The situation is getting out of control. I am currently trying to write two multi-chaptered fanfics for two different fandoms and still not working on my translation * cries *

Anyway, let's pretend that everything's fine. I came up with this title when I was listening to "Coming Home" by Arc North, Rival and Cadmium if anyone's interested in that. Have fun!


These days, Vesemir was feeling old.

Not that he wasn't, objectively speaking, but he wasn't used to noticing it. After all, he had never been the type to count his years – had he already passed the three hundred years bar? – and he wasn't about to start now. Years only brought one closer to the grave, and it was even more true for the witchers walking the Path.

He used to follow the Path too, when he wasn't training the pups, and he had been doing a decent job in his time. He was younger then. And there were more witchers.

Nowadays, he barely left Kaer Morhen for more than a day, outside of his yearly trip to the villages at the foot of the mountains. He always went there at the end of autumn to gather supplies before the pups came back to spend the winter in the keep.

Vesemir came down with his swords – steel for men, silver for monsters, both sharper than a razor's blade. If asked, he would say that it was a habit, that there could be a contract in town. Sometimes it was true and he had cleaned out more than a few drowners' nest throughout the years. But most times, he carried them because the world was just like him: still, unchanged – and starting to get really old, ha.

People out of the fortress had short lives. They were born and in the blink of an eye, they died. They taught their ways to their children who would then teach the same things to theirs, none living long enough to question anything completely, thus perpetuating the cycle. And Vesemir, as old as he was, came down from his half demolished keep hidden in the mountains to hear the same things whispered behind his back.

Nothing changed. These same words that followed his gray hair had followed him all the same when his hair was black. These same words had caused the rift between them and the Cats. These same words had lead to the sack of Kaer Morhen.

Back then, when he was the only one left to protect the few pups who had managed to hide, he had thought about keeping them there. No need to walk the Path – dangerous, deadly – for people who would hurl insults at them at every turn. In the ruins of the fortress, the pups could grow up, grow old and maybe they could be happier there than in the miserable outside world. They were the last Wolves after all, nobody would ever make new ones. And if they were so unwanted, the world could very well take care of the monsters on its own.

But there were also innocent children out there and Vesemir had to make a choice.

For weeks, he thought about it. And once he knew his heart, there was only one logical decision left. So he asked the pups what they wanted. He couldn't control them, it wasn't his place, even if he only wanted the best for them. They all wanted to walk the Path. And for the first time, Vesemir had the distinct thought that, among all the lies spread about witchers, "witchers don't have feelings" was the worst one.

Because he had been ready to give up on everything for the pups, and they had chosen to not let him.

He could only respect their wishes, so he settled for training them as well as he could. Knowing how things were on the Path – and how much worse it would be now that there were so few of them left – he was often harsh and unforgiving. Each spring, when they got restless, he told them that they weren't ready yet – and it was true, not only a trick to protect them a little longer.

But after a few years, he couldn't postpone any longer and he released them into the world. When he couldn't see them on the trail anymore, he turned back toward the fortress and for the second time in his already long life – the first time had been during the sack – he prayed.

Then, he faced his first year alone in the still very damaged keep.

During this year – and the many more to come – everyday looked the same. He would get up, train, work on the most urgent reparations, train again and try no to lose himself in his thoughts. Evenings and nights were the worst. He would always catch himself reminiscing about a pup or a brother while staring vacantly in the fire. So Vesemir spent his years wondering how many would come back.

If someone had bothered to study them a bit more, all of this would have probably been treated as the perfect proof that witchers were as unfeeling as the monsters they were made to hunt; wasn't he sacrificing his own children? But it would have been very hypocritical of anyone to criticize when these same children where saving theirs.

And above that, he knew his pups.

He knew Geralt and how much he tried to do the right thing. Vesemir saw the fondness his boy held for his friends and his brothers, the lengths he had gone through to earn forgiveness from the bard, the help he lent to the sorceress and how careful he was with the Lion Cub. As a child, he had been a bit of a crybaby and the old witcher was pretty sure that he still liked head pats even if the famous 'White Wolf' denied it vehemently.

He came across as grouchy but it was merely because he struggled to express himself and needed time to process his thoughts. Without a doubt, Geralt felt.

He knew Eskel and how gentle he was all the time. Vesemir saw the care his boy showered animals with, the thoughtfulness he displayed, the warmth he offered without waiting for anything in return and how softly he talked to avoid scaring anyone. He had been a quiet child but a nice one, and even more than for the scrawny ones, there had been worry about his passing the Trials because the instructors that his mind would break.

He was very self-conscious – of his scars, of the space he took – and always put others first, whether it was in a fight or in everyday life. Without a doubt, Eskel felt.

He knew Lambert and how he hid behind a deliberately crafted mask. Vesemir saw the passion his boy put in his interests, the anger that covered up much softer things, the childish reactions that a simple bait would arise and how he pretended not to be hurt by harmful words. He hadn't really changed since his childhood days, always the first to pick a fight or get in trouble for whatever prank he had designed.

At first, he looked like a prickly bastard, but it was just another type of armor and once it cracked, it revealed vulnerability. Without a doubt, Lambert felt.

He knew Aiden too, and how hard he worked to overcome the prejudice against his School. Vesemir saw the efforts his – he had been Guxart's but his all friend, like so many others, was gone now – boy put into rebuilding the keep even when there was no way that it could ever replace the Dyn Marv Caravan, the easy laughs he gave at every joke, the way he had learned to blend with the Wolves and how he wouldn't back down when someone made a rude comment about Cats. Not having seen him grow up was irrelevant compared to understanding his point of view on the other side of the conflict and who he was as an adult.

Maybe his ever-present grins and bold moves made the rumors seem true, yet he was anything but mad and every single one of his actions was calculated to minimize risks. Without a doubt, Aiden felt.

He also knew Coën and his willingness to share his knowledge. Vesemir saw the shyness his – there were probably barely more Griffins than Cats left and given the fact that he came every winter, it was safe to assume that there wasn't anyone else to call him that anymore – boy showed each time he was welcomed in Kaer Morhen, the glint in his eyes when he told stories of the sea, the strong friendship he developed with the others and how readily he would help with the most menial tasks. It was impossible to tell what kind of child he had been and there was no one to care if he didn't want to share: if the past was anything, it was past.

Behind his apparent tranquility were significant skills and accomplishments that he could – and was – proud of. Without a doubt, Coën felt.

And most of all, he knew himself.

Knew how the sack had nearly left him broken, both in body and mind. Knew that protecting the pups was the only thing that kept him going. Knew how many sleepless nights he had spent wishing for them to always – always – come home. Knew the anger and sadness mixing painfully each time one didn't make it back. Knew how powerless and helpless he was, stuck in his mountains while they were on the Path because he was old and he was starting to get slow.

Witchers didn't get old. They got slow and they died.

But Vesemir couldn't risk it. He couldn't leave, die carelessly and leave their only home completely empty. To keep everyone at least a little more safe, he was fine with being an anomaly.

Witchers didn't die of old age in their bed. Vesemir wouldn't either. He would wait for the pups to come for the winter, no matter how long.

So he knew it. Hadn't doubted it in decades even. It couldn't possibly be called anything else.

Vesemir, along with every witcher ever created, felt.


I hope you liked it!