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I

He hears the screaming before he enters his home. Even from their front lawn, he can hear the anger. The words slur, mixing together and combining until some don't make sense, and others form barbed insults. All of them are laced with displaced rage. It's the type of yelling that makes his whole body shake, the kind that makes him want to turn on his heels and run. He won't, though. Can't. His mother is still in there, inside the house, cornered by the monster.

He pushes open the door quietly, despite every fiber of his being yelling at him to slam it open, take the monster by surprise, scream back, and fight tooth and nail. He creeps in, taking note of the overturned furniture and wet stains on the wall from a thrown drink. His heart sinks at the sight of a shattered knickknack by the dining table. It's a glass carving of a sparrow. Or...at least it used to be. He'd bought it for his mother, the first thing he could ever afford after months of helping neighbors. Of course it's what the monster decided to break. It had always been jealous of the attention his mother gave him.

Two voices echo from the kitchen, obscured by a wall. He creeps his way forward. He can't let the monster hear him, not yet. He can hear the voice he heard from outside, but there's another one now. This voice teeters on the edge of a sob, quivering and breaking through unshed tears.

"Please," the woman begs. "Please, stop-"

The monster roars in anger, and the shattering of glass cuts off the woman's pleas. She yelps, a frightened sound that he never wants to hear again.

Mama, he thinks, heart pounding in his chest. He doesn't plan ahead, only acts. His legs carry him into the kitchen as fast as they can take him. It takes less than two long strides to put him in front of his cowering mother and the monster.

His mother. His poor mother...

Such a beautiful woman, but dealt such a shitty hand. Her dress, soiled with alcohol and torn by rough hands, bunches up around her knees as she tucks her legs in. She tries to scooch away from the shattered glass, but there isn't a place free of it. Her soft, porcelain hands are cut to hell, and her young face is stained with tears, haunted by the sight of the monster she married. Her hair looks chaotic, and his own rage simmers in his chest at the thought of her being dragged.

The rage disappears, though, and settles into naught but fear as he looks up at the monster he's facing.

The monster isn't much taller than him. Once upon a time, it would have towered over him, but the Trials stretched his height further than he should have grown, leaving him at just below the monster's chin, where he might have only gone to its breastbone. In another life, maybe he could have fit perfectly in the monster's arms, tucked safely and enveloped in a loving warmth, despite his mutated height. But they're not in another life, and the monster only looks angrier.

"Lamb," his mother pleads from behind him. He can't bear to look at her distraught face. It might break him. "Please, sweetheart. Don't do this. Run."

Lambert shakes his head and ignores the tremors in his hands. He stares up at the monster, taking in the scowl pulling at its lips, the bulk of muscle rivaling that of a giant, the glowing amber eyes, the long scars dragging down the right side of its face. A monster, and nothing more.

"Leave her alone," Lambert demands, but his voice wavers just as much as his mother's did. He's no hero. He's barely even a witcher. 

"Are you gonna make me?" the monster taunts, the scowl growing into a smirk. It knows Lambert can't fight back. It knows he doesn't stand a chance against it. Everything about the monster is stronger than Lambert: the sword-fighting techniques, the Signs, its resolve. It will always be faster, always be stronger, always be better.

Lambert doesn't answer it, not in the way it wants him to. Instead, he yells, "Leave her alone! Leave us alone!" He reaches for his silver sword, but he can't feel the weight on his back. He freezes. Why doesn't he have his sword? How does he kill a monster without silver?

He feels a shaking hand grasp the back of his shirt. Where was his armor? Against all of his thoughts telling him not to, he turns his head back to his mother. Her watery eyes and quivering lip cuts deep. "Lambert, don't! He loves us! He loves you!"

"Loves us?" Lambert repeats incredulously. He faces the monster again, who has its mouth pulling back into a snarl, scars tugging grotesquely at its face. "How can a monster ever love anything?"

The monster descends on him faster than Lambert can blink, one large hand wrapping around his throat and dragging him away from his mother. He can hear her screaming and pleading from her spot on the floor, but his focus cannot remain on her, not when the monster is pinning him to the ground. The hand tightens as the monster clambers over him. Lambert is finally surrounded by its bulk, but not in the way he always wished he could be.

"Wanna say that again?" it growls, amber eyes flashing in the candlelight of the kitchen lantern. It's like a fire in his eyes, a fire that could have been warming if it had been made to protect Lambert rather than harm. Again, maybe in another life...

"You're a monster," Lambert gasps out, the edges of his vision darkening as his lungs cry for air. He beats weakly at the monster's chest, but it doesn't even budge.

Instead, it laughs, a low and rumbling sound that makes Lambert's fear surge. The grin pulls at the opening of its lip, where the scars break through and expose the chipped fang. "If I'm a monster," it muses, "then what does that make you?"

Lambert's vision goes black, and the last thing he hears is screaming.

It's him. He's screaming.

He shoots up in bed, one hand flying to his mouth and the other to his throat. Phantom touches linger at his neck, the tightening grasp of a hand so familiar to him. He feels sick.

Breaths come short and fast. He's panicking. He knows this. It doesn't stop the nausea welling up in his stomach or the trembling despite his sweating. There are footsteps out in the hall, but it's too hard to concentrate when the world around him is spinning. He releases his throat and uncovers his mouth, dragging his shaking fingers through his hair and pulling his legs to his chest. He tucks his head down and hides his face in his knees.

His door swings open.

A soft voice calls out to him. "Lamb?" 

Lambert's breath hitches again. The softness of it, the gentleness and love in those words...it reminds him so much of his mother, how caring she was. The tone, though, and the sound of it...it reminds him so much of the monster that beat him.

The door clicks shut and footsteps draw closer. "Pup, are you with me?"

Yes. Yes, he is. He can hear it him. He knows that voice, he does, so why does his mind insist on being so afraid?

The bed dips down on his left, and it takes all of Lambert's willpower to not flinch away. "Stick with me, Lamb, okay? Can you talk?"

"Y-Yeah," Lambert whispers, words hindered by the shortness of breath in his lungs. 

"Good. Can you name me five things you can see?"

Lambert doesn't dare to lift his head from where he's buried them in his knees. He's too afraid of what might be there, of who might be there. He shakes his head. He can't look. He won't.

"Okay. That's fine. We'll skip that one. Four things you can hear?"

Lambert does his best to tune into his surroundings. It's difficult to hear over the sounds of his own ragged breathing, but he can just barely pick out soft noises scattered about. "Y-Your heartbeat. Uh...I...Ves snoring?"

There's a soft laugh next to him, and the low, rumbling sound quells an ache in Lambert's chest. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. Keep going."

"I-I think...a bird? Snow bunting?"

"Mm-hmm. They're probably at the bird feeder Ves set up. One more, pup."

Lambert listens harder, noting absentmindedly that his breathing is already starting to slow. "A-A candle? The flame?"

"I lit one on my way over here. Hope you don't mind."

Lambert doesn't lift his head, keeps his gaze locked in the darkness he creates from his curled posture, but he can imagine the shy grin gracing the kindest face he knows. Tears prick at his eyes. How could he have ever thought-?

"Alright. Three things you can smell."

Lambert doesn't want to continue. His breathing hasn't settled enough, and his hands haven't quite stopped shaking, but he can't hear that voice without guilt wracking his heart. "The smoke from the candle," he answers quietly. "The snow from outside. The new cedarwood soap Jask gave you."

There's a proud hum from beside him, and Lambert wants to disappear. "That was faster than the last one. Two things you can feel?"

Lambert's hands are forced to move away from the death-grip in his hair. "My covers," he says, feeling the soft blankets beneath him. "And my clothes."

"I'll take it. One thing you can taste."

Lambert's tongue instinctively darts out a bit. He's immediately greeted with a less than pleasant taste. "Salt," he replies. Then, "Tears."

A quiet, sad huff echoes beside him. "Oh, pup..."

Lambert picks his head up and stares straight ahead of him. He can see the door through vision blurred by tears. He can see someone in his peripheral sight. His breathing has slowed, but his hands still shake, and the guilt has not gone away. He slowly turns his head, unsure of what he'll feel when he sees who's next to him.

Lambert's eyes land on the scars first, the ones tracing down the right side of his face. He remembers the way those marks disfigured that horrid scowl. Now, it only frames a gentle and worried frown. Those amber eyes are still ablaze, but devoid of hatred and full of love. There's warmth radiating from that hulking structure, and Lambert notices distinctly that he can fit into that shape perfectly. This is that other life. He feels a new set of tears well up in his eyes. How could he ever see this man as a monster?

Before he can stop himself, Lambert launches himself forward, burying his face into the crook of Eskel's neck and arms flinging around Eskel's waist. Strong arms immediately wrap back around him, cradling him close. Eskel rests his chin on top of Lambert's head, and they fit together as perfectly as Lambert had hoped.

"I got you, pup," Eskel soothes, voice low and calming. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," Lambert sobs, fresh tears plaguing him as he heaves sharp breaths against his brother. "I'm so sorry."

"There's nothing to apologize for."

"Yes, there is," Lambert insists, tightening his grip around Eskel. "I thought...Oh, Gods, I thought-"

"You dreamt. It was all a nightmare, Lamb. None of it was real."

Lambert shook his head vehemently. Eskel doesn't understand. How can he not understand? "No! No, I...I called you a...you were a monster." He feels Eskel freeze against him, but the words are pouring out of him now, and he can't seem to stop the flood. "You aren't him. You're nothing like him."

"Gods, I would hope not," Eskel murmurs, sounding a bit strangled himself. "I love you too fucking much to hurt you like that."

That sentiment alone could have made Lambert cry had he not been already. "I know. I know that. How could I ever think-"

"Like I said before, Lamb. It was a nightmare. They don't have to make sense."

Lambert pulls away, making eye contact with Eskel's concerned gaze. It's hard to see through the tears, but he can see at least that much. "I'm sorry."

Eskel gives him a small smile before pushing him down gently on the bed. "Lay down, pup." He stands, starting to move away, but Lambert's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

"Where are you going?" Lambert asks, scared, worried that he might have angered Eskel. Did he say something wrong? He knew he shouldn't have said that nightmare out loud. How can he be so stupid-?

"I'm just gonna go blow out the candle," Eskel assures, leaning down and placing a quick kiss on Lambert's forehead. "I'll be right back."

Lambert releases him and, true to his word, Eskel is gone for only a few seconds before he's climbing back onto the bed with Lambert. He pulls the blanket over them. Lambert wastes no time attaching himself to Eskel's side. His brother laughs, a warm and happy sound that Lambert basks in. Eskel shifts to lay on his side, throwing an arm around Lambert and resting his chin atop of Lambert's head once more. 

"Go to sleep, pup. I have you, I promise."

Lambert knows he does, but there's a new stiffness to Eskel's body that Lambert takes note of to approach Eskel about later. Until then, he drifts off to sleep, no longer mourning a life he once had, but embracing the one he has now.

II

Fire burns everywhere. Villagers are screaming. People are wounded. Children are dying. He thinks he should be helping them, knows he should be helping, but he can't. There's someone out there, someone important. He needs to find her. He needs to get to her first. She needs him the most. 

He darts in and out of alleyways, regrettably pushing away weeping mothers as they beg him to save their child. If his voice could work, if he trusted himself to speak without breaking, he would tell them,

"I'm sorry, but I have to find my own first."

Cirilla is out there, somewhere, lost in the chaos and hellfire. She's young, too young. She has a power she doesn't yet know how to control. She's lost and probably scared. He needs to get to her. He can't bear losing his only child.

"Ciri!" he yells, hoping she catches her name amongst the hundreds of others being called. He doesn't give a damn that they're in public, doesn't care about the name "Fiona." He doesn't have to fear Nilfgaard coming. They're already here.

He shouts for her again, letting his hearing guide him. His ears are assaulted by the cacophony around him. He hears sorrowful weeping, pained breaths, and pleas for mercy. His heart shatters in his chest. He should be helping the guards, helping dispatch the incoming army, helping aid the injured. But Ciri is still lost out there. He must find her.

Soft sobs are coming from an open field just outside the town's burning borders. He's keen to ignore it - why would Ciri be out there when she had been by his side at the tavern only minutes ago? - but a pull in his chest he has long since learned to never ignore tells him to go that way. Dread fills the pit of his stomach, steadily rising until it's constricting his lungs. He wants to blame smoke inhalation, but he knows it's more than that.

"Ciri!" he calls again. This time, he's greeted with weak coughing and a faint,

"Papa?"

Fuck, if that didn't make him sprint faster.

"Cirilla!" He bursts into the open field, and his heart sinks at what he sees.

The skies, dark and red from the smoke and flames, cast a bloody shadow over a small, frail body in the blackened grass. Her white-blond hair, strands that once shined in the sunlight, is stained red, nearly a pink hue. Her skin is darkened from the soot and ash, just like the grass around her. What scares him the most is the pair of arrows sticking out from her chest.

She should be dead by now. This, Geralt knows, and he hates that he thinks it. He should be grateful that his baby girl is still breathing, but it only angers him. He can't stand false hope.

His voice finally cracks, nothing more than a broken, "Ciri..." 

He staggers toward her, legs unsteady. He drops to his knees roughly, uncaring of the pain lacing up his thighs. His hand drops the tight grip it had on his sword in favor of using both to cradle Ciri's head into his lap.

"Oh, cub," he whispers, trailing a shaking hand through her bloodied hair.

Those brilliantly green eyes slowly open, tears making them the only shining object for miles. Emeralds in an abandoned coal mine. "Papa?"

"I'm here, cub," he soothes, "I'm here."

"Why didn't you save me?" 

His heart stops at the words. He stares down into those innocent, emerald-green eyes and sees nothing but hurt and anger staring back at him. He lifts his hands away from her hair like he's been burned.

"W-What?"

"Why didn't you help me, Papa? You said you would protect me." Ciri's eyes flicker closed for a moment before glaring back at him with renewed hatred. "Why weren't you here when I needed you?"

Geralt swallows thickly, a lump in his throat threatening to choke him as much as the smoke curling around them is. "I...I'm sorry."

Ciri begins to drift to sleep, and Geralt has an ill feeling that this may be the last time he sees her eyes, the same ones that used to gaze upon him with awe and love. "With a father like you, maybe Eskel's Child Surprise did a live a better life than mine after all." Then, her heart stops.

Geralt's eyes snap open, fists clenching into his bedsheets as he breathes in sharp and uneven gasps. His heart thumps rapidly against his chest, sweat beading at his forehead. He raises a hand, wracked with leftover shudders from holding Ciri's-

He pushes the nightmare from his mind and wipes the sweat from his brow. He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath, but Ciri's words ring through his mind. What the fuck did she mean by that? What did she mean? Ciri doesn't even know about Eskel, much less Deidre. She isn't even at Kaer Morhen. She's safe in Cintra, wintering with her grandmother, the Lioness. Why did he dream about her? What did she mean?

His breathing and shaking only worsen. He can't move, untrusting of his ability to hold himself up. He's sure the smell of his room is souring with the scent of his fear and anxiety, but he is alone and he is confused and how could he ever think that about Eskel-?

His door creaks open. Geralt's eyes snap to his visitor, holding in a breath he truly couldn't afford to waste. Eskel's head pops in, a worried frown on his face. When he sees Geralt awake, the frown grows larger, and he steps into the room fully. He closes the door behind him and leans against it. 

"Hey," he calls softly, furrowing his eyebrows, "what's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Geralt's throat tightens, and his eyes start to burn. He can feel them start to water, but he pays no mind. "Esk," he whispers, voice just as broken as it was when he called out for Ciri.

At that, Eskel jerks forward, making his way to Geralt's bedside. Geralt instinctively makes enough room for Eskel to sit, only to cling to him as soon as Eskel hits the bed. Eskel lets out a quiet, "Oof," as Geralt's body collides with his. Geralt presses his face into Eskel's shoulder, fists clenching tightly into his brother's nightshirt.

"Oh, okay," Eskel breathes, bringing his hands up to rub between Geralt's shoulder blades. "Bad one, then?"

"I love you, Esk," Geralt says adamantly, trying to swallow down the way his voice threatens to break with fresh tears. "Fuck, I love you."

He can sense Eskel's surprise, and it just makes him want to hold Eskel tighter, so he does. Eskel hums. "I know," he murmurs gently, and Geralt hopes to every god above that he does. Tears start to spill past closed eyelids, soaking Eskel's shirt.

"I know," Eskel repeats, a bit of frantic urge to his concerned tone now. "It's okay, brother."

"No," Geralt cries. "You don't get it. I love you so much. You're my older brother, and I love you. I'm so proud of you."

A shocked breath leaves Eskel's chest. One of his hands moves up from Geralt's back and settles to scratch lightly as Geralt's scalp. "Geralt...I know that. Are you okay?"

"I didn't know it," Geralt confesses, cries turning more into sobs than anything else. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tries to burrow into Eskel's shoulder further. "Why didn't I know it? I'm not disappointed in you. Why did I think it?"

A soft sigh betrays the way Eskel tenses beneath Geralt's grip, but before Geralt can mention it, Eskel's speaking again. "It's not real, Ger. Promise. They're just nightmares. They don't have to make sense."

"But I thought it," Geralt says vehemently. The guilty feeling in his chest grows, threatening to swallow him whole. How could he ever pin Eskel as such a terrible person? "That has to mean something. That says something about me. I don't hate you, Esk. I don't."

"I know, brother," Eskel soothes, carefully maneuvering the both of them until they're lying down next to each other. Geralt doesn't exactly help matters, refusing to let go of Eskel the whole time. 

"It's okay. You're okay," his brother soothes, still raking his fingers in Geralt's hair and rubbing circles into his back. "We're okay."

Despite his words, Geralt can smell a hint of sadness coming from his brother, but the gentle caresses and the warmth his brother radiates lulls him back into a peaceful slumber. He can't imagine being anywhere else but safe in his older brother's arms.

III

The ground shakes below him. Fuck, there are too many to count. There's a lot of witchers here, too, but against all those people and the mages they have allied themselves with...they don't stand a chance.

He's not far from the fight. The screams and battle cries of the massacre are well within his hearing range. For some reason, though, his legs refuse to budge, and he can't lift the sword he knows is clenched in his hand. He can only stand by and watch as a group of fanatics surround Rennes and-

He can't even look away, no matter how much he wants to.

One by one - sometimes several at a time - his students are slain before his eyes. He thinks he hears a few of them cry for him, beg him to help. He swears he makes eye contact with Varin before his old friend is overcome by two mages and four priests. He still can't look away.

Red stains the grounds of Kaer Morhen, a stark contrast to the white snow at their feet. Bodies, torn open and disfigured, are strewn across the field, some more familiar than he will ever be comfortable admitting. Many of them are grown witchers, fully-trained and seasoned from the Path. Others, they're no more than children. Trainees. Young tots who haven't gone through their first Trial yet. 

This should have never happened.

"Vesemir!" 

His attention is snapped from where he witnessed three of his students be cut down by a barrage of mages. His heart threatens to give out here and now, but it can't. Not yet. Not when the rest of his students are still fighting.

His attention focuses on Barmin, who races towards him. Blood coats his sword and armor, and, for a moment, Vesemir wonders if Barmin knows which blood belongs to him, their students, or their foes. He doesn't dare ask.

"What the fuck are you doing? Grab your pups and go!"

Vesemir stares at him, trying to tune out the pained screams behind him. He fails. Instead, he looks around him, at all the corpses littering the ground. His pups...they're all dead. Who would he grab? "My...pups?"

"Yes, you dimwitted old fool!" Barmin snaps, eyes ablaze with fury. "Geralt, Lambert, Eskel! Grab them and run!"

Vesemir swears his heart has officially stopped beating. Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel? What are they...? No, that's impossible. They are on the Path. They're not here.

Vesemir can only furrow his eyebrows in confusion. His mentor glares at him like Vesemir is the one in the wrong, but how can that be? "Barmin, what the hell are you talking about? They're not here right now!"

"You blind ass," Barmin snarls. He steps to the side and throws his arm out as a grand gesture to the slaughter. "Who the fuck is that then?"

Vesemir sees it now. Sees them. But...but they weren't there before. He would have seen them.

Geralt is struggling against a group of mages. Maybe it's his extra mutations or maybe blind luck from the goddesses, but he's holding his own. He's beaten and bruised to hell and back, blood pouring from a head wound at his hairline. Vesemir notes the drop of his shoulders, exhaustion setting in. There's still rage in Geralt's stance, though, and a fire in his eyes that makes a swell of pride rise in Vesemir's chest.

He spots Lambert next. A group of fanatics is beginning to surround him, but his feral pup has bombs in his hand, no doubt crafted in Kaer Morhen's alchemy labs, despite having been told to stay out countless times. There has always been anger in Lambert, but now he has people to take it out on, and Vesemir watches with satisfaction as he hurls a bomb at the approaching crowd, killing about twenty at once, before whirling around and launching himself at a mage.

Eskel is the last. His eldest, his kindest. Nothing about Eskel is kind right about now. He watches Eskel herd a group of zealots and mages into the forest, like sheep to a slaughter. He disappears into the woods, and Vesemir waits with bated breath, wondering for a minute or so what became of his son. Soon, his question is answered by an inferno billowing out from between the trees, scorching everything and everyone in its path. In spite of all the tragedy, Vesemir quirks a proud grin. Their enemies should have known better than to pick a fight with Kaer Morhen's dragon.

"Well?" Barmin huffs, shoving at him. Vesemir's legs finally seem to work, sending him stumbling away from his mentor. "Go get them and run!"

Vesemir hesitates. If he leaves Barmin alone, then he is for sure doomed to a tragic fate. The solemn look in his teacher's eyes tells him Barmin knows this and understands the consequences all too well. But still, he gives a curt nod to his student.

"Take care of whatever's left for me, Ves," Barmin says, much calmer than before. No. Not calm. Resigned. Tired. Ready.

Vesemir nods back, taking a second to engrave the image of his mentor in his mind before turning heel and sprinting. Behind him, he hears Barmin yell as he faces off against whoever's attacking him. There's a flurry of swords, the screeching of metal, and then silence. Against his better judgment, Vesemir risks one last glance back and immediately wishes he didn't. He doesn't think the memory of three swords sticking out of Barmin's chest will ever leave his mind. He hates himself for ruining the last memory of his teacher.

He refocuses his attention between his three pups. Eskel is back on the field, a graceful fighter amidst a mob of psychopaths. He uses one hand to cast Quen, Igni, Aard, and Yrden in rapid succession, a skilled Signs master in every way except title. Lambert is still holding his own, matching up against a mage. He's using techniques learned from the Cat he hangs out with. A Cat he...shouldn't know? What's happening? 

He shakes the thought away. Geralt looks to be in the most danger. He's facing off against more people than Lambert and less than Eskel, but he's not as skilled in long-distance tactics as his brothers are. Geralt was created to be a killing machine, but only in strength and speed. Signs have always been Eskel's forte, like how incendiaries have always been Lambert's.

Mind made up, Vesemir launches at a fanatic creeping up behind Geralt, decapitating the bastard before he could lay a hand on his pup. Geralt takes out the mage he was fighting against and backs up until his back aligns with Vesemir's. For a moment, they rest against each other, supporting one another and eyeing their encroaching enemies.

"Eskel and Lambert?" Geralt pants, always searching out for his brothers before himself.

"Holding strong," Vesemir answers automatically, keeping his eyes locked on a particularly antsy mage. "We'll clean up here first."

He feels the chuckle more than he hears it. "You got it, old man."

Without warning, Geralt and Vesemir press off each other, throwing themselves back into the fray. They move fluidly, decades of training and experience propelling them. Where Vesemir is pushed back, Geralt takes over, hounding their attackers like the true wolf Vesemir raised him to be. Where Geralt is locked in a stalemate, enemies approaching him from behind, Vesemir cuts them down, clearing the way for Geralt to stagger back and away from his opponent's offense, readying himself for another attack. 

The entire time, Vesemir keeps one eye on the fight and the other on his other two sons. Eskel and Lambert are surviving. Right now, that's all he can ask for. He'll be there soon, he swears it.

He and Geralt take out the last of their foes, taking a moment to breathe and gaze over the carnage they left behind. He sees Geralt flagging next to him, but that same man tenses and seemingly prepares himself for another fight. Vesemir lays a hand on Geralt's shoulder. When he gets his attention, Vesemir shakes his head.

"You're done, pup. Get to the forests. Head for the Gwenllech. We'll meet you there."

Geralt is shaking his head before Vesemir can finish his thoughts. "No, I'm not leaving. They need us."

"They need someone who can help them," Vesemir responds forcefully, hardening his resolve. "You're exhausted. You'll hinder more than help." At Geralt's distraught face, Vesemir softens. "You've done well, pup, more than enough. You have earned this rest. Now, go. I'll be there soon."

Geralt casts one last look at his brothers, a broken and worried expression plastering on his face. He eventually nods, swallowing thickly and looking at Vesemir. Geralt looks at him the way Vesemir thinks he himself had looked at Barmin and tries not to dwell on the feelings that thought brings to light. Then, Geralt is backing away before turning and sprinting into the woods.

Vesemir takes a shuddering deep breath and faces the last two of his pups. He steadfastly keeps his gaze up, knowing if he looked down, he'll see the rest of his pups, and he can't bear that image anymore. 

Eskel is still going strong, and Vesemir can't be any prouder than he is now, watching his son decimate the crowds, turning Kaer Morhen into something more like a volcano than a wintry mountaintop. Vesemir looks to Lambert, who is facing off against another group of zealots and likely unaware of the new group starting to close in. Or maybe he is aware and just unable to do much to stop it.

It hurts his heart, but he knows deep down, it's the right choice. He sends up a prayer to Melitele and every other goddess he hasn't believed in for centuries to watch over his eldest before hightailing it to his youngest, grip tightening on his sword. He carves his way through the masses, sending those he's not quick enough to parry flying with a blast of Aard. Before long, he's back-to-back with Lambert in the same way he was with Geralt.

"What the fuck are you doing, old man?" Lambert snaps, sounding angry, but everyone who knows him well enough can hear the worry and tinge of fear.

"Helping you, runt," Vesemir huffs back, the grin on his lips betraying the harshness of his words. "Now pick up your sword, fix your fucking stance, and fight. Your brothers need us."

Nothing spurs Lambert into motion faster than that. "Duck," is the only warning Vesemir gets before Lambert is lobbing a bomb over his head and into the crowd Vesemir had sprinted to protect him from. They're all gone in seconds. Well, not exactly. Their body parts are sent scattering across the courtyard.

"That was my last one," Lambert grumbles, raising his sword in one hand and readying his other for Sign casting.

"Then we do it the old-fashioned way."

Lambert snorts. "You would know, wouldn't you, you old hag?"

Vesemir responds by casting Igni to the attackers in front of him. He feels Lambert lunge away from behind him, likely taking care of his own opponents. They don't fight as fluidly as Vesemir and Geralt did. There isn't the same amount of time between them, not yet, but it works. They're wolves after all, and Vesemir trained him. They know each other's movements before they even make them, pirouetting away when they get too close to one another. Just like with Geralt, they cover each other's backs, but the fight starts to shift.

They're being pushed back, herded to the edges of the keep. They're going to have to retreat into the forest. A small voice in Vesemir's head worries. If they head into the forest, they'll leave Eskel completely undefended, and they will also bring the fanatics closer to Geralt's resting spot by the Gwenllech. There isn't much he can do to turn the tables, not when there are so many of them closing in.

"Lambert, run to the woods."

"What?" Lambert rips his sword from the chest of the zealot he just pierced, sending Vesemir a glare for a split second, but then he's whirling around to face another enemy. "No. Why would I? Eskel is still back there."

"We can't help him like this!" Vesemir snaps, taking out two more priests with one swing. "We have to head into the woods. We have an advantage in there."

"But-"

"Now, Lambert!"

He hears a growl of frustration, but Lambert obeys. He wheels around and slices his way into the forest. Vesemir can only spare a brief second to look at his eldest holding his own against the horde. His heart cracks beneath his chest, but he can't stay any longer. He turns tail and runs.

In the forest, they're faster than the humans and mages. Their eyes guide them through the dark, their senses picking up threats before their enemies themselves realize they're close to the witchers. They knock down each zealot and mage, one by one, until there are none left. By that point, they're near the Gwenllech. Vesemir grabs Lambert roughly by the shoulder and hauls him in the direction of the river.

"Hurry. Geralt is waiting for you by the river."

"And what about Eskel?" Lambert demands, wrenching his arm from Vesemir's grip but continuing after him.

"I'm going back for him, but I have to make sure you two are safe there first."

"I can look after myself."

Vesemir fixes him with an irate glare. "We don't know how many are still out there. Forgive me for wanting to make sure you're safe!"

The two of them break through the forest and to the clearing hosting a section of the river. Geralt is pacing the riverbank, running his hands through his hair until it's left greasy and stringy. At the sound of their footsteps, he lifts his sword immediately, hackles raising until he realizes who's there. Vesemir can see the horror dawn on his face when he sees only two wolves and not three.

"Where is Eskel?" he asks, all the breath leaving him in that one question.

"I'm going back for him now. Take care of-"

"Isn't it supposed to be nighttime?" Lambert interrupts, eyes narrowing at their surroundings.

It takes a long time, too long, as they stare at Lambert in confusion, for Vesemir to notice that the night is growing...brighter. It shouldn't be, not in the midst of winter, not in the middle of the night, and certainly not under the smoke Eskel's Igni flames have caused. He chances a glance at the sky and feels the blood drain from his face. 

Mages must be gathering their Chaos because Vesemir has never run into someone who has enough power to gather that large of a fireball by themselves. If they manage to launch that attack, they will start an avalanche and take everyone down with them. The fireball hovers over Kaer Morhen and all Vesemir can think about is how not even a dragon could survive that.

Apparently, Lambert and Geralt see it, too, because their faces pale in the way Vesemir thinks he does. He tries to move forward, but just like in the beginning, his feet remain rooted to the ground. Fear wells up in his chest, choking him. Desperation threatens to send him careening into a downward spiral because there's no fucking way-

The fireball launches with a loud boom, flying faster than Vesemir could have ever moved. In just a few seconds, Kaer Morhen is enveloped by an inferno. Fire encases everything, the shadow of the keep invisible between the flames. As if it isn't bad enough, the mountains above the school begin to rumble, an avalanche cascading down the side and crashing into everything the fire hasn't already consumed.

"Oh, fuck," Lambert whispers, eyes wide and unable to tear away from the gruesome sight.

"No," Geralt murmurs, tears starting to stream down his face. "No, no, no, no..."

For his part, Vesemir feels the grief welling up in his chest. Centuries of keeping his emotions in check and his patience filled flee from him and all he can do is scream,

"Eskel!"

His bedroom door flings open, Eskel's body filling the entryway. His eyes are wide and his chest heaves deeply. Vesemir sits up in bed, vaguely aware of his own broken gasps of air. All he can do is stare because, Eskel is there. He's alive. Oh, Gods, his pup-

"Ves?" Eskel breathes, the scent of worry and fear flooding the room, and from not only one person. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

Vesemir raises a hand to his mouth, acutely aware of how his hand shakes like a leaf in the wind. Eskel's eyes soften, and his body relaxes. He takes the last few steps into Vesemir's room, shutting the door quietly. Without a word, Eskel approaches Vesemir's bedside and sits next to him, shoulders touching.

"Wanna talk about it?" Eskel murmurs, tilting his head to rest against Vesemir's shoulder. 

Vesemir's resolve breaks. He turns his head and buries his face into his son's hair, breathing in the scent that is so inherently Eskel as tears stream down his face. The warm smell of almond, myrrh, and cedarwood flood his nose, and he can't help but melt at the grounding presence of his eldest child. He hears the startled noise Eskel makes and almost pulls away, but arms stronger than his own encircle his waist, carefully lowering them onto the bed. 

At some point, Eskel shifts the two of them so that he is cradling Vesemir instead, his chin placed atop Vesemir's head. For once, Vesemir doesn't fight it, choosing to hold his son and tuck his face into Eskel's neck as tears wet the younger witcher's shirt. They don't say anything for a while, but the guilt in Vesemir's chest grows until he can't hold it in anymore.

"I'm so sorry, pup," he says quietly, closing his eyes in shame when his voice chokes on a sob, despite Eskel being unable to see him. 

"Mm. For what?" Eskel asks softly, stroking his thumb absentmindedly on Vesemir's back.

"I should've gotten to you faster. I shouldn't have left you behind."

The thumb stops moving, and he hears Eskel swallow thickly. He opens his mouth to ask what's wrong, but Eskel beats him to the punch.

"Whatever happened, it's not your fault, Ves."

"You don't get it-"

"But I do," Eskel interrupts not unkindly, but there is an edge to his voice, one Vesemir feels like he should pry into further. "It's a nightmare. I'm willing to bet none of it made sense to you. It was all out of order, all thrown into another realm of possibility. Whatever happened then isn't what's happening now. There's nothing to apologize for."

The shock chases away any words Vesemir had planned to say, leaving behind only the thought of, "When did you get so wise?"

A low rumble of a laugh conjures a smile onto Vesemir's face. "Something you taught me, papa."

Vesemir's heart swells three times larger, and he buries his face further into Eskel's neck, letting his son feel the smile on his face when he couldn't summon the courage to show it. "I don't take any credit for how beautiful you turned out to be, pup."

Eskel swallows harshly again. "Right, yeah," he murmurs, volume low enough that Vesemir starts to believe he wasn't supposed to hear it. "Ves, whatever you dreamed about-"

"I left you behind," Vesemir blurts out, tears anew in his eyes. His throat starts to close once more, making it hard for the words to come out, but he forces them to, because Eskel has to know. "I left you behind and saved your brothers. I tried to come back for you, but...they...pup."

Eskel's breath stutters in his chest, head dipping down to rest his face in Vesemir's hair. "It's okay, papa."

And that one sentence sends a flood cascading down Vesemir's face. His sobs come full-force, leaving his body trembling harder than he would after a night in the snow. Eskel makes a wounded sound and curls around Vesemir tighter as if he could squeeze the guilt and regret from Vesemir's heart.

"I'm here. I didn't die. I'm okay."

There's a bitter scent of a lie in that last sentence, Vesemir can tell, but Eskel drags his hand up and down Vesemir's back, and all of his thoughts disappear again. All he can recall is the grotesque images his brain conjures up of a sight he didn't see. He never laid eyes on Eskel's corpse, but, Gods, could he imagine it. He knows what fire does to a person, what the cold does after hours buried in snow, what rocks can do when they hit too hard. To think his son suffered all three-

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he cries. "I'm so sorry."

"Papa, I'm alive," Eskel assures, a tinge of hysteria in his voice. "I'm here. I didn't die. You didn't abandon me. I'm right here with you."

"I love you, pup," Vesemir whispers, tears starting to slow. "I love you so much. Just as much as your brothers. I would never leave you. I will always come for you."

Eskel doesn't fully respond to that. He continues to rub Vesemir's back and starts to hum softly instead. It's a distinct song, the one lullaby Eskel always sings absentmindedly. Vesemir feels his body start to relax at the familiar tune of "The old hen, she cackled," lulled by the deep hums of his eldest surviving pup. 

Just as he reaches the edge of sleep, he hears Eskel quietly murmur, "Don't make promises you can't keep, papa."

He nearly startles awake at that, surprised by the sudden dampness of tears in his hair, but Eskel resumes humming immediately, like he never said a word, and his hand keeps moving up and down. Vesemir tries to remember to approach Eskel about it tomorrow morning, but he falls asleep in the arms of his son and settles into a contented slumber.

+1

He can't remember the last time he saw rage like that on someone's face, much less directed at him. He's come toe-to-toe with hate and racism and bigotry, but there's something about the way her eyes water with tears of frustration and hurt and anger that makes his heart break. Her body trembles with the effort to remain calm, but the tightening grip on her sword says differently. He doesn't reach for his own. He doesn't want to antagonize her. If he can dissuade this peacefully, maybe everyone can escape without getting hurt.

"Again?" she yells, her free hand bunching up into a fist. "You're abandoning me again?"

"Deidre, please," he starts, raising his hands in a placating manner, "no one is abandoning you. But we can't get involved."

Deidre screeches in frustration. "I'm not asking for everyone to get involved! I'm asking you!"

"And I am one of them!" he replies, desperation starting to leak into his voice. He doesn't want to hurt her, but Geralt is standing close by, and she's looking ready to lash out at any minute. Gods forbid his brother gets hurt because of his Child Surprise.

"I'm your child!" Deidre screams, throwing her arms wide open. "Don't you even care?!"

Of course, he does. He cares even if she wasn't his Child Surprise, but the wolves of Kaer Morhen have a moral code, one of the last things to survive the massacre. He can't dishonor it, dishonor all those that came before him. He barely even knows her. "You're not a child anymore, Deidre. I can't help you."

She scoffs hysterically, eyes wide and hands shaking enough that her sword trembles with her. "Are you...are you serious? You can't...She'll kill me!"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "but you won't find the help you need here."

For a moment, he thinks he might have gotten through to her. Her eyes soften, and her lips purse into a thin line. She stops shaking, her body relaxes, and her grip on her sword loosens. A part of him is still suspicious, though, because she backed down far too easily. 

"I see," she says quietly, biting her lip and nodding. "So you really won't do anything."

"I'm sorry." He truly is. He wishes he could, but this isn't his fight, and there are far too few witchers left to be getting into fights that will threaten their lives any more than necessary. If he could, he would've helped her. This isn't that time, and he wishes she could see that.

"Fine," Deidre whispers, "but if you're going to be useless-" her hand tightens on her sword- "then why the hell should I leave you alive?"

"Eskel, watch it!" He hears Geralt shout.

It happens too slowly and too quickly all at once. Eskel watches as Deidre lunges forward, sword raised above her head. He doesn't have time to reach for his own sword, so he instinctively curls his thumb and pinkie fingers in to form Quen, but the shield never comes. Fear stutters in his chest as the warnings come flooding back to him.

He can't cast Signs in Deidre's presence.

His feet are glued to the ground, the blade of her sword glinting sickeningly in the sunlight before carving its way into the right side of his face. He expects pain, expects the agony to blossom, but he doesn't feel a thing. All he sees is red, blood dripping into his eyes and onto the dirt below him. Deidre's sword pulls away, the steel coated in red. He sees her proud smirk as she readies herself for the killing blow, but suddenly, Geralt is there, blocking her off from him.

Eskel stumbles back. His legs, unable to support him, collapse beneath him. He crashes to his knees, pressing a quaking hand to his face. When he pulls it away, there's enough blood to cover his entire hand and drip down his wrist. His hand is covered in red. So is the ground, his clothes, his face, her sword. Everything is red.

Everyone always said red was his color.

He blinks and finds himself in a tavern. His hood is pulled up to cover his face. He reaches for the fabric, letting the familiarity of it sink in. He doesn't remember what he looks like without the scars now, but it doesn't matter. It never really mattered. He was always treated with disdain, even more so since the scars, and even worse since Geralt's incident in Blaviken. His life will always be this way, seen as nothing more than a monster, a disappointment, insignificant and easily abandoned.

But even someone as worthless as Eskel can do some good before they die.

He makes his way over to the table in the corner, boots thumping heavily as he walks. He could be silent if he wanted to, but the man at the booth looks drunk already, and Eskel wants as much of a headstart on this conversation as he can get. If that means scaring the shit out of a few people, well, it's nothing new.

He stops at the table but doesn't sit on the bench. He keeps his hood up and gaze lowered, unwilling to show his face quite yet. The man, however, has no qualms about raising his head, going as so far as to grin at him.

"Well, well, well! What a broodin' bastard! What can I do fer ya, good sir?" His words slur together, hiccups punctuating his sentences. He moves loosely, like his own body can't be bothered to hold him up. 

"The Terror of the North," Eskel rumbles, letting his deep voice carry him into darker territory than he has ever allowed himself. "Where is she?"

"And why would somethin' like you wanna know?" 

Maybe it's the cocky attitude. Maybe it's being called "something" instead of "someone." Maybe it's fact that it's been so many godsdamn years and it's about fucking time to clean up his mistake but if this bastard won't tell him-

Eskel raises his head finally, fist slamming on the table with enough force to be just shy of breaking it in half. The drunkard startles, jumping in his seat and leaning back, eyes locked on the large fist that could have cracked his skull open if it wanted to. He lifts his eyes, and Eskel can see in real-time as the man takes in the deep scars and amber eyes. The smell of piss hits his senses before the question comes out of his mouth.

"I'll ask you one more time," he growls, catching the attention of everyone in the silent tavern. "Where is Deidre Ademeyn?"

He blinks again and he finds himself storming out of the tavern. Frightened eyes follow him as he walks. Children cower behind their worried mothers while fathers step in front of their families in hopes of protecting them from the monster roaming their streets. Stones pelt him as he walks. Some braver souls call at him, insult him, condemn him for ever stepping foot near their homes. 

Eskel finds Scorpion where he tethered him outside of the town, unwilling to risk a mob pushing him out before he could retrieve him from the stables. He clambers onto Scorpion's back, silent and loath to acknowledge the dread building in his stomach. He knows what he has to do. It doesn't make it any easier.

The small cottage in front of him is inconspicuous enough that it would have been the last place Eskel ever searched for her. Then again, the bandits posted outside the door and around the property are a dead giveaway. He dispatches them quickly, efficiently, and tries not to think about how much human blood coats his hands now. He would have had less if he had just agreed to help when she asked. 

Hindsight.

Eskel pushes open the door to the cottage. He knows she's aware of his presence. After all, she had said before she always knew where he was. He figures that hasn't changed. 

She's sitting in a chair in the den. The chair faces the fireplace, its back to the entryway. In her position, she can't see him, but she knows he's there. Her legs are crossed, her elbow resting on the armrest, and her head propped up on her fist. In her other hand, she holds a book. It looks like a bestiary. Eskel chooses not to comment on that. It's not what he's here for.

"Found me, didn't you?" she asks suddenly. She doesn't turn to him, but she does lift her head to stare at the fire burning in the hearth.

Eskel doesn't answer. He stays fixed in the doorway.

Deidre hums. "All this time, and you still haven't figured out the words you need to say. Or have you decided to say nothing at all?" She waits for an answer. When she doesn't get one, she continues, "Never took you for the silent, brooding type. You certainly weren't quiet that day I came to you. No. You were very loud about the bullshit nonsense you insisted on spitting at me."

Eskel steps forward, boots thumping on the hardwood floor then muffling as he moves over the carpet. He stops next to her chair but still a couple of feet away. He crosses his arms and leans more to one side than the other, mostly away from her. Outwardly, he looks relaxed, but this time, he's prepared for her. He can't cast Signs around her, but he can keep his guard up. He won't let her get the jump on him this time. He still doesn't look at her or speak.

She sighs. "Well, I have to admit, this reunion is far more underwhelming than I had anticipated."

Eskel finally braves a glance. He doesn't turn his head, but he catches sight of her through his peripheral vision. Her hair is longer now, drifting to the middle of her back. She's gained some muscle, too, and her skin glows from the light of the fireplace. She has healthy fat on her bones. She looks...good. In another life, maybe he could have been proud of the woman she became. But this is also the woman who terrorized the North for years, who scarred his face, who made his outside look like his inside. 

The rage burns in his chest, bubbling and simmering like a pot of boiling water. He's angry, enraged, livid. She tore his life to shreds as easily as her sword did to his skin. She had no right to do what she did. Eskel wants to kill her.

He's going to.

"You came all this way, and you don't even want to chat? How disappointing."

The words cut deep. He knows he's disappointing. He knows what his family thinks of him. They've told him how they felt. Lambert's scared of him, Geralt's disappointed, and Ves would ditch him in a heartbeat. Hearing it come out of Deidre's mouth just feels wrong. She has no right to expose his worst fears.

"It's a shame. Tell me, Eskel-" she tilts her head up to look at him, and he finally locks eyes with her- "does your family know you're here?"

They don't, but that's none of her fucking business.

He doesn't have to respond. She laughs, turning her head away as she does so, like she already knows the answer. "No, of course, they don't. How do you explain that to them? You wouldn't kill to save your Child Surprise, but you'll kill your Child Surprise. Hardly the most sensical thing in the world, isn't it?"

Eskel finally speaks. "There's a difference."

At that, she perks up. "Oh, is that so? What is it?"

"You're a monster."

For a moment, there's silence, then Deidre is cackling, howling with laughter as if Eskel cracked the funniest joke she's ever heard. Given how miserably her life has gone, he wouldn't doubt it. He should feel bad, but all he wants to do now is slice her throat until she can't laugh anymore.

Eskel stills at that thought. He...He doesn't actually want that...does he?

Deidre wipes tears from her eyes, still chuckling. "Oh, Gods. Thank you, Eskel. I needed that laugh." She cleans the tears from her fingers on her pants and picks up her discarded bestiary. She flips it over, exposing the cover of it. "You know your monsters, don't you? You have to, being a witcher and all. Thing is, of all the bestiaries I've read, they seem to miss the most dangerous monster to ever exist. It's the one that hides behind kind smiles, the one that hides behind soft gestures and gentle words. It's the one that hides its ill intentions behind small favors and displays of affection. Yes, that's the most dangerous monster of them all, and that monster-" she looks up at him and grins- "is you."

Eskel's sword is out and pressing at the tip of her throat before he can even register that he's moving. To her credit, Deidre doesn't even flinch. Her smile just grows larger.

"You're starting to see it now, aren't you? Starting to see just how truly ugly you are on the inside. Your family, they've admitted things about you. To you, even. They're starting to see what you're actually made of, Eskel, how disgustingly tainted your hands are. All the mistakes you've made, they've been culminating, and they're going to explode back at you so soon."

"Shut up," Eskel growls. His sword quivers in his hand. If he's not careful, he might just cut her neck open before he intends to.

Deidre doesn't seem to care. In fact, she simply leans forward and presses the sword tip to her throat, stilling the silver against her skin. "Silver, huh? Interesting choice. We still going with that theme?" She chuckles, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Tell me, does silver burn you the way it does every monster?"

"Fuck off!" Eskel snaps, fist clenching around his sword hilt.

"Why haven't you killed me yet, Eskel? What are you waiting for? Do you want me to beg? To get on my knees for you and plead for mercy? You're a sick man, witcher."

Eskel staggers back, dropping his sword hand to his side and raising the other to cover one ear. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight and sound of all his fears.

"Kill me, Eskel! The fuck are you waiting for? This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Deidre yells. He can hear her stand up from her chair, approaching him like a predator to prey. But who's the predator? Is it her? Is it him? He came to kill her. Why is he the one being cornered?

"Come on, Eskel!" Deidre screams. He can't bring himself to open his eyes. He can't see her face. He refuses to. "Get rid of your only problem! Get rid of me or I swear to every goddess above that I will expose who you truly are inside to everyone will listen!"

"Shut up!" Eskel roars. His hand is moving on its own, lifting his sword and thrusting forward. There's a sickening squelch. Silence follows. Eskel cracks open his eyes slowly, horror constricting his lungs as he stares at the sight in front of him.

Deidre looks shocked, gazing dull-eyed at the sword protruding through her chest. Blood dribbles from her mouth as she raises her head to look at him. "Oh," she whispers. Then, a small smirk crosses her lips as she asks, "What's it like, Eskel, to expose your true self in front of the ones you hide from the most?"

Eskel stares at her, wide-eyed and shaking. "W-What?" Deidre's body falls back, a ragdoll with open and lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. "What did you-?"

"Fuck, you really are worse than my father. How could I have ever let scum like you get close to me?"

Eskel whirls around. His heart clenches at what he sees. 

Lambert stands there, arms crossed and mouth drawn into a scowl. It takes far too long for Eskel to realize that the words had come from his mouth, and even longer for the implication to set in. His mouth dries. No, Eskel would never...

Geralt and Vesemir stand behind Lambert, both equally angry and full of disdain. Geralt can't even look at him, choosing to glare at a spot behind Eskel rather than his face. Vesemir has no such qualms, amber eyes piercing him to the ground with blatant disapproval. 

"I didn't raise you to be this way," Vesemir growls, a tone filled with vitriol that Eskel has never been on the receiving end of. Eskel staggers back at the sound. He can't breathe past the ache in his chest. "I raised you to kill monsters, to honor the moral code of the wolf witchers. But all you have accomplished is becoming a monster yourself. Why would I ever save the life of a good-for-nothing witcher like you?" Vesemir closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You're no son of mine."

Eskel stumbles into the chair Deidre once occupied. He sits on the armrest, unable to hold himself up. He can't tear his eyes away from his family, from the undisguised loathing. He wants to open his mouth, to apologize, to explain himself, to beg them for forgiveness. He doesn't know what kind of person he has become. He doesn't recognize the hands that tremble at his sides. He doesn't understand these awful feelings in his chest. This isn't him. This isn't who he is!

Eskel turns to Geralt, pleading eyes searching for any pity in his brother, his best friend. Geralt still won't look at him. Instead, he huffs, "I said I wasn't disappointed in you, and I was right. I'm not." Geralt finally glares at him, a distant look in his eyes as he puts the final nail in Eskel's coffin. "There isn't a single existing word that can ever describe the resentment I harbor towards you."

"No," Eskel whispers. He tries to stand, tries to move towards him, but his body doesn't budge. He's forced to stay seated as his brothers and father take one last look of disgust and start to turn away. "No, no, no, please. No!" 

They don't even react to him. Together, they head towards the exit, leaving Eskel trapped in the same room as his dead Child Surprise. He begs and pleads, apologies and words of regret slipping from his mouth.

"Please, no. Don't go. I'm sorry. Please." They never turn back, filing out of the doorway Eskel had walked through, not knowing he would never walk back out. In a last-ditch effort to get them to listen, Eskel screams,

"Geralt! Lambert! Papa!"

His door slams open.

Eskel shoots up in bed, thumb and pinkie fingers curling into his palm. A Quen bubble surrounds him long before rational thought catches up to him. He's staring down at the blankets twisted around his legs, effectively trapping him where he sits. His breaths are uneven, fast, and short. He can't breathe.

"Eskel! Kelly!"

The nickname breaks through the panic, a name Lambert never would have called him if he didn't...but why would he care?

Eskel drops the Quen bubble, raising his eyes to see not just Lambert, but Vesemir and Geralt, too. All three of them are staring at him, eyes wide with worry, chests heaving like they had sprinted to his room. He feels tears pooling in his eyes.

"Lamb?" he whispers. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Lambert repeats incredulously. "Eskel, you screamed my name. The fuck was I supposed to do?"

Geralt moves forward, pushing from behind Lambert to stand next to him. His hands shake minutely as he says, "You screamed for all of us. Fuck, Esk. What happened?"

Guilt, horror, and shame threaten to claw at his chest and tear him apart. It's enough dealing with those emotions all on their own, but all three just invites another anxiety attack. Eskel runs a trembling hand through his hair.

"I what?" He draws his knees up to his chest and hides his face behind one of his hands. "Oh, Gods...I'm sorry. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep."

A short, hysterical laugh bursts from Lambert's throat, startling Eskel into looking back up at them. "Yeah, I don't fucking think so," Lambert says, stepping further into the room.

Dread joins the fight in tearing Eskel apart from the inside. "What? No. What are you doing?"

Geralt and Lambert move closer to the bed, leaving Vesemir to close the door and trail after his two sons. 

"Move over," Geralt demands, forcibly shoving Eskel to the side as he plops down beside him.

"Guys, really, you don't need to-"

"See, I didn't fucking hear him stutter," Lambert snaps, but the distraught look on his face undermines the anger in his words. "Make room."

Vesemir sighs at their words, smoothly making his way behind Eskel. The oldest witcher settles himself at the top of Eskel's bed, back resting against the headboard. "Come, pup. Lay back. We have you now."

Eskel shakes his head, closing his eyes and swallowing thickly. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of it. "You don't have to do this."

"You do it for us all the time," Lambert growls, frustrated. "Let us do it for you."

A hand is placed on Eskel's chest. His eyes snap open just in time to see Geralt frown before shoving Eskel backward. Vesemir catches him and pulls him closer to rest on his abdomen. Geralt and Lambert lay down on either side of them, turning onto their sides to face Eskel.

"Wanna talk about it?" Geralt asks softly, moving his head to rest on Eskel's shoulder.

Eskel bites down the sob gathering in his chest and burning his throat. He closes his eyes again, unable to face any of them, "I don't think I'm strong enough for that."

"Bullshit," Lambert scoffs.

Vesemir hums in mild agreement. "There's nothing you can tell us, pup, that will make us think less of you."

Oh, how Eskel wants to believe that. Instead, he just repeats the words he once said before. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

A weathered but gentle hand squeezes the back of Eskel's neck lightly. "I never do, sweetheart."

How is Eskel supposed to fight against those words when his resolve is already so weak? "Papa, don't-"

"You've heard and shouldered all of our darkest thoughts and fears, my boy," Vesemir rumbles softly. "I think it is about time we shouldered yours."

Twin hums of agreement echo from either side of Eskel. His will crumbles to dust.

"I killed her," he confesses, voice cracking with unshed tears at the words. "I'm not worth this."

"The fuck?" Lambert so eloquently mutters.

Geralt's hand searches for Eskel's and holds on tight. "Not true."

"Yes, it is. I-"

"Did what you had to," Geralt finishes. Eskel opens his eyes and turns to him, only to see a hardened glare in return, one filled with love and concern. "What happened with Deidre was a fucked situation, Esk, but it wasn't your fault. You did what you could."

Eskel bites his cheek. "But did I have to kill her?"

Geralt softens at that. "Maybe, maybe not. She was terrorizing the North, Kelly. Looting, torturing people, killing...we were made to kill monsters."

"Then why the fuck haven't you killed me?"

There's a burst of outrage at that. He feels Vesemir tense behind him, a sharp contrast but not so different a reaction from Geralt and Lambert's immediate shouts of anger.

"What the fuck?!" Lambert shouts, sitting up in his spot to glare down at Eskel.

"Never say that shit to me again," Geralt snarls, gripping Eskel's hand harder, just barely brushing the point of painful.

Vesemir clears his throat loudly, and the two youngest wolves settle down, but Eskel can still see them bristling with fury at Eskel's words. "Eskel," Vesemir starts slowly, barely restrained emotion brimming in his tone, "care to explain that to us?"

Eskel sighs, closing his eyes again as he conjures the image of Deidre's dead body again. He feels sick at the sight, the rage and bloodlust from his nightmare completely absent. "I dreamt about it, about going after her. I wanted to kill her, Ves. It was less about saving others and more of a personal vendetta. She...she knew what I was, what I am. How Geralt harbors disappointment-" Geralt makes a strangled noise at that- "how Lamb sees me worse than his father-" Lambert whispers a quiet denial- "how you'd leave me behind if it came down to it."

Vesemir's hands freeze from where they were absentmindedly carding through Eskel's hair. "Pup..." he murmurs, "I never meant that. And I'm sure your brothers didn't, either."

"No," Geralt declares.

"Fuck no," Lambert agrees adamantly.

Eskel looks up at Vesemir, meeting eyes that held an emotion far beyond worry and breached at the edge of fear. "But I dreamt it and so did you-"

"And what did you say to me that night?" Vesemir interrupts, raising an eyebrow. "I believe it was something about nightmares offering a different realm of possibility."

"That they're just nightmares," Lambert pipes up, shifting his gaze to stare at Eskel softly, "and they're not real."

Geralt hums. "They don't need to make sense."

Eskel feels a tear start to run down his cheek, and once the first one spilled, there was no stopping the others. He brings both hands to his face, shielding himself away from his family. "Fuck," he whimpers, sobs starting to break his voice.

Gentle hands resume carding through his hair. Two lines of warmth press back against his sides. Geralt and Lambert throw their arms around him, maneuvering around Eskel's raised arms to find the best position to hold him.

"You're not a monster, sweetheart," Vesemir soothes. "You're far from it. You're not capable of it. I also think I need to get it through your thick skull that I will never abandon you. You are mine just as much as Geralt and Lambert are. I would never leave you behind to rot."

"And I'm not disappointed in you, Kel," Geralt murmurs, pressed near Eskel's shoulder. "I couldn't be more fucking proud of the person you've become. If I was disappointed, I wouldn't have stuck by you for more than a century, you ass."

A startled laugh rips from Eskel's chest, pushing aside all those clawing emotions that are starting to fade away into nothing. Eskel slides his hands over his face as he removes them, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Lambert shifts beside him. "You're nothing like my father, Esk. He didn't give a shit about me. He didn't care if I had a rough night or...bad thoughts. But you do. You care so much. So, no, you're not a fucking monster."

Eskel makes a wounded noise, a thousand words simmering at the tip of his tongue but none coming out. He doesn't have the right vocabulary to express his gratitude, to express his love and adoration for his family, to offer comfort in return. He wants to tell them everything he feels, show them how much he cares about them. Given the way they have curled themselves around him, he thinks they wish the same, too. Even so, despite how hard they've tried to communicate their thoughts and feelings, doubts still linger in his mind.

Geralt, ever the mind reader when it comes to Eskel, squeezes his hand. "Talk to us."

Eskel shakes his head and stares at his ceiling. "...you're not gonna tell me anything I don't already know."

"But?" Vesemir urges, lightly toying with Eskel's hair.

"But, sometimes, I doubt it."

"Don't," Lambert affirms. "There's nothing to doubt. You know us. We wouldn't be here if there was."

Eskel uses his free hand to grab Lambert's. "Thank you," he mumbles, aiming the gratitude at everyone.

They seem to understand. Lambert and Geralt tuck into him further. Vesemir hums quietly, squeezing the back of his neck gently once more.

"Of course, pup. Anytime. Now rest. It is our turn to have you."

And Eskel is far more than okay with that. Safe in his family's arms, the doubts and fear slink away, powerless to the love and affection he's surrounded by, and he drifts off into a warm and welcoming slumber.