#endrega23

the deaths are mostly the same as canon, with a few fake outs and switch ups. A-Qing, Xue Yang, Wang Lingjiao, Jin Zixun, Nie Zonghui, and Luo Qingyang die. Jiang Yanli dies but is brought back as a Fierce Corpse, and in the sequel WWX would eventually recover her consciousness. Meng Yao appears to die at the end but the sequel would reveal he actually survived. Lotus Pier is destroyed at the end, Jiang Fengmian, Yu Ziyuan and most of the Jiang sect die, but not Jiang Cheng. Xiao Xingchen is in a coma.

As with everything else, Lambert recovers, but for the first time Vesemir finds him silent.

There are very few boys his age this year; the other wolf cubs are a few years older than him, finding comfort in each other's presence.

Lambert never allowed them to comfort him. He doesn’t trust them, doesn’t trust the adults, doesn’t trust the world to keep him safe. Rightly so, Vesemir thinks, believing distrust will hopefully keep him alive while on the path.

But tonight, that is worrying. Lambert’s silence is uncharacteristic and Vesemir has learned to watch out for it.

From the shadows, he follows Lambert, watching him sneak away to the barn and curl up in the hay.

Restless sleep and twitching limbs, his child tosses and turns as nightmares take him. In time, he will learn to repress the dreams, but for now they torment him.

Lambert startles awake with a muffled shout before he gets his bearings.

Crying children is nothing new behind the stone walls of Kaer Morhen, but Vesemir feels the responsibility weigh heavily on his shoulders.

He parts from the shadows, approaching Lambert and makes deliberate noise as he does. The child rushes to his feet, a knife in his hand in the blink of an eye, and Vesemir’s heart swells with pride.

“What do you want, asshole?” Lambert says, wiping his tears angrily with the heel of his hand.

“I have been thinking about something for a while,” Vesemir says calmly, walking up to Lambert and promptly plopping down on the hay.

“What,” Lambert asks, eyeing him suspiciously. The dark circles under his eyes are not only the remnants of the toxins.

“Sit down and I will tell you. And put away that knife before you poke someone’s eye out.”

Lambert grumbles but sits down without complaint. Again, not like him.

“What,” he repeats.

Vesemir eyes him right back, and then nods to himself.

“I have been wondering who would wear my hat better. You or me. But I still think I would do it better. So I’m keeping it.”

“You are so dumb.”

“The opposite. This hat has some splendid qualities and I’m not sharing.”

“Good.”

“Really? Not even if I let you try it out?”

“I don’t want to try your stupid hat.”

“Hm. What I heard is that you want to try my beautiful hat. Ok.”

Vesemir shoves his hat on Lambert’s head despite his protests, and then scoops him up in his lap and holds him tight.

“Hey--! You--! Asshole, let me the fuck go, you stinky… bearded- nasty!” Lambert fights him, but he is exhausted, and finally gives up, just accepting Vesemir's grip stiffly.

“Fine. Fucking fine. You got me, I’m wearing your fucking hat, what do you want?!”

“Yeesh, those words in your mouth,” Vesemir snarks, and wraps his arms more securely around Lambert.

It’s not a hug. Witchers don’t hug.

It is merely...a comforting wrestle.

They sit in silence for a few minutes until Lambert sniffles.

“Let me go,” he croaks.

“No.”

“Let me go!”

“You know, when I was your age, I hid in the stables.”

Lambert falls silent.

“Nightmares suck. But I don’t dream anymore.”

“No?”

“No. They can’t touch me. I’m too strong.”

“That sounds fake,” Lambert says, his voice wobbly and muffled under Vesemir's arms.

“You doubt my strength?” Vesemir asks, smirking and tightening his grip.

“Ugh, no, yuck, no, stop it, fine! I believe you!”

“Good. And now I am going to be super strong all over again and fight your nightmares too.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I absolutely can.”

“How.”

“Just close your eyes and let me do the rest.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to. But you can keep the hat for tonight. It keeps the bad memories away.”

“Really?”

“If you believe it, it will,” Vesemir says, slowly letting go of Lambert's small body, watchful of a vengeful elbow. But it doesn’t come, and Lambert doesn’t move away from his lap. He leans back against Vesemir’s chest, fiddling with the brim of the hat between his grimy fingers.

“Don’t tell the others.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

Lambert does fall asleep. As soon as the nightmares start to creep in, Vesemir soothes him, petting his arms until he settles again. At some point, he falls asleep too, but pretends not to notice when Lambert stands up, waking him out of his sleep. Lambert places the hat on his head, and sneaks away.

Vesemir remembers his first night with too many potions in his system. Toxicity can be rough for an adult to handle.

“You shouldn’t have something like that here,” he snarls. Ciri freezes and pulls the cat closer nearly protectively, but the guilt seeping through Letho’s cold heart isn’t nearly enough to stop him. “This is no place for a fucking pet.”

The ensuing beat of silence almost convinces him that he’s won, that she’ll throw this mangy animal back into the pound she no doubt rescued it from. For the first time, Ciri looks like a real girl and not a superhuman danger to international security— and she looks frightened too. Letho doesn’t back down, and even though it looks like she might, Ciri doesn’t either. The cat starts purring gently, and Letho knows he’s fucked. Scowling, Ciri protests, “But Lambert feeds the ducks down by the lake!”

“Can’t think of a worse role model than Lambert.”

“And Eskel keeps a goat out in the courtyard!”

And Geralt kept you, Letho very much does not retort, frowning just as bitterly as Ciri. Instead, he tells her, “Goats provide milk. Eskel’s smart enough to know that in an emergency, the goat would be the first to go. Pets are a distraction— you’re not keeping it. End of story.”

“You’re not my superior,” Ciri snaps. “Technically, I outrank you. So my cat is none of your business. End of story!”

The cat mewls quietly as if in agreement, and Letho turns on his heel and storms away from the girl’s room. He heads straight to the firing range, meaning to work out his frustration with some target practice, but when he tries to fasten the headset over his ears he finds his hands shaking unexpectedly.

He doesn’t even remember his mentor’s face now, after so many decades spent as far away from Gorthur Gvaed as he could get. But Letho remembers the one moment of kindness the cruel instructor had shown him, bookended by terrible memories that plagued his nightmares for years afterwards. In-between testing their poison immunity and forcing them through training courses too difficult to escape unscathed, the Viper instructor led Letho’s class into a small room. 

The gasps of the boys who entered before him made him nervous, but when Letho finally rounded the corner there was no horrific sight awaiting him. Instead he was surprised to see a pen with at least a dozen small kittens roaming around. The recruits were told that cats naturally distrusted Witchers so as a challenge, the Vipers would need to gain the trust of the fickle animals— or some story like that, anyway. Letho hadn’t questioned the reasoning too closely, blinded by his excitement at the first gift he’d ever been given.

The cat— his cat— had been a bright point during the following years of darkness. Letho, persuasive and almost too intelligent for his own good, had no problem getting the pet to trust him. The problem was that he grew too attached, so when it came time for the final test he would face, Letho failed to spot his own weakness.

He passed the test. The last piece he needed slid into place easily. Letho walked into that room as a tactical machine and walked out a killer, with a conscience wiped clear without any trouble. Or at least, he hadn’t thought there had been any trouble— not until decades later, when he saw Geralt’s apprentice holding a small orange tabby and was suddenly reminded of a loss he had nearly accepted.

Nobody bothers him until later in the evening, when Letho has abandoned the idea of shooting away his feelings. The kitchens are usually empty at this time of night so he’s surprised when the door swings open; he’s even more surprised when he turns and sees… no one.

Letho frowns. For a beat the room is ominously empty; then approaching tiny footfalls alert him to the identity of his visitor. Staring up at him is Ciri’s cat, because of course it fucking is. Letho stares right back, glaring at the creature with what he refuses to acknowledge as bitter, bitter jealousy.

After a moment of consideration, the cat moves closer and bumps its head against his leg. Letho sharply inhales before finally bending at the waist to give the creature some attention. He’s careful not to scratch near the scar on its head; even though the wound appears healed, Letho doesn’t want to aggravate it at all. The animal keens into his touch instantly, its soft, raspy purr an unexpected balm for his senses. 

Letho, to his absolute horror, feels tears pricking up in the corners of his eyes. This only spurs the cat to be even cuddlier, of course, and Letho clears his throat. “You’re a cute one,” he admits. “Wonder if she gave you a name yet. Used to call mine Furball. … Maybe let’s keep that between us.”

The cat turns away to peek back in the direction it came, ears perking as it listens. Sure enough Letho hears the same sound a moment later, as someone races towards the kitchen and practically kicks the doors back open. It’s Ciri, looking a little windswept. Her cat meows loudly and joyously, quickly abandoning Letho to return to its owner’s side. The creature’s loyal. Letho will give it that, at least.

“Sorry, sorry, I think he saw a mouse,” Ciri quickly stammers, picking up the cat. She clearly hasn’t spent much, if any, time around animals before this one; she has no idea how to hold it properly. The animal doesn’t seem to mind, just twisting in her grip until he’s comfortable. “I didn’t mean to bother you! I’ll keep it away, I promise— Vesemir told me cats don’t really like Witchers, and I’m sure you’ve got some deep-seated trauma thingy about this because almost everyone here’s got stuff about everything, but, um… I’m sorry, I’ll keep him in my room!”

Letho thinks about if it would be wise to tell her about his deep-seated trauma thingy. Then at least she wouldn’t be left wondering why he was such an asshole to her earlier, and maybe she’d even get rid of the cat and he wouldn’t have to deal with this newfound flood of emotion ever again. But Ciri looks nervous, cradling the animal close to her chest again like she’s nearly scared that Letho will do something to harm it. He takes a heavy breath in, then out. “It’s a boy?”

“Yeah,” Ciri nods. “I found him when I was doing a recon mission with Coën— someone left him tied up in this awful dark basement. So I had to bring him back, obviously.”

Obviously. Letho silently muses on this, then finally he asks, “Given him a name yet?” Taken aback by the question, Ciri silently shakes her head. Letho smirks at the scrawny cat. “How about Gaetan?”

-

The following week, an unfriendly and impatient civilian places an emergency call to Morhen HQ, demanding that the agency deploys its best men to search for his missing feline. Unluckily for him, Letho is the first responder, and he’s less than sympathetic to the man’s claims.

“I have pictures,” the man tells Letho, brandishing said pictures in his face. Yes, Letho has in fact Seen This Animal; in fact last night he yelled at that very animal when it jumped up onto the dinner table to try to steal his salmon, and then eventually caved and ate his dinner on the floor beside the cat, and then chased a certain Wolf around the building for an hour threatening murder if Lambert didn’t delete that fucking picture right fucking now. He shakes his head, smiling to himself— this enrages the stranger, who misinterprets his amusement as derision. “Don’t you even give a fuck? My property got stolen!”

“Not really,” Letho tells him, just to watch him splutter. “Maybe you treated the cat like shit. Animals don’t just up and leave. And anyway, this is below my paygrade.”

“Your paygrade?!” The man stares, eyes bugging out of his head. “I thought you Witchers were supposed to be heroes!”