#uncle coen

"Mother of fuck." Lambert grunts as he helps Ciri lift off her shirt to reveal her wound. "How are you not dead, brat? That's one he'll of a cut for just being on the grounds." He frets, leaning over with his cloth soaked with water and iodine.

"Lambert." Eskel hisses as he unwraps Ciri's torn hand wraps. "For fucks sake."

"What? That's an impressive slice even for the pendulum." He raises his eyebrows. "Hardly my fuckin' fault if the thing broke and sliced her up."

"It is when you're the one who goaded her onto the thing in the first place, knobhead." Coën interjects, coming over with a basin of hot water, setting it on the table. "You alright, girl?"

"Stings." Ciri hisses when Lambert continues to clean her large wound. "And my hands, they hurt."

"They're not broken, pup." Eskel tries to soothe, although the deep cuts she had gotten from the scattered wood when the machine had broken do surprise him. It seems the leather wrappings did fuck all to protect her small hands from the jagged wood, he can count almost two dozen small slices ranging in size. "You're just cut up, we'll wash them up and get some bandages on." He says, leaning her arms over to place them in the bucket of hot water. Ciri hisses at the contact, but does little more.

"You're alright, girl." Coën comes over to the other side, looking at her wound from the back. "It'll need to be stitched up, but that's it. You haven't injured your insides or anything, no bruised blood." He tries to comfort her as best he can as Lambert pours pure iodine to disinfect the wound. Ciri tenses, crying out.

"Shh." Eskel pets her hair, still holding her hands in the water by her wrists. "You're okay, pup."

"Hurts." she choked. "Where's Geralt?"

"Fucker is still traipsing around the woods with Vesemir, there's a coupl'a griffins that're probably gonna nest. Best get them out of the way before the keep gets covered in snow." Lambert explains. "Should be back after supper. And he can bust all of our balls when he sees the state of you." He adds bitterly. "Wolf gets predatorial of his pup, you know?"

"More protective of her than you with the last of the gull." Coën smirks at his brother in arms. Lambert flips him off, before getting back to work.

"He might leave us with a ball each after he sees no infection. Hopefully." Lambert cringes.

Ciri chuckles at his face. "He'll be too busy frettering like a mother hen for the first hour or two. Brew him some drink to soften the blows, you witchers can drink yourself into a stupor with it, he'llbe too drunk to remember, and the cycle'll continue."

Coën laughs. "The pup is wise, lambchop."

"When your papa wolf gives us the okay, you'll be on the list to ply with drink whenever we piss you off by way of apology, you know that, witcher girl?"

"Good luck getting that past him, you'll kill him with alcohol poisoning, if that's possible with you witchers, before he lets that happen."

Let it be known that Geralt and his brothers are, all in all, good men. Yeah, they can be dicks -like that time Eskel and Geralt had dressed up as Wyverns and leaped upon their brother while he slept, or that time Lambert had spiked a bottle of white gull with a certain medicinal herb that made the thief more than obvious- but they are good men. Stupid, granted -Geralt had thrown Lambert off a snowdrift when they were training, while Eskel had tried to balance the wall after drinking two entire tankards of brandy- but they are good men.

Geralt had tried to make it clear on the trip up to Kaer Morhen with his new ward. All in all, she seemed to believe him, until Lambert had started hissing at her, about the way the pretty little princess did her pretty little hair and wore her pretty little dress and stuck her pinky up when she drank water. Ciri had thrown a horse shoe at him, and all deemed to have been well after that. Lambert was less of a knob, Eskel tried his best to push past his pain of yet another blonde daughter of Kaer Morhen running around the hallways, Coen was thrilled to have another lover of the arts amongst the cranky wolves, and Vesemir slipped into the old master role with ease.

Things had been going well -albeit with Cirilla's still wild powers popping up at the most inconvenient of times- with his girl eager to learn anything they would teach her. Swordplay, hand to hand combat, star throwing, sword making and even the mundane things like hunting, skinning, cooking, harvesting and laundry she took to with eagerness. It had probably been those weeks of confusion and helplessness that spurned her onwards in all things they taught her, eager never to be how she had been ever again.

And it was because of her determination and her willingness to get down and scrap with the witchers, sampling the alcohol they had let her have and twirling a cheese knife when she was taught how, with her messily tied braid and dusty cheeks as Lambert taught her all the fun curse words Eist hadnt gotten around to yet as he went theiught he basics of bombs, that they almost forgot the most obvious thing of all.

Ciri was a girl.

And that was why it was so startling to Geralt when Lambert had started snipping at the girl because of her washed hair and face -was it about that? Geralt hadn't been paying attention, he was so shocked at her reaction that the context didn't seem important anymore- that ciri simply dropped her spoon into her bowl of porridge, and promptly burst into tears.

All of the witchers took a deep breath, rearing back as if the girl would suddenly leap out and strike. She didn't do that, simply sat there on the bench and cried into her hands.

Geralt reaches over to her, having stayed close when her scent had changed a couple days ago. He didn't know why, and with all the Kings and Mages hunting the girl, any changes was concerning. That and the sudden metallic scent of blood he had noted when the girl had walked into the room that morning, he was very unnerved by this reaction.

Not knowing what else to do, and with his mind spinning as he tried to come up with a reason of why his girl was acting so differently, the witcher reaches out and brings her into his arms. She goes willingly, clinging to him as she continues to cry.

"I-I-I- uh-" Lamb stutters, looking at his brother, eyes wide. He's befuddled, and obviously concerned that his brother will be the one to leap at him and pummel him.

Geralt cuddles his girl as best he can, shushing her, and taking in the scent once more. It's different than her usual honey and lemon and rose petals, more salty and bitter, as well as the metallic scent of blood.

Changes of scent, blood, crankiness- oh.

"Ah." The penny finally drops, running his hands over her back as she sniffles. "I get it now."

And it seems that his brothers and father attain the same knowledge at the same time. They relax and tense in the same moment, obviously unsure of what to say.

"Get what? I disnt-" Lmabert speaks fast.

"Can you not smell the blood?" Eskel huffs quietly, cuffing his brother. "She's a girl. They bleed."

"What? I-oh. Oh. Yeah, I get it. Fuck. I-fuck." Lambert rambles. "Umm, I'm very sorry, Ciri. Didn't mean to upset ya." He drawls awkwardly, fiddling with his blackened fingers.

She finally starts to compose herself, but doesn't seem willing to let go of Geralt just yet.

"Shit-uh-" Vesemir mutters. "Girl, if you don't feel up to training or lessons, you can have a few days away from it. Don't want to pressure you." He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "And, if you want to head back to bed, that's fine too. Or train as normal, whatever works for you."

Ciri sniffles, and stops crying, but doesn't let go of the white haired witcher, nor look at his kin.

"Uh, you want a tonic? For the pain? I'm sure we can find something that'll work to take the discomfort. Does it hurt, lovers have mentioned that it does." Vesemir starts to ramble.

Geralt, Eskel and Lambert grunt in disgust. Eskel groans in agony, while Lambert gags.

"Melitele's tits, old man. Last thing any of us want to picture is you sticking your dick in a woman."

Geralt gags at that, and Ciri manages a giggle.

Coën shares a grin with the old wolf, both of them knowing why he had added the last part.

"In all seriousness, you need anything, girl? We could rip up some of the old bedsheets for cloth, figure out what tonic would make ya feel better. Can look in some of the old textbooks for that tea recipe the matrons used to swear by." Coën says, looking at the girl as she finally pulls from Geralt a little. He slings an arm around her shoulders as she burrows in.

"Yes, thank you." She whispers, wiping her blotchy face.

"Come on-" Geralt pulls at her wrists as he stands. "let's get you laying down, that'll make you feel better? Can get a waterskin, fill that up with some hot water, does that help."

"It-it does." She nods, standing up. She looks at the other witchers. "Thanks, for being nice, I guess. I know it's not something you deal with usually."

"Nonsence, girl. Get restin', feelin' better. You're no use to us all teary and bloody." Lambert smirks, sincerely hoping the girl wouldn't cry again.

And by the way she huffs and flips him off, he's amused and jovial once again.

"Where's the little one?" Eskel asked Geralt in passing, licking his lips to get the last of the flowery oil Jaskier had insisted on piling them all with to defend against the winter cold, as he watches the younger witcher sharpen the blades of the armory.

"On the lake with Lamb." Geralt murmurs, the deep of his voice being felt more than heard. "He bet her ten pieces of that salty cheese she likes that he could stay on the ice longer than she could on skates. Needles to say, he's lost out on cheese and dignity." He rumbles, a smirk on his face when they both hear another bark of pain as thr youngest of the three takes another tumble on his ass.

The two make their way to the window, and sure enough, Lambert spins on the ice on his back, hands outstretched but gaining no grip as the girl stands atop him, laughing in merriment as she literally skates circles around him.

"You little shit, wait til I-" but Lamberts voice falls through as he slips again. Ciri laughs once more, and the brothers chuckle.

"Beaten by a girl, eh, Lambs?" Coën comes into view, holding two large mugs in each hand.

"Fuck off, you-" he spits at the frost spray lining his mouth, and cringes as he finally bumbles to his feet, snatching the hot coffee from the Griffin as Ciri's spins stop and she settles next to him.

"Another wager?" She grins at him. Lambert swipes at her.

"Come here." Geralt rumbles to the girl as she and Coën stumble through the doorway. She looks up at him from her place by the window, setting down the large basket of winter cod and carp that she and Coën had spent the day catching. The Griffin lays the boar that had attacked on the floor, its limp body bloody from the witchers blade. But the kerfuffle had left them both wet and haggered from their ordeal.

The witcher stares at her with large, golden eyes, unblinking as he watches her from the high backed chair he's settled in in front of the fire. She blinks at him, but all he does is raise his chin. She sets down the fishing equipment and her blades on the table, having already removed her cloak, and walks over towards him.

She stops in front of her father of surprise, but he just huffs and picks her up straight out of the air. She makes a sound of surprise as she levitates, and is turned to the side as he settles her on his lap, wrapping her up in the fur that lays across his shoulders and drapes down his back.

"Oh, okay." Ciri whispers, happily pressing her face into the warmth of Geralt's neck, wrapping her arms around the witcher as she's suddenly surrounded by his warmth and scent as he holds her as one holds a baby.

"You're cold." He rumbles. "Destiny, and Vesemir, will tan my arse if I let you freeze." He mutters, running his nose along her hairline to inhale the scent of her lingering adrenaline, the sweat and the discomfort from the cold. She's not hurt, there's no blood or fear, and she is whole, safe in his arms once more.

"Is it a witcher thing, being warm?" She questions, curiously. He nods.

"Something 'bout the mutagens, probably. It's to help us with the cold nights and monster fights."

She nods.

"You're very comfy. Like a big teddy bear." she uselessly informs, curling her legs underneath the blanket and resting deeply in his arms.

"You're ruining my reputation, calling me stuff like that."

"You're the one holding her like a baby, wolf." Coën grins as he walks past them, holding the fish basket in his arms as Marek and Jósef walk with thr bloody boar in their hands. Geralt growls at him, a harmless thing. His brother laughs at him, looking at the kid poking her red cheeks out to observe. "You did well today, squirt."

Oh, fucking hells, Geralt was going to kill him.

Growing up as young witchers in training, that hadn't been such an uncommon thoughts for the red headed arsehole of Kaer Morhen. Lambert had thought it when he had accidentally used the wrong lotion on Roach's mane when they were cleaning the horses, and had accidentally bleached it almost as bright as Geralt's own mop, or the time that he had knocked his silver sword into the blacksmithy kilm on the Eastern smallhouse, or most notably, when he had started taking swipes at his brother sue to the latest failed romance with his violet eyed sorceress the year before Cintra fell

This, though, this was a new level of fucked.

The day had started as normal as any other, wake up, run a flannel down his face -fucking Vesemir and the new rule of a clean face before he'd get any porridge, he knows the old man is trying to change them all for the benefit of the little Princess- before putting on whatever clothes he hadn't worn to sleep, guzzle down some oats that had cooked overnight, before take the bratty Princess out for a run.

And that run had led to a few hours on the training grounds. Which had led to this

"Ouch, ouch, fuck, it's really hurting, I can't move it." the blonde was on the floor, her bloody lip dripping blood down her chin forgotten as she clutches at her right ankle.

Fuck, it really is swollen, even a regular human could see it.

He looks up at the beam, glaring at the snapped plank of wood that had given way when the girl had stepped on it. That distraction had led to her standing just long enough to get pelted with the rock sack Lambert had been pushing at her, which is how she was bloody and on the ground.

He's hurt Geralt's girl. Fuck. Geralt is going to rip his balls off.

"Shit, I-" he licks his lips. He needs a drink to prepare for the imminent beating whenever Coën finds his older brother and Vesemir. How can a trip down the mountain to take care of two forktails take this long? "Your arm okay, girl? Your head?"

"If they hurt, it's not as bad as this." She gestures to her ankle that is definitely not facing the right direction. "Lamb, it really hurts." Tears fill her eyes, adrenaline no doubt starting to wain. Fuck it all, he doesn't know what to do.

"I'm gonna have to cut it off, your boot. No way I can take it off with how swollen it is." Is it three times as big as her other leg? Maybe four? Lambert brandished a dagger, and began slicing away at the worn leather.

"So long as you find me another shoe afterwards." she huffs, before yelping as he takes hold of her shin. "Ow, fuck, it hurt. Ow!" she cried as the blade gets closer and closer to the injured area.

"Quiet, brat, do you want us to be attacked by something that can smell your blood and hear your voice?" He snaps. He doesn't mean to be a dick, it's just second nature to snip when stressed. He's not the coddling type.

"What fucking monster would go within miles of a witcher keep? Isn't that the point of all of you, to kill the things?" she snaps back.

"We're curse breakers too." he mutters, finishing cutting the sole so her ankle was revealed. "Ah, fuck." He hisses. It's a fucking bad break. Her ankle looks like an albino grapefruit that's been thrown from the very top of the Loire valley. All pale skin that's bruising at a rapid rate, blacks, purples and blues quickly replacing the porcelain skin that covers her shin.

"Fix-fix it!" Ciri cries out, sniffling, wiping her eyes.

"I can't, your ankle is pretty much dust, you need a hard wrap." He huffs indigenously. Fuck, he's hurt his brother's girl. Geralt's doing to cut his balls off and shove them down his throat. It was bad enough the punch he'd given him when Ciri got upset at a comment he'd made about Calanthe. His jaw still aches, and it's been three damn weeks.

"Do it then!"

"Do you think we're in an infirmary, Princess? We're outside!"

"Then get us inside!" she yells back. The ground beneath them shudders with that raw, ancient power the girl possesses.

"Shut your mouth, do you want any more equipment to break?" He growls.

"It's not my fault the thing snapped, how old is it?!"

He growls lowly, before looking around again.

"Your old man doesn't seen to be on his way, I've gotta get you back myself."

"Really? What a surprise!" Ciri rolled her eyes. "Hurry up!"

Lambert growls again, before he reaches over to the Princess and begins to erap her in his arms. She hisses as her ankle is jolted, grunting when he finally gets her off the cold, wet snow floor.

"Ciri!"

They both jump at the booming roar, looking over at the pathway, seeing the white haired witcher high tailing it up the pathway at remarkable speed, given the steepness and slippiness of it all.

"Fucking hell!" Lamb hisses, having nearly dropped the girl. Wouldn't that look good for him?

"Geralt!" Ciri yelps as she's narrowly catched by the younger witcher, clinging to him as he practically snatches her from his brothers grap.

"What the fuck happened? You weren't even supposed to be here today." He growls, sniffling all around her, seemingly smelling out the parts of her that most smelled like pain.

"My fault." Lamb grumbles. "Goaded her into the pendulum after she ran herself out on the killer," he mumbled. "was an accident."

Geralt stares at him for a moment, long enough to make Lambert squirm, before he looks back to his pup in his arms.

"We'll talk later." He rumbles. "Get Ves and Esk, get them to prepare a room for her. It's a bad break."

Ciri whines at that, but she doesn't get a chance to look at Lambert or Coën, nor at the flowers sprouting on the ground, before her father of surprise turns on his heel and makes down the pathway back to the main fortress. He's careful not to jostle her too much, and it does feel nice to be carried, she supposes.

Lambert cringes at the sight of the broken wood and the broken shoe laying in the bloody snow.

"I'm getting blind drunk when we get back." He huffs, picking up the ruined leather. "The punches won't hurt as much when I'm pissed."

Coën chuckles at him. "Maybe he won't be mad?"

"Or maybe he'll pummel me so much that I look like a godling."

Coën laughs. "Only one way to find out, dick. Come on."