#ledgea

“Rescue you?” Coën makes a show of glancing around the empty training grounds; that’s right, he had been a smarmy little know-it-all, Lambert forgot! Lambert always had a thing for smugness; must be why he liked the kid. “You don’t seem particularly endangered.”

“And yet,” he laughs coldly. “My days as a free man are numbered. I’m to be married off to a Griffin at sunset.” The hand-embroidered beast on Coën’s chest suddenly stands out, and Lambert realizes aloud: “Suppose that’s why you’re here. You part of the delegation?”

“I’m part of the sacrificial offering,” Coën corrects him. “I’m to be married to the youngest Wolf at sunset, so I fear we’re in the same boat, my old friend.”

Lambert’s stomach does a sort of flip, and he inhales sharply. “Fuck. The very same, then.” Coën frowns, his brows growing close together, and Lambert quickly clarifies, “I’m the youngest Wolf.”

“Fuck,” echoes Coën. On his lips, it sounds softer than it ever has coming from Lambert. Lambert can’t stop staring now that he knows the truth— he had imagined some young asshole Griffin that would take great pride in making Lambert his groom without any care for him. But Coën is one of the most caring people Lambert has ever known. He forces himself to rethink the situation as the confused man stammers, “How could you be the youngest? You’re— you don’t look young at all! I mean, not— you’ve certainly grown—“

“As have you,” Lambert grins rudely. “I must admit, Keldar’s description was beyond vague. Had I known that you were my betrothed—“

“What, you wouldn’t be fighting with a pillar at the top of a cold mountain?” Coën laughs, happy and surprised. Lambert just watches him, struggling to keep from smiling too widely and scaring him off. “Yeah, well, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have bitched so much on the way up here.”

“Right.” A very terrible idea rises to the top of Lambert’s mind, and as he is so often prone to do, he immediately seizes onto the notion and sets his heart on making it happen. “You know what? I think I know how we can really piss off both Vesemir and Keldar, and get out of this stupid arrangement. Did you ride on horseback up here?”

-

“Leave it to Lambert to ruin his own arranged marriage by fucking eloping,” Eskel marvels. The keep has never been busier what with the extra wedding guests and everyone running around looking for the two grooms, but Lambert’s brothers know better than to try to seek him out. The only way to find Lambert once he’s gone into hiding is to wait it out— that, or offer a really high cash reward so he can turn himself in. And they just lost a very prosperous deal, so they don’t exactly have the funds for that.

Geralt just takes a long drink from Lambert’s ceremonial wedding wine in response.

Life was so damn weird. 

Almost two years had passed between the Battle of Kaer Morhen and Lambert had found himself in the south- not because he liked visiting Geralt at his pompous vineyard or because he had some insane hope of seeing an old friend - but because the weather was nice and the coin somewhat better than the north. He was in Temeria when the second conjunction split the sky and his world was rocked again. What were the odds of having five major world shaking events happen in less than fifty years? Too damn high in Lambert’s opinion. But what did he know? He was just a damn witcher.

He was still in Temeria when it seemed that the dead rose and walked the earth, wearing the face of a friend long lost but not the one he’d been looking for. Voltehre, sweet and kind and dead , had come stumbling down the road toward Vizima like a dream come true although he was mud splattered, bloodied, and dazed from what seemed to be a show of chaos unheard of. The Second Conjunction screwed with a lot of things; Lambert’s head was just the beginning.

“Oh, thank the gods .” The imposter breathed, quickening his limping pace toward Lambert with a lopsided but exhausted grin. “I’ve not seen another Witcher since…” It sounded like Voltehre, a little lower than Lambert’s voice and with the slight whistle on his 's' sounds, but those details only made Lambert put that much more venom into his command that the imposter ‘stop where he was’. He was too damn tired for these games.

The thing that was not Voltehre froze, mouth snapping shut. 

“Who are you?” “Voltehre, of the Wolf School.” His eyes snapped to the medallion on Lambert’s chest like it was a betrayal that he hadn't been recognized. “I’m not sure how I arrived here, just that some weeks ago I was at my trials and then the sky was tearing open and I was south of Vizima. Is it true? Has there been a second joining of the spheres?” The evidence was all around them, hundreds more monsters walked the Continent without more than a few dozen witchers to deal with them. Anyone with eyes could see that and Voltehre had never been stupid. He didn't have an ounce of self preservation around strangers either, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Are you-”

Lambert drew his sword, silver and leveled it at the thing. The sunlight, tinged red by the lingering chaos in the air, glinted off the blade. The Thing put its hands up. 

“I’m sorry? Really I don’t- I don’t know what to do here. You’re of the Wolves, yes? I can- I can prove that’s where I’m from though I don’t have a medallion yet. My master was Vesemir.” 

“Put your arm to the blade.” Lambert said, ignoring how his heart clenched at the memory of the old wolf and the ashes he had left on top of that mountain.

“What?” “Prove that you aren’t a fucking doppler or some shit. Put your damn arm to the blade.” It stepped forward, rolled up the sleeve of its dirty white shirt, and pressed his entire forearm against the length of silver. He didn’t burn but his eyes narrowed, sweeping over Lambert from his hair to his boots. Then he turned his arm and drew it back so that a well of blood rose to the surface. Red. Human red. 

“You want me to cast Yrden? Prove that I’m a witcher too?” 

“Yes.” 

Voltehre’s specialty was never signs but he was better at them than Lambert and the trap that glowed some feet away was dull but passable. It was also unfathomably correct in that the blond had always had a certain flair to his magic. That trap on the side of the road had the same off color that drove the mages to tears trying to find the reason for it. It wasn't something that could be replicated.

“ Fuck .” Lambert laughed, manic and rough. “Fucking- I-” He sheathed the sword and took a step forward, then two steps back. No. No he wasn’t going to run. Not this time.

“Lambert?” The - Voltehre breathed. As though Lambert was the one back from the dead.

He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Yeah, it’s me. Lambert.”

So then two worlds were shattered. 

The side of the road in nowhere-Temeria wasn’t the place to piece together their stories so, while still holding Voltehre - fucking Voltehre - at arms length they set off in search of a safe place to settle down for a few days. It came just up the road in the form of a manor, abandoned after the village was decimated by the new wave of monsters and earthquakes. The noble family of the region had lasted a little longer than their fieldhands but not by much and Lambert had no compunctions about looting the clothes and blankets and whatever jewelry he could find. If he came across any Sc’oiatel he’d have to point them in this direction for supplies- a conjunction was probably the best chance they had to peacefully reclaim territory after all.

“Find a room that we can defend, one that gets a lot of sun so we don’t need the fireplace.” He was practically barking the orders like he was an old master and he couldn’t make himself stop. If he stopped he would have to look at the barely-a-man that was his long lost best friend and he’d fall to damn pieces. To see the judgment in his eyes as they sorted through the possession of the dead like common bandits. “You uh- you want furs or woven blankets? Woven, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

Twenty-seven years. A voice whispered. Twenty-seven years and you still remember his preferences. Pathetic memory chaser than you are. 

He gathered two blankets for Voltehre and set them on the table with the rest of his pilfered supplies. He moved on to the storerooms which held preserves and he took as many as he could, planning to raid it again when they left. Peaches, beans, even watermelon that must have cost a small fortune in this part of the world had been jarred. Little luxuries only afforded to their ilk in the time of greatest sorrow.

He arrived in the west wing bedroom just in time to see Voltehre stumble and catch himself with a soft curse. 

“You alright?” 

“I’ve been jerked through time and have had three weeks to heal from a blow to the knee and head from the trial on top of nearly losing my leg to a kikimore in a swamp -" He sighed, shoulders slumping, "- no, Lambert. I’m not okay.” 

“I- yeah that’s pretty shit.” Maybe they were both in shock. Witchers didn’t really get shock but there was a first time for everything. “Sit down and let me take a look at your leg then. Actually wait, strip. I’m sure I can find you cleaner clothes to change into after I make sure you’re not about to d- uh. Not about to fall over.” 

“It’s kind of nice to know that you didn’t get any taller since the trials.” Voltehre said, almost like he was making a joke to ease the tension. Lambert, unsure whether it was a joke or not, snorted anyway. Just because Voltehre hit a growth spurt at sixteen to rival Geralt didn't make Lambert tiny. 

“Well not everyone can have the genes of an ice giant.” Lambert knelt, worked his gloves off and then, carefully, placed his hands on Voltehre’s clammy skin gently. He probed around the calf, up to his knee and then a little higher. It was swollen and bruised, likely torqued from a fall but it would heal if he could simply rest it for a day or so. It certainly wasn’t enough to waste a potion on. 

“You’ll be okay, just need to rest.” He might even be able to wrangle a wrap for it. “You can take the bed and I’ll make a pallet tonight.” 

Voltehre had a little scar on his knuckle from training, the only time he’d ever been in trouble - in trouble on Lambert’s behalf no less. It caught on Lambert’s skin as he reached out, holding him still by the shoulder where he knelt. The simple touch made his breath catch and his muscles tense. He wasn’t the same man he’d been… he wasn’t Voltehre’s best friend. He was a bitter asshole outrunning fate and somehow surviving when all his friends were dead. A wretch.

“Who hurt you?” Voltehre asked, soft and earnest with his wide eyes and too-young voice. As if they were both still boys, hiding from their instructors and finding some pleasure in the horrors of their days and that there could be a single figure to blame. He always was trying to protect Lambert like he was worth it somehow and Lambert couldn’t handle it. There was love and trust and stupid belief so he sneered. 

“What? You want a list?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

He looked up and swallowed thickly. “It’s been a really bad time. Thirty years of shit and it’s just- I missed you.” The voice in his head that sounded like Aiden whispered praise for his honesty. It was always a little kinder than his own thoughts. "This entire situation is insane and I don't know what's going on half the time."

“I know it’s different now but I’m not and I’d very much like it if we could pretend it wasn’t for a night?” The blond witcher said. “You can tell me all the shit that has happened, the good and the bad and all about whoever you’ve charmed into staying by your side. Just don’t sleep on the floor? Please?” 

Lambert sighed and closed his eyes. He nodded.

 Voltehre tapped his scars gently. “Tell me about these?” 

“Well I didn’t have my best friend to watch my back.” Lambert rose and jerked his chin up at the pillows. “Lay down and I’ll do story time for you, better to get your knee lifted sooner rather than later.” Voltehre wiggled his way into the blankets, six feet of gangly limbs and lightly freckled skin. Once he was settled, Lambert continued. “It was a nest of harpies. I was up in Poviss, climbed the cliffs fine and cut down the first four down in minutes.” He tossed a blanket at the blond and then began to pull his own armor off for the evening. “So I’m thinking it’s done with, throw the proof in my pack with some eggs and start back down. Well I’m hanging in the air and just happen to look up when two more of the damn birds get on me - I’m fighting one handed, high enough that the fall is going to break my damn legs, and one of them gets me in the face with her claws.” He pulled on a pair of stolen pants and bundled himself in his own furs to sit against the ornate headboard. 

“It made a good story that year. Won the stupid competition about who had the best scars. Got a whole bottle of gull out of it.”

“You said earlier that this conjunction… there’s not enough Witchers left to handle it. What did that mean? Is the school-”

“It’s gone, has been for years now. Nothing but dust and rock up there. Geralt’s around, so’s Eskel. Geralt set up in Toussaint a few years ago and I’m sure he’s got the place ready for war. Probably adopted every orphan that glanced his way since this started like the idiot he is. That’s where we’ll be going.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah. Oh.” Don’t ask about the others. Just let it go.

Voltehre fell asleep without more words exchanged between them and Lambert felt almost wrong for watching him when he was so vulnerable but he was really there and a fear was rooting itself in the back of his mind that screamed the moment he looked away Voltehre would be gone again. There were so many little things he had forgotten; how there was a streak of blue in the iris of his left eye that the grasses couldn’t take away, how his hair was a little shorter than he’d conjured in his mind but just as thick, the way that one canine was a little too big for his mouth and how it cemented the overgrown puppy look that he’d somehow come to associate with Eskel rather than the specimen laying on the fine feather bed beside him. He was only twenty.

Lambert had once told Aiden, quietly and as a secret, that he had loved Voltehre. Loved him in all the same ways he loved Aiden but didn’t have the words to tell either of them until it was too late. 

He loved them still. But looking at the young man, with his hand curled loosely atop Lambert's thigh and his breathing even he knew that it wasn't the same, it couldn't be that same. He had loved him as a boy and he had loved truly and deeply but that wound had been torn open and healed over again and again. He wasn't the same, he had lost the softness of youth and the belief that he could do something about it, and it wasn't right or fair but it was true. Love alone did not a good thing make. Whatever happened next would be another willing scar on his heart and he would choose to disappoint the golden spectre of his youth. His first love; alive and well despite the odds and utterly unprepared for the things he was asking to know.

Who hurt you? 

Lambert tucked the blankets higher around the young Witcher’s shoulders. 

He used to think that Filavandrel wasn’t able to stand breathing air for too long since he rarely obeys the rules of human physiology. The truth is much stranger, as the man has both gills and lungs connected to the complex map of capillaries in his chest. Vesemir always treasures their time together, deeply grateful for the close proximity to a creature he would otherwise never get the chance to study.

And that isn’t the only reason he treasures all their moments spent together. When Filavandrel resurfaces, his silky long blond hair soaked dark and sticking to his neck and shoulders, he doesn’t hesitate before sidling into the space between Vesemir’s knees. Vesemir chuckles but tries to reach behind him to hold onto the dock somehow— his tempestuous lover could very easily pull him into the water if he felt like it.

Thankfully Filavandrel doesn’t pull him off the pier, just drawing him close so that he can nuzzle at his neck. Vesemir allows the contact, privately delighted every time the merman makes a show of strength like this. His iridescent, scaly arms don’t tremble as he holds himself up on the dock, nor does his tail thrash about to try to support his own weight. According to Filavandrel he’s one of the smallest mermen in this sea; a thought that drives Vesemir crazy if he thinks about it for too long. Are there really other, bigger mermaids? What would their tails look like— would they gleam the same or would their fins be rough and jagged from battle? Do merfolk get into many battles? Perhaps they’re territorial over coral reefs, or maybe different schools bond together to fight off drowners.

“What are you thinking about,” breathes Filavandrel against his throat, dragging the tip of a fang over the unbroken skin there with the last consonant of ‘about.’ A reminder of his monstrous nature, or perhaps a threat to pay attention.

The man smells like salt and the spray that mists the brow and lip of everyone who’s ever helmed a boat. Vesemir’s cock suddenly pounds with desire in his too-tiny shorts, all his blood rushing south. He regrets nothing. With a teasing edge to his voice, he muses, “Other mermen.”

Filavandrel growls, low and guttural and inhuman, before raising one hand to do something very stupid and funny and very, very human. Just as Vesemir instinctively moves to hold the merman up by his waist so he doesn’t slide back into the water, Filavandrel reaches forward and twists his nipple. Judging by the shock on his face when Vesemir winces and swears, he hadn’t actually known the effect that would have on the witcher.

“I’m sorry,” Filavandrel quickly offers, but Vesemir shakes his head, groaning as the pinched place begins to smart. After a moment the sensation fades and he breathes easier, fixing his lover with a stern glare. Filavandrel still looks apologetic, but there’s a new, curious light in his eyes too. He had looked just like this when they’d first figured out how exactly a witcher and merman could fuck, and the memory sends another jolt of desire along Vesemir’s length. He adjusts his position as best he can without letting go of the merman’s bare waist. Filavandrel continues, haltingly, “Are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Vesemir assures him. “They can take a beating.”

And that was entirely the wrong thing to say— or the right one, depending on how you see it— as Filavandrel pouts thoughtfully, drawing his lip to one side. The expression reveals his sharp fangs again, and despite himself, Vesemir shudders. The merman reaches to touch his chest again, this time prodding more gently at the little bud and then tracing circles around his areola. When he rolls a nipple between his fingers Vesemir’s breath hitches, and it makes Filavandrel glance up into his eyes sharply. But instead of pausing his ministrations, Filavandrel just raises his other hand so that he can toy with both of Vesemir’s nipples as he speaks. “Funny. We don’t have these.”

Vesemir had noticed that, although he hadn’t been sure if there was a biological reason or if merfolk simply lacked nipples because their offspring weren’t mammals. He had nonsensically daydreamt once of rubbing Filavandrel’s chest until his nipples made an appearance the same way his genitals do, but he should have guessed that would be out of the question in reality. He hums, enjoying the dull pressure building up as Filavandrel experimentally touches him. “I guess that’s because they wouldn’t serve any function.”

But instead of agreeing or correcting him, Filavandrel frowns. “What are they used for?”

“Oh.” Vesemir hesitates. “Well, it’s how mother mammals nurse their young. The babies latch on and feed from them— but don’t get any funny ideas, I’m not lactating and you can’t make me!” He’s fairly certain that if anyone could magically get him to lactate, it would be this eight foot long magical fishperson. But he also has no desire to find out, so he quickly adds, “They’re sensitive, too. That’s why I like wearing soft shirts under my armour.”

Filavandrel stares right at his nipple as he twists the bud between his fingertips. His clawed hands paired with his sharp, intent gaze should be setting off all kinds of warning bells inside Vesemir’s head. Instead, he thinks he might come inside his shorts— especially when Filavandrel ducks down to experimentally lick Vesemir’s nipple, tongue darting out to taste the bud before swirling over the entire areola.

Trying hard to keep his breathing steady, Vesemir tilts his head back and stares up at the sky, where seagulls swoop far above them in the clouds. It helps for about two seconds, then Filavandrel’s lips close around his nipple and he remembers teeth, teeth, very sharp teeth, and he lets go of his lover’s hips, dropping him unceremoniously back into the water.

Filavandrel laughs the whole way down, and when he bobs back up he’s still got a big fiendish grin on his face. “You were close, weren’t you,” he accuses, thrilled. “Have you ever had an orgasm just from someone touching your chest?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Vesemir admits, folding his legs shut instead of succumbing the way he wants to. “I… I’d feel greedy! I don’t want to take advantage of your curiosity.”

Filavandrel honest-to-Gods scoffs at that, shooting Vesemir a look that makes it clear he’s not buying the bullshit. “Don’t start having proper manners now, human,” he hisses, flashing those fangs again. Vesemir shivers, but it isn’t a bad sort of fear… although he does think that his old master Deglan must be turning in his grave somewhere as Vesemir prepares to surrender his second most vulnerable part to a monster.

Except Filavandrel isn’t a monster, not really— if he wanted to drown or eat Vesemir he would have done so by now. The merman notices how the witcher has been nervously watching his fangs and he smiles, baring them fully. Vesemir gulps as Filavandrel says, “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“And you told me you weren’t a siren,” Vesemir huffs. He only lasts a few seconds more before relenting, spreading his legs again and preparing to ruin his shorts. That’s alright, there are dozens of good craftsmen across the Continent. How many chances like this is he going to get? “Okay. You may continue your exploration.”

Dry as ever but with a wide, pleased smirk on his face, Filavandrel mutters, “I’ll have to start a bestiary on you soon.” Before Vesemir can think of any quick remark to combat that, the merman climbs up onto the pier beside him, his tail glistening as it slides through the water, sending a shower of spray at the witcher’s feet. Vesemir hardly has time to laugh before Filavandrel is pressing him back against the hard, cold wood of the pier and descending upon his chest, taking his nipple back into his mouth.