wouldn't say you're my favourite," Geralt answered, frankly. "Just harder to find."

"Hah," Lambert scoffed, taking another sip of vodka. "You sure know how to make a gal feel special." Setting down his now-empty mug, he pushed it a few inches away across the table, before he looked up at Geralt again, laying his hand flat in front of him with a frustrated sigh. "So what, then?" he asked, his expression twisting. "You expect me to just— let you kill me? Just lay down and let you take my head, put it on your saddle like a common drowner?"

"Don't expect that, no," Geralt answered, honestly. "Hoped you could help me find another solution."

Lambert scoffed again, his hand fidgeting on the table. "Why didn't you ask Eskel to help you?" he asked. "I'm sure he would've come up with some great plans. He's known for that kind of thing. Planning."

"Eskel's helping with another problem," Geralt answered, starting to get agitated. He had known coming here that Lambert would be prickly, possibly even confrontational, but the more he traded barbs with the younger witcher, the more he was reminded of why they never quite got along before. "Thought you'd be able to help with this one."

Lambert huffed, picking up the vodka again and pouring himself another drink. "Don't count on it," he said.

Geralt took a deep breath, his hand gripping his mug. "Then my only option is to kill you," he admitted.

Lambert looked up quickly at the answer, setting the bottle aside again and raising his flagon halfway to his lips. "I'd like to see you try," he returned, bluntly. "Two against one ain't great odds for you, old man."

"Rather not have it come to that," Geralt admitted. "Rather you just help me."

"Then we're at an impasse," Lambert returned, before lifting his flagon to down the whole drink in one breath. Pushing his chair back from the table, he tapped it, as if trying to remember what he had been about to do, before he reached out to pick up the bottle of vodka, jerking his head towards the door to indicate for Geralt to follow. "Let's take this outside," he said, glancing towards the room where Keira had still not emerged. "Give Keira a little privacy. She doesn't need to hear us measuring dicks while she's in there having a bad day." Bringing the bottle to his lips, he took a casual swig, starting to head for the door, and Geralt hummed in frustration as he finished his own drink, before getting up from the table to follow.

The sky had turned from orange to violet in the time they had spent inside the house, and Geralt glanced up at the dim stars multiplying overhead, wondering when the last time was that he had seen the sky so clearly. It was peaceful here, he had to admit; he could see why Lambert and Keira had decided to come here, so far from the aftermath of the war and the constant threat of mage politics at their door. Lambert glanced over his shoulder towards Geralt as they walked, making sure the older Wolf was still following, before starting to shrug on the jacket he had snagged from beside the door, making his way towards the shed at the back of the hut and taking another swig of vodka as he went.

"So," Lambert said, drawing Geralt's attention away from the darkening sky again. "What the fuck is this task you're talking about? Gotta kill a Wolf School witcher?"

Geralt grunted, his brow furrowing at the thought. "It's… complicated," he said after a moment. "Not good at explaining it."

"Well you better get good real fucking fast," Lambert answered, turning to look back at him again. "Already getting sick of looking at you."

Geralt let out a sigh, brushing his hand over the hip-pouch where his xenovox rested – Yennefer was much better at explaining things than he was, but she was not here now, as much as he wished she was. "The merchant you encountered… the one who told you about Shani," he began, choosing his words carefully. "He's not a merchant. He's a demon. Or… something like it. Pissed him off, so he put a curse on Shani. Now the whole world's out to get her."

Lambert huffed, still sounding sceptical. "Of course," he agreed. "And the only way to undo it is to grant him three wishes, like a djinn."

Geralt hummed at the cynical answer. "You're joking, but that's pretty much it," he said, frankly.

Lambert made a face at the response, his expression twisting with lines Geralt had never seen before. "And one of these wishes—tasks, whatever—is to kill a Wolf School witcher?" he asked. "Specifically?"

Geralt nodded. "Kill or create," he answered.

Lambert grunted in response. "Sadistic djinn," he observed.

"Told you, he's a demon," Geralt answered, letting out another weary breath. "And he's got it out for me. Has for a while, ever since the first time I encountered him."

Lambert stopped at this, turning to face his fellow witcher, his brow furrowing firmly over his yellow eyes. "Wait," he said, holding up a hand. "You've encountered this thing before? Yet you still got into another deal with him?"

Geralt made a face at the implication. "Not intentionally," he said, hating how flimsy it sounded.

Lambert considered the answer, seeming to take a moment to soak it in, before finally letting out an incredulous huff, turning to start heading towards the shed again. "Melitele's asshole," he said, letting out a bitter chuckle. "You're a fucking dunce, Wolf. You know that? I guess the question now becomes—how exactly are you supposed to complete this task?"

Geralt shrugged. "All I know is what I've been told," he said, wishing he had come more prepared. If anyone could be counted on to find all the holes in a plan, it was undoubtedly Lambert. "Gotta kill or create a Wolf School witcher."

Lambert let out a sigh, seeming less invested the more he heard about the task. "Right, right," he said. "Well, I dunno what to tell you, Geralt. Got no intention of dying today." Taking another swig of vodka, he pushed open the gate leading out to the back paddock, holding it a moment to let Geralt through before letting it swing shut behind them with a click. Geralt watched as Lambert walked ahead of him, realizing that, as much as he hated to admit it, he really did like the younger witcher – he appreciated the man for his refusal to bend, his stubbornness and aversion to social politics, his surly attitude making the other witchers of his School look almost civilized by comparison. Geralt huffed at the thought, following Lambert as the younger witcher made his way into the shed at last, before the two of them came to stand in the middle of the small, barn-shaped lean-to, causing Geralt to wrinkle his nose at the familiar smell.

"Chickens, Lambert?" Geralt asked, turning to look as Lambert closed the door behind him.

"What?" Lambert answered, latching the door. "Don't tell me you hate chickens. Chickens are great."

"Just never took you for a chicken farmer, I guess," Geralt answered, looking around for somewhere to sit. Lambert grinned, clapping him on the back as he passed, before indicating with the bottle towards two barrels sitting in a corner of the shed. Then, sitting down on the furthest one, he took another long swig, finishing the bottle and setting it aside by the barrel. Geralt frowned as he glanced down to the side of the barrel, noting the number of empty bottles that had already been gathered there, before he looked up at Lambert again, watching as the younger man lit up a candle with a snap of Igni. The light from the candle was barely enough to illuminate the interior of the chicken coop, but it was enough to throw Lambert's face into sharp detail, carving out the deep, dark circles under his eyes.

"Guess old habits die hard," Geralt said, moving to sit on the barrel across from him. Lambert huffed, looking down to the collection of bottles, before shrugging, seeming less concerned than his fellow witcher.

"Some demons refuse to die," Lambert admitted. "Can't win 'em all. There's some monsters even we can't kill."

"Been hiding it from Keira," Geralt observed, staring at him across the candlelight.

Lambert took a deep breath this time, as if half-annoyed Geralt refused to drop the subject, before he finally let it out again in a long exhale, his eyes growing oddly distant as he stared over his fellow witcher's shoulder. He looked older now, Geralt realized; older than the first time he had noticed it, with the greying hair in his beard and at his temples the least obvious signs of the age in his face. He looked tired, weary, beaten down, left to fend for himself in a world that revelled in cruelty – a man who had seen more than he ever wanted, and could not escape it, no matter how he tried to forget.

"I'm… fucked up, Geralt," Lambert admitted after a moment, his voice softer now, more sincere, causing Geralt to look up in surprise. "No surprise there. Always been fucked up. No matter how hard we try… can't escape who we are. Not really." He paused as he said this, staring ahead, his thin lips settling into a weary line, before he took another deep breath in, searching for the strength to continue now that he had started. "My dad was a drunk," he explained, haltingly, the admission causing Geralt to furrow his brow. "And… he passed that on to me. Even though the bastard's been dead for years… seems I still can't get out from under his shadow."

Lambert made a face at the thought, his dour mouth twisting as he took another steadying breath, and Geralt thinned his lips as he waited, listening with rapt interest to an insight he never thought he would hear. He had heard Lambert speak about his father before, but it had always been in hostile tones; now, he spoke softly, almost sadly, as if truly coming to terms with his story for the first time. "Witchers are supposed to be immune to disease," Lambert continued after a moment, squeezing his arms to his chest until his jacket creaked in protest. "But when it's in your blood… can't escape it. Can't escape who your parents made you—no more than I could escape being an elf, if I was one. The Trials managed to change everything else about me, but my dad's sickness… it stayed."

He paused again at the thought, gritting his teeth, doing his best to keep his lip from trembling, and Geralt looked down at the ground, giving him some respectful privacy as he fought to keep his composure. "Haven't been able to stop thinking about it, ever since we heard about Shani," Lambert said after a moment, shaking his head and sniffing stubbornly. "The person you were before the Trials… that never goes away. Not really. They can suppress our magic, our… emotions… but they can't take our genes. Our flaws, our… sicknesses." He stopped again, taking another pause, before he drew in a deep breath, the air shuddering as he lifted his head. "Honestly… it's a blessing they took my balls with those Trials," he added. "Even if we could… y'know. Have our own. Wouldn't want to pass any of my shit on to a kid."

"Trials don't take your balls," Geralt answered, looking up with a frown. "Just your ability to reproduce."

"Yeah, yeah," Lambert sighed, sounding much more flippant now. "But they don't do anything, so what's the point? Like trying to go fishing with rocks instead of bombs. The splash is there, but you still go home hungry."

Geralt raised a brow at the comparison. "Weird analogy," he noted.

Lambert let out a huff, crossing one ankle over the other. "Yeah well… I've had a little bit to drink," he admitted. Reaching down the side of the barrel, he grabbed another bottle hidden in the straw, popping the cork and taking a swig, letting out a huff as he pulled it from his lips again. Geralt frowned at the display, now unable to help feeling a bit uneasy.

"Hm," Geralt said. "Keira probably won't be too happy with you coming home worse than before."

Lambert paused to consider, before finally shrugging, looking almost as indifferent as before. "Keira's… fine," he said, almost muttering the answer. "She's used to it. Has to be, living with me. Surprised she hasn't gotten tired of me yet. Most never put up with me for this long."

Geralt furrowed his brow, folding his hands together in thought. "You love her?" he asked, causing Lambert to look up in surprise.

"Well, yeah," Lambert answered. "I mean… I guess so. Hard to say after less than a year." He paused again, sucking his lip, before his brows began to creep up towards his widow's peak, almost with a mind of their own. "She's good to me, Geralt," he admitted, looking up at his fellow witcher with a sincere expression; it was a strange expression, Geralt noted, but it was sincere, as if the sincerity was being wrung from him like juice. "I'm not used to people… caring about me. Caring what happens to me. I guess."

"Seems bleak," Geralt answered, frowning at the thought. "If she cares for you, why not just let her? Treat her right and she'll have no reason to question it. You're not as broken as you think, Lambert."

At this, Lambert let out a short, sharp laugh, the bitterness almost making Geralt's skin crawl. "You sure?" he asked, his eyes cold through his smile. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Geralt."

"Can't imagine there's that many," Geralt answered, opening his hands. "Loved to talk about yourself during winters at Kaer Morhen."

"Superficial things," Lambert said, shaking his head at the thought. "Nothing of any actual depth or importance."

Geralt frowned, folding his hands again, wondering how many layers there were to Lambert he had never seen before – he had already seen one displayed tonight, but it seemed he was in for more surprises. "So what am I missing, then?" he asked, wondering if he had pressed too hard on a sore spot to get an answer.

Lambert paused, staring down at his hands, his yellow eyes bleary as he thought for a moment. Then, after a while, he lifted his head again, taking another deep breath as he looked up at Geralt with narrowed eyes. "You remember… Aiden?" he asked, his voice quiet, making Geralt have to lean in a bit to hear. "The Cat School witcher. The one I told you about, whose… death, you helped me get even for." Geralt paused, thinking back on the name, before he finally nodded, remembering Lambert's story. Lambert nodded back, before letting out another weary sigh, lowering his gaze to the bottle in his hands again.

"I said he was my friend," he said, speaking quietly. "But that… wasn't… the whole truth. There was more to it than that. He was my friend at first, yeah, but after a while, he was… more than that. A lot more."

"Hm," Geralt answered, thoughtfully. "Never would've guessed. Didn't know you swung both ways."

Lambert looked up again at this, quicker this time, letting out a short, harsh chuckle in return. "Yeah," he answered, bitterly. "No one did. There's a reason for that. People don't exactly look fondly on… alternative lifestyles."

Geralt frowned, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach as he remembered his conversations with Mislav, the skilled tracker who had helped him find a griffin's nest during his time in White Orchard. Mislav had told Geralt during their hunt how he had loved the son of a lord, but ill will had made their love public before either was ready, and the lord's son, Florian, had hanged himself, unable to deal with the stigma of losing his father's favour. The lack of acceptance for the hunter's sexuality had struck Geralt as shockingly small-minded back then, and he remembered how strange it was to realize how little of the acceptance more commonly found in longer-lived societies existed among human peasantry. Of course, being witchers meant that Lambert and Aiden unfortunately dealt mainly with commonfolk, he realized, which meant they would have been privy to the same closed-minded prejudices that had ultimately killed Florian.

"Ciri likes both," Geralt offered after a moment, unsure what else there was to say. Lambert looked up at the comment, his brow furrowed, but Geralt only shrugged. "Not that unusual," he added, trying to be helpful.

"Ciri's a girl," Lambert scoffed, making a face. "Twisted as it is, people fetishize that shit. You ever heard of unicorn hunting?"

Geralt faltered at the question, confused for a moment. "Got a stuffed unicorn in my house," he finally said. "Don't remember if it was hunted, though. Might've died of natural causes."

"You're an idiot," Lambert told him, causing Geralt to blink at the surprising vitriol. "Ask Ciri about it next time you see her. She'll know what I'm talking about." Letting out another frustrated sigh, he looked away again, shaking his head as he thought it over. "People look at bisexual women like… their whole sexuality is just… one big experiment," he said, seeming to have difficulty finding the words to explain. Geralt guessed he had never been in a position to put this part of his life into words before, and he had to wonder if doing this was therapeutic for Lambert, or if it was only adding to his bitterness about it. "It's dehumanizing. Like they aren't even people, just objects to be enjoyed by couples wanting a thrill. But me? Nobody looks at me that way. People look at bisexual men like freaks. Like we're just putting off picking one or the other. Like we're vile, and shouldn't exist."

"Hm," Geralt answered, unsure what to say. "Sounds about the same as being a witcher. Seems you'd be used to that by now."

Lambert looked up at the comment, slowly, his expression somewhere between disbelief and disgust. Then, pushing himself to his feet again, he took another swig of vodka, starting to head for the door of the shed. "You really are that clueless, huh?" he spat. "If you ever take a break from living in your ass, you know where to find me."

"Lambert—" Geralt let out a sigh, leaning out to grab Lambert's arm, stopping him from leaving, and Lambert looked back at him with a soured expression, seeming willing to listen, but not eager. "Sorry," Geralt said, sitting back down on his barrel with a tired huff. "Didn't mean it like that. Just trying to make light of things, but… can see it's not the right time." Crossing his arms again, he fell quiet, watching as Lambert wavered, deciding what to do, before the younger witcher finally let out a resigned grunt, returning to sit on the barrel across from Geralt again. Geralt took a deep breath as Lambert settled in, watching as he took another swig of vodka, his golden eyes distant as he stared at the far wall, as if still not sure staying was the right idea.

"You're right," Geralt told him, causing Lambert to look up again, his expression flat. "Don't really understand how you feel. About any of it. Not too proud to admit that."

Lambert paused, staring at him across the candlelight, before he finally let out a soft, bitter huff. "I liked you better before Vesemir died," he admitted, taking another drink of vodka.

Geralt frowned. "Why?" he asked. "Because I didn't care about you then?"

"Exactly," Lambert answered, nodding in agreement. "It was so much easier to pretend everything was okay when people didn't care if it wasn't." He paused again, before snorting at the thought, taking another drink and licking his lips absentmindedly; he looked almost corvid in the candlelight, Geralt thought, with his sharp, shadowed eyes and thin, solemn lips. "I'd never said 'I love you' to anyone before Aiden, you know," Lambert admitted after a moment, his brow furrowing, the lines at the corners of his eyes pinching faintly as he stared across the candlelight to the far wall of the coop. "Scared as shit to say it even then. But it felt… right. Dunno how else to describe it. And… I've… never really been able to say it since. Not without it feeling like a bad omen."

Geralt frowned, surprised to hear such insight, before he tilted his head, hoping Lambert would continue; Lambert glanced over as he noticed movement, before he sucked his scarred lip, letting out a huff and taking another sip of vodka for courage. "I dunno," he admitted after another moment, sounding a bit like he was considering backing off. Then, thinking again, he let out another sigh, before adding, "I just… can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking that… maybe that was what caused it. His death… I mean. Maybe it was because of me. Because… I made him let his guard down. Made him think… people could be trusted. But they can't."

Lambert paused again at the thought, his finger tapping absentmindedly against the neck of his bottle, before his expression began to twist again, growing strange, his yellow eyes distant in his usually sarcastic face. Geralt let out a breath as he watched Lambert think, drawing his lips into a pensive line, wondering how much there was about the young witcher's life that he still did not know, even after so many years. "If I don't get attached, then… it hurts less if something happens," Lambert finally admitted, speaking almost as if he did not realize he was continuing. "Feel like I need to be prepared anymore. Don't ever want to go through what I went through with Aiden again. Don't think I'd be able to take it if that happened. If something happened to Kiera, I…"

He stopped, trailing off this time, before letting out a heavy sigh, tucking his bottle between his knees. "If something happened to Kiera… dunno what I'd do," he admitted, quietly. "Probably just… end it, honestly. Don't know how much more I can lose before it's not worth trying anymore."

Geralt frowned at this admission, but stayed silent, not wanting to open his mouth again and make things worse. He had no idea what he could say to make Lambert feel better – there was no easy topic here for him to touch on, nothing he had any knowledge or experience in that would make his input valuable. He had never had to deal with thoughts of suicide, or bigoted backlash about his sexuality, and the thought that there were so many things in life so much heavier than his perceived lack of emotions made him feel a bit selfish to have spent so long agonizing over it.

After a while, Lambert took a deep, sharp breath, before looking up again, seeming to find the silence unbearable. "…What was the task, exactly?" he asked, causing Geralt to look up as well. "Kill or create a Wolf School witcher, yeah, but there's gotta be more to it than that. There's always more with demons. What exactly did he say you needed to do?"

Geralt hummed, trying to remember the wording of O'Dimm's riddle. "Wolf School witchers left are three… to finish, two or four must be," he repeated. "Something, something… don't remember the exact words. Alter forever or end, that was the end of it."

Lambert nodded, chewing his lip, tapping a finger against the neck of the bottle as he thought. "Well, shit," he finally said. "What're we supposed to do, Geralt? I don't want Shani to die, clearly. And as much as I bitch and moan about you, you're a good guy. Don't want you to lose your baby." Geralt frowned at the admission, having not expected to hear it, but Lambert only took another breath, his expression twisting. "I'm not ready to end it yet," he admitted, his brows raising again, belaying another sincere expression. "As much as I talk around it, I… damnit, Geralt. I care about Keira. I do. I don't know why I won't just tell her so. I don't give a shit about myself, but she… she's good. She cares. She's… giving me something to live for."

"Don't wanna kill you, either," Geralt answered, shaking his head honestly. "Not why I came. Was hoping you could help me figure out a way around it."

Lambert frowned, sucking his lips, his thin mouth inverting as he mulled it over. "What about the Trials?" he asked after a moment, looking up again. "You could always put Ciri through the last one. Make her a full-fledged witcher. Alter forever—four must be, whatever."

"Not doing that," Geralt answered, firmly, letting out a sigh at the tired alternative. "Trials will nullify her navigation powers. Not gonna take that away from her for my own stupid mistake."

Lambert sighed as well, matching Geralt's frustration. "You're right," he agreed. "Plus, almost everything about the Trials was lost in the massacres. Wouldn't be able to do it properly, even if you wanted to. Got no idea how."

"Not Vesemir's fault he never taught us," Geralt answered, shrugging. "He wasn't in charge of that information when Kaer Morhen was in full operation."

Lambert snorted at the reminder. "Right," he said, sarcastically. "Why bother teaching the swordsmanship teacher anything about the most important part of witcher training?"

"Vesemir always thought swordsmanship was the most important part of witcher training," Geralt returned, grinning.

Lambert shrugged, still amused. "Well, he wasn't entirely wrong," he conceded. "Might've been better if he'd had us read a few more books, though."

Geralt chuckled, folding his arms at the thought. "Now you're starting to sound like Yen," he said.

Lambert's wry grin widened. "I'm okay with that," he agreed. "I like Yen. She doesn't take your shit." He paused, taking another swig of vodka, before he wet his lips, offering the bottle across to Geralt again. "Man," he said, letting out a dazed breath as he watched the bottle change hands. "When I woke up this morning, never thought it might be the last time. If I'd known it was gonna end like this… would've picked a different profession."

Geralt frowned, lowering the bottle again, before handing it over to Lambert, narrowing his eyes. "…What'd you say?" he asked, unsure if he had heard right.

Lambert blinked, seeming surprised at having to repeat himself. "Didn't think today would be my last day on earth," he admitted, taking the bottle for another drink.

"No," Geralt insisted, shaking his head. "After that. Said you would've picked a different profession."

Lambert cleared his throat, tucking the bottle between his knees again. "Well… yeah," he agreed, hesitantly. "But, kinda shit out of luck on that one."

"Maybe not," Geralt said, furrowing his brow. "Think about it. What is a witcher?"

Lambert faltered, taken aback. "One of us… freaky boys," he said after a moment. "One of us… cat-eyed bastards."

"Sober up, Lambert," Geralt huffed, annoyed, causing Lambert to straighten in surprise. "I'm being serious. What is a witcher?"

Lambert faltered again, blinking a few times, seeming more wary of his response this time. "Well—a monster hunter," he said after a while. "Some unlucky fuck whose job it is to hunt monsters."

"Exactly," Geralt insisted. "It's a job. A profession. Considered Leo a witcher, and he never took the final Trials. Just trained with us, went along on the Path. Fought alongside us against the Salamandra."

Lambert hummed, thinning his lips at the thought. "Still got no idea what you're getting at, but you seem pretty excited about it," he admitted after a moment.

Geralt grunted, shifting on his barrel, too encouraged by his breakthrough to let this dampen his spirit. "To finish, two or four must be," he pressed. "Answer's been there all along. All he said was there needed to be one less Wolf School witcher. Didn't say I had to bring him the witcher's head." He paused, allowing a moment for Lambert to catch up to his logic, before an encouraging warmth began to creep over him as he realized that, for the first time, his dreams had actually proven useful in the real world. Perhaps they had not been nightmares after all, as he feared, but help, just as Vilgefortz had told him; the mage had said that help would come from unexpected places, and Renfri had given him that help in his last dream – the knowledge that people generally said what they meant, and it was only misinterpretation that caused undue tragedy.

"Someone dropping from the Path – changing professions – doesn't necessarily mean they're dead," Geralt went on, eagerly. "Just that they're no longer a witcher."

Lambert frowned, seeming less convinced. "If it's so easy, why don't you do it?" he insisted.

"Can't," Geralt answered, shaking his head. "Would play right into O'Dimm's hand if I did. Give it up, won't be able to complete his last task. He'd see to it—give me something only a witcher could do."

"And what about Ciri?" Lambert pressed. "Any reason she can't go back on the Path?"

Geralt let out a sigh at the argument. "Emhyr," he answered, simply. "Ciri leaves the throne, Emhyr takes over again. Even if she wanted to leave to become a witcher, wouldn't do it. Wouldn't abandon her people like that." He paused, staring across the dim light at Lambert, unable to help feeling a bit strange about the whole conversation now – he had not expected such pushback from Lambert, but perhaps something had changed in the younger witcher's months away. "Didn't expect you to argue," he admitted after a moment, wondering if he had read Lambert entirely wrong. "Admit I'm surprised. Figured you hated being a witcher. 'Least, that's what you always told me."

Lambert made a face at the statement, wrinkling his nose until his brows shadowed his eyes in the candlelight. "I do hate being a witcher," he agreed. "Always have. Never had a choice about it. But, Keira… she needs me to provide for us. What kind of man would I be if I forced her to be the breadwinner, just so I wouldn't have to hunt monsters anymore?" He huffed, letting out a hard breath, leaning forward to rest his head exasperatedly in his free hand. "Her alchemy business is doing well – really well – but… what other skills do I even have to offer?" he insisted. "Killing monsters is all I've ever known. It's… all I've ever been good for."

Geralt thinned his lips, letting out a hum at the thought. "Never wanted to explore other options?" he asked, curiously.

Lambert gave another sigh, lifting his head again. "Never had the time," he admitted, honestly. "Or the talent, frankly. Never been good as a craftsman, and… can't do any of that artsy shit to save my life. As much as I rag on Dandelion, the man's got a talent I could never hope to match."

"So don't be a bard or a blacksmith," Geralt answered, causing Lambert to raise a brow at the solution. "Plenty of other professions that don't require those skills. Who planted the garden out front?"

Lambert faltered, seeming surprised. "Me," he said after a moment, seeming hesitant to admit it. "Always had sort of a… way with nature, I guess. Green thumb. Chickens are mine, too. Keira couldn't stand them at first, but they… give me some comfort. Keep me company." He paused, realizing how much of his usually stalwart soul had been bared with the answer, before he pointed across to Geralt, his expression hardening in the candlelight as he pursed his lips. "I swear on Melitele's tits if I hear this come up in conversation with Eskel at any point—" he began, but Geralt quickly cut him off, raising a hand and letting out a chuckle at the familiar vitriol.

"Don't worry," Geralt assured him. "Secret's safe with me. Wouldn't dream of telling anyone you care about things." He smirked, looking up at Lambert again, noting that the younger witcher's expression had begun to twist strangely, his conflicted thoughts making their way to his face, whether he knew they were there or not. "Don't have to do this if you don't want," Geralt told him, causing him to look up again, seeming a bit dazed. "Can't force you to make this choice. Giving up the witcher profession… gonna be hard. Everything you've ever known. Can't take your mutations away, either, so it'll be all the drawbacks with none of the benefits." He paused, taking a moment to consider, before shrugging, unsure what else there was to say.

"Gonna be a freakish-looking… gardening, chicken farmer," he said. "Won't pretend that's much of a selling point."

Lambert hesitated, before a strange, crooked smirk began to creep across his lips at the confession. "You know," he said, raising a thoughtful brow. "You say that, but… that actually sounds really good, to me." He paused again at the thought, taking a moment to turn it over, before he finally let out an agitated huff, realizing his options had run short. "So it's gotta be me, then, huh?" he scoffed. "Figures. How d'you know your demon would even accept that as a solution?"

Geralt shrugged, honestly. "Can't know for sure," he said. "But it's been done before. Jad Karadin did it. Denounced the School of the Cat—left the Path to marry, become a trader."

Lambert made a face at the mention of Karadin, looking as if he had just smelled spoiled milk. "Aw—really?" he insisted, letting out a huff. "Could've picked any other example."

"Fine," Geralt returned, realizing his mistake. "Merten, then. Former Manticore witcher. Found enlightenment in prison, then denounced the Path to follow the teachings of Lebioda."

Lambert paused at the thought, his expression still twisted, before finally letting out his breath in a long, resigned sigh. "Not an ideal example either, but I'll take it," he said, pushing himself to his feet again. He swayed, taking a moment to find his balance, before finally standing straight, staring down at the witcher in front of him. "Take note, Geralt of Rivia," he announced, placing a hand across his heart as he began to speak, clear and determined. "I, Lambert, denounce the teachings of the Wolf School. I denounce my training as a witcher. I denounce the Path and my loyalty to it. I put down my swords… I surrender my medallion. The only thing I'm keeping is my name. Lambert… farmer. No longer witcher. Lambert… free. Finally free."

Geralt stared at Lambert as he finished, noting the way his voice shook as he said the last words – the misty distance in his eyes as he stared at a spot on Geralt's armour, not even looking at his friend anymore. He had said the words before realizing their meaning, the weight they carried as they left his lips, and he furrowed his brow as the momentum suddenly hit him, causing him to gulp for a breath he had forgotten to take. His entire expression had changed with the thought of leaving the Path behind, Geralt realized; the cynicism had gone, the anger and pain in a face lined beyond its years. He looked younger now, just as Geralt remembered him – the freckled boy being given his first real meal, crying tears of relief as he was told he would not have his knuckles beaten bloody for spilling his drink.

"Lambert, chicken farmer," Geralt said, causing Lambert to look up at the name, still dazed. "Got a nice ring to it."

Lambert hesitated, before a small, impish smile began to creep across his lips again. "You laugh, but there's real money in chickens," he said, sitting down on his barrel again to keep from losing his legs. "They provide all kinds of things—eggs, meat, feathers. Plus they've got claws, so they can defend themselves." He paused, looking over Geralt's shoulder to where the rows of chickens clucked peacefully in their roosts, the small smile spreading wider over his face as the finality of his decision began to sink in. "Chickens are nothing to laugh at," he added, his grin widening until his lips nearly disappeared into his beard. "Someone made a real mistake not basing a School after them. Imagine it—the School of the Chicken."

Geralt grunted, a faint, incredulous smirk passing his own lips. "Dunno about School of the Chicken," he said. "Think I heard some rumblings about a School of the Crane in the East, though."

Lambert scoffed, shaking his head at the thought. "School of the Chicken is clearly superior," he argued.

Geralt snorted, pushing himself up from his barrel, before picking up the still-burning candle at their feet. "Come on," he said, sliding an arm under Lambert's shoulder. "Think you've had enough for tonight."

---

Lambert was fast asleep by the time Geralt finished bundling up his swords and medallion for the portal home, and he let out a breath as he stared down at the parcel, running a hand thoughtfully across the wolf's head necklace. The wolf reminded him strongly of Lambert – all sharp edges, with wicked, exaggerated fangs – and he hummed as he leaned against the table, looking over to the grips sticking out from the top of the cloth. Lambert's swords, for all his bluster, were common, forged by the hand of a city craftsman, and Geralt furrowed his brow as he ran a hand over the wrapped leather, wondering if he should leave the steel blade to defend against mundane threats. But there were no mundane threats here, and certainly none in Lambert's beloved chicken shed, and he let out another, deeper sigh as he picked up the bundle, starting to reach for his portal amulet.

"You're lucky to have a friend like Lambert," Keira's accusatory voice found him, stopping him before he had a chance to leave. Geralt faltered, turning to face her, taking a moment to stare at the woman now standing in the bedroom door, hands on her hips.

"That your way of saying goodbye?" Geralt asked, dryly. "Can't say I expected any sort of send-off from you. Remember you telling Ciri not to do it, way back when. Figured you weren't the sentimental type."

Keira said nothing, only pursing her lips, her hazel eyes growing harder in the firelight. "I didn't trust her not to run away and deceive us," she answered after a while, her tone stiff, unyielding in her choices. "Just as I don't trust you. I've no idea what you plan to do with those swords or that medallion, Geralt, but I don't think you understand what kind of sacrifice that is for Lambert to make. Even for a friend."

Geralt's expression hardened at her tone, not liking to be scolded, especially by a sorceress. "What makes you think we're friends?" he asked, wishing she had just allowed him to go in peace. He had places to be, and a whole other task to uncover, but he supposed he had time for one more conversation.

Keira scoffed, taking a few steps forward into the front-room, lifting her chin to make up for her timid height; she was taller than Yennefer, but not by much, and barefoot as she was, she barely passed his shoulder. "Don't be daft," she told him, the hiss in her voice making him wonder if he had touched a nerve. "He's giving up everything for you. So am I. You don't think that's something a friend would do?"

"You?" Geralt asked, making a face. "Lambert said you didn't want kids anymore."

"Of course I want children," Keira snapped, moving closer, standing almost in front of him now. "I've always wanted children. But what was the point? I'm a sorceress, and Lambert is a witcher. Even without my use of glamour, there was no way we could've had children, even if we'd wanted to."

"Hm," Geralt answered, frowning down at her. "Lambert said he didn't want kids, either."

Keira sighed, folding her arms. "Lambert says a lot of things," she said, sounding exasperated. "All I know for sure is, he was definitely upset when he learned you'd somehow managed to reverse your sterility. Not upset enough to do anything about it, of course, but… I know when something isn't right with him. I can tell."

Geralt grunted, thinning his lips. "Would you even want kids with him?" he asked. "Considering, his…"

"I would," Keira answered, cutting him off, relieving him from having to say it. "Lambert is a good man. Better than people give him credit for. I don't care about his sickness—even the sick deserve love. And I do love him, Geralt. More than you, or most, could ever understand." She paused, staring down at the bundle in his arms, before she let out another sigh, her arms falling to her sides again. "I hope you put his sacrifice to good use," she told him, gesturing to the bundle with a nod. "He never said it, but… you, Eskel, and Vesemir were the best things to ever happen to him. He wouldn't be alive, if not for all of you."

Geralt faltered, unsure why hearing it spoken so plainly surprised him so much – he and Lambert had never been particularly close, but he had always considered the younger witcher his brother-in-arms. Lambert had spoken openly with him about having suicidal thoughts before, but he had always thought the younger witcher was just blowing off steam; it had never occurred to him that he might actually be part of what had stopped Lambert from ever going through with it. "I will," he agreed, nodding assuredly. "Thanks, Keira. And—tell Lambert when he wakes up… fearing something only gives it power. Should do the thing he's been too afraid to do."

Keira frowned, taking a step back, reaching to fiddle with her necklace as she thought. "I'm not sure what you two talked about," she admitted. "But I'll… tell him. Good luck, Geralt, and… godspeed, I suppose."

Geralt sighed. "Wish you hadn't said that," he muttered, before reaching for his portal amulet and closing his eyes.

"Va aép… Corvo Bianco."

---

Geralt had barely been hungry on his arrival back home, but he thanked Marlene for the plate of bread and cheese she brought him, regardless, allowing himself a quick meal before settling in front of the fireplace to meditate. Resting the bundled swords at his knees, he closed his eyes, waiting for time to pass—if he knew the Man of Glass, it would not be long before he came to show himself, in his usual way. O'Dimm always had a way of knowing when Geralt was on the right track, as well as whenever he had strayed, and though he had to admit the feeling of being constantly watched was a bit unnerving, he had all but grown used to it during his days doing tasks for Von Everec.

Taking a deep breath in, Geralt cleared his mind, focusing only on his heartbeat, listening to the crackling of the fresh logs from the fire in front of him.

"Greetings, Geralt."

He had no idea how long it had been, but the house was completely dark when Geralt opened his eyes again, with only the soft, devilish glow from the fireplace throwing long shadows across the empty front-room. He allowed his eyes a moment to adjust, before looking up, taking in the face that loomed over him, noticing that O'Dimm's lightless eyes appeared as barely more than sunken pits in his shapeless face in the dark. He looked like a demon, Geralt thought, though he knew this was hardly even his most sinister form, and O'Dimm grinned as he stared down at the witcher, taking another step closer to the fire.

His shadow danced in the light of the flames, and Geralt paused, realizing the shapes were not his own – they were creatures, writhing in the firelight, changing first to a foglet, and then to a hym, and then to an enormous shape he had never seen before, before dissolving once more into a twisting, shapeless mass.

"I see you have something for me," O'Dimm observed, indicating towards the bundle at Geralt's knees.

"Finished the second task," Geralt announced, nodding towards the bundle as well. "To finish, two or four must be—one less on the Path makes two. Alter forever or end—Lambert gave up his career as a witcher. Ended it. Solution takes into account both parts of the riddle. Means the task's complete."

O'Dimm's expression froze, and he stared at Geralt for a long, silent moment, his half-gloved hands growing oddly stiff as he pressed palm against palm in thought. Geralt could swear he saw something twitch in the flesh of his knuckles, but it lasted for barely a moment before he was all smiles again, his body language as languid as before. "Very clever," O'Dimm acknowledged, sitting down across from the witcher to get a better look. Picking up the bundle, he lifted it, staring at the medallion wrapped around the cloth, before he let out a low, cold chuckle, letting the swords come to rest in his lap.

"I really had hoped you might kill one of them," he admitted, tracing a hand across the wolf's fanged mouth. "Though I suppose this works just as well. A witcher without his swords is, truly… no witcher at all. And of course, you can't be blamed for whatever happens as a result of that." Geralt made a face at the veiled threat, watching as O'Dimm toyed absentmindedly with the bundle, before he suddenly realized with a bit of a shock that the demon was actually touching Lambert's medallion—just as he had touched Vesemir's before, though the witcher had been too distracted at the time to notice. Monsters, demons, and other such creatures were not supposed to be able to touch witcher medallions, he knew, but it seemed O'Dimm had no problem in doing it, and he swallowed, realizing he was in more trouble than he thought.

"Have you ever heard the nursery rhyme about the man who lost his horseshoe nail, Geralt?" O'Dimm asked after a moment, looking up again, his face nearly black with shadow as the fire seared his outline against the darkness.

Geralt shook his head. "No," he answered, dryly. "Was kept pretty busy as a kid. What with all the witcher training."

"It's a simple rhyme," O'Dimm continued, seeming to ignore his sarcastic remark. "For want of a nail, the shoe was lost… for want of a shoe, the horse was lost… for want of a horse, the rider was lost… for want of a rider—"

"I get it," Geralt said, in no mood to hear another of O'Dimm's riddles.

"Ah-ah! I'm not through yet," O'Dimm told him, holding up his spoon in a scolding gesture. "You know I hate being interrupted. Wouldn't want a repeat of last time, would we?" He paused, allowing Geralt a moment to remember the fate of the last man who had tried to speak over him, before he rested the spoon in his opposite hand again, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the head. "Now where was I…" he continued, undaunted. "Ah, yes. For want of a rider, the message was lost… for want of a message, the battle was lost… for want of a battle, the kingdom was lost… and all for the want of a horseshoe nail."

He went silent as he finished, allowing a moment to let the poem sink in, before he began to grin, his mouth growing eerily wide on his shapeless face. "Do you understand the meaning of the poem, Geralt?" he asked. "I think you'd do well to heed it."

"Keep track of my horseshoe nails," Geralt answered, flatly. "Not as stupid as you think, O'Dimm. Understand your allegories just fine." He frowned, looking away from O'Dimm, taking in a deep breath as he stared into the crackling fire, realizing with some discontent that he was unable to enjoy even the sanctity of home, knowing the devil sat in his own front-room, barely paces away. "Did what you said about Lambert," he said after a moment, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to look up at O'Dimm again. "Now give me the third task. Faster you give it to me, faster I can get it over with."

"Now, now, witcher," O'Dimm chuckled. "Let's not rush headlong into things. Your third task will take some time, I'm sure, and… well. Time is not something you can afford to spend rashly. Perhaps you'd like some advice, before you head so assuredly down this unknown path."

"More time you spend putting off telling me what it is, less time I'll have to complete it," Geralt answered, annoyed. "Stop stalling, O'Dimm. Don't want your advice. Just tell me what the third task is."

O'Dimm raised his brows at the answer, his dark eyes straying from Geralt's face as he took another long breath in, before he turned his attention back to the swords in his lap, tracing a finger across the moulded grip of the silver blade. "Very well," he said after a while, nonchalant again, though still clearly unconvinced. "It's not my place to question. Just remember this conversation when next you're faced with a similar dilemma, as I may not be able to help you then."

"Not helping me now," Geralt returned, irritated. "Just tell me the task. Ready to get this over with."

O'Dimm went silent, staring intently at the witcher, before a wide, sallow grin began to creep across his face. "Alright, Geralt," he agreed after a moment, speaking slowly. "If that's what you want. Who am I to dissuade you?" He chuckled again, the sound soft, slick, causing a chill to run up Geralt's spine, but he only steeled his expression as he waited, not letting on any sign of apprehension for what was to come. "For your third task, I have something very… special, in mind," O'Dimm said, his cruel grin continuing to widen. Then, taking a deep breath, he pressed his hands together again, bringing them to rest against his lips.

"The world shall die amidst frost and blade, and with the new sun will be remade. Fie trials of greed – where they fail, you succeed… burst into flame, and sow your seed."

Geralt stopped, feeling his blood run cold as he recognized the familiar turn of phrase. "That…" he faltered. "That's… the Aen Ithlinnespeath. Ithlinne's prophecy."

"Is it?" O'Dimm asked, his grin growing even wider, threatening to split his wicked face.

Geralt scoffed, feeling his hands start to shake, panic setting in as the words spun in his mind. "You want me to fulfil the rest of the prophecy?" he hissed. "That's your third task? You want me to impregnate Ciri?" Pushing himself angrily to his feet, he paced the floor, before turning back, baring down on the master of mirrors. "Fuck you, O'Dimm," he spat. "I won't do it. That wasn't part of the deal."

"It was always part of the deal," O'Dimm answered, sounding almost bored with the witcher's distress. "You agreed to do whatever tasks were asked of you. You've already managed to wriggle your way out of one task… I'd like to see you try and wriggle your way out of this." He paused at the thought, moving Lambert's swords from his lap, his wicked grin spreading as he did so, dark eyes bright with a vile glee. "Though I'd guess the one who'll be doing most of the wriggling in this equation will likely be Ciri," he added, wryly.

"NO!" Geralt shouted, whipping around at the taunt. "There has to be something else— another task! Anything!"

"The third task has been set, witcher," O'Dimm answered, coolly, getting back to his feet again. He sighed, brushing down his tunic, buying maddening time as Geralt shook with anger. "Shouting won't change your fate," he added. "Nor my mind. I don't respond to violence."

"Won't do it, O'Dimm," Geralt growled, baring his teeth. "Do whatever you want to me. Won't do that to Ciri."

"To you?" O'Dimm asked, looking up with raised, indifferent brows. "What have I ever done to you?" He paused, taking a long breath, staring at the witcher as he fingered the spoon tucked at his hip, before he finally let out a dismissive tut, pulling it from his belt and looking down at it, thoughtfully. "I tell you what, Geralt," he said after a while, his gaze never leaving the spoon. "I'll make it easier. Admittedly, there would be no way to know if you'd succeeded in that specific task for… weeks, possibly months. By the time you knew whether your efforts… bore fruit, it might be too late for dear Shani for you to try again." He paused again, pursing his lips, before he slowly began to tilt the spoon, letting the head come to rest in his opposite palm.

"I'll take pity on you," he said, turning his dark eyes up to rest on Geralt again. "Ciri need not fall pregnant from this. Neither I, nor you, can control such a factor. After all, I cannot create life on command, myself—how should I expect the same from you?" He paused, staring at Geralt for a long moment, allowing the disturbing topic to settle in, before he finally lifted the spoon again, giving it another indicative wave. "But the rest still stands," he continued. "Cirilla Fiona, empress of Nilfgaard, noble of Cintra, must be bedded to completion—or you must face forfeit."

"I forfeit," Geralt insisted, holding up a hand. "Told you. Won't do that to Ciri. So—take my soul, or whatever your prize, O'Dimm."

O'Dimm grinned. "Oh, Geralt," he said. "It's not your soul I intend to take."

Geralt blanched, feeling his face turn white. "Can't… do that," he said, shaking his head in shock. "Shani and the baby—they're no part of this. Not part of our contract. You leave them alone, O'Dimm."

"Complete my task, and you'll have no reason to fear for either of their lives," O'Dimm answered, simply. "Forfeit… and I cannot be held responsible for what might happen to them as a result." He stared up at Geralt, fixing the witcher with a gaze that held him like a fly in amber, before his grin began to widen again as he tucked his spoon back into his belt. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to make deals with the devil?" he asked, chuckling at the thought. Then, clapping his hands together once, he disappeared, leaving only the cold, dark fireplace in his wake.

---

[Author's Note: In case anyone is worried about potential content for future chapters (SPOILERS!): This is NOT going to turn into an incest fic. This story will not shy from uncomfortable territories that may require additional warnings in the future, but this is not one of those times. Geralt will figure out a solution for this, like he has with everything else!]