#lambert and aiden fall in love at first sight in the middle of a training melee

[blooms-in-april]

Of all the weirdly specific things to hallucinate about, my fangirl ass has been lucid daydreaming about a Witcher West Side Story where Lambert is Tony, Aiden is Maria, the rumble is the treasonous tournament between the Cat and Wolf schools, and America is a sung by Guxart (as Anita) and the Dyn Marv caravan cat witchers about how much they enjoy getting away from Stygga castle.

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[jaskiersvalley]

I just wanted to say a) oh my gods the cute laiden fluff I die. b) holy crap you wrote that cute Little!Lambert fic I found a bit ago! Nice!! And c) rawrkin explicitly told me you were nice and worth messaging and who am I to pass up such an endorsement? I love your stuff it's very good. 💜💜💜

Considering I’ve already come and made a twit of myself in your inbox in response to this, I’ll keep it brief (and in reverse order). C) @rawrkinjd is out there being lovely and spreading rumours that I’m nice XD We all know they are the real sweetheart here! B) I’ve had a few more asks about Little Lambert come in (with Aiden getting involved too...) so there may be more of that to come. C) Fluff is where my heart will always lie. There are so many unhappy endings in real life, let fandom be where everyone gets to be happy and cute. With that in mind, I may work a hint of Laiden into your thank you ficlet which is a vague companion/follow-up to this one. :D

It seemed that Yennefer wasn’t best pleased with how winter was shaping up. The path up to the keep was still open and Lambert had been glancing out towards the approach regularly, as if expecting someone. Eskel seemed to be in on it, sometimes standing with him, a hand on the small of Lambert’s back, murmuring a soft “he’ll be here” at times. That already had Yennefer rolling her eyes. She still seemed quite bitter that her spell to turn the witchers into children hadn’t taught whatever lesson she wanted to instill in them.

As it tended to be, things came to a head with Jaskier. He had tugged playfully at one of the decorative ribbons on Yennefer’s dress as they moved around the dining hall, settling down for dinner. As Jaskier sat down, Lambert glanced longingly towards the door with a sigh.

“Have your happy families,” Yennefer growled and Jaskier was enveloped in a puff of purple smoke. As it cleared, a large eyed child sat in his place.

Nobody dared move for a moment, taking in the sight of a de-aged Jaskier until Lambert cleared his throat. “Oh no. He’s adorable.”

Not just adorable, also impeccably well mannered. Jaskier ate his dinner, already behaving like a dainty little lordling. It was all endearing and none of the witchers could look away from a toddler who had more table manners than the lot of them combined.

“Thank you very much for dinner,” Jaskier lisped. and Vesemir could see every stone cold witcher heart thaw in the room - including his own.

Settling Jaskier down for the night was an easy affair, he was sleepy, seemed quite determined that as it was evening, he would go to bed. That night, the wolves gathered in front of the fire and sighed.

“I didn’t think children could ever be this polite.” As he spoke, Vesemir stared into the fire. “None of you lot were ever this good.”

Famous last words. In the morning, Jaskier was gone. Not disappeared but definitely nowhere to be found. His altered scent led the witchers on a merry trail across the whole keep. Even worse, there was the occasional childish giggle and the patter of feet but Jaskier was nowhere to be found. They spent a whole morning looking, splitting up and taking different floors and wings of the keep, even going into areas that had been considered closed off for decades because nobody wanted to remember what happened behind certain doors.

It was futile, Jaskier was nowhere to be found. Even worse, the trail grew cold, there were no pattering feet or more giggles. The witchers reconvened in the dining room, looking haggard already, only to find Vesemir stood in the middle, staring up into the rafters, one hand raised to silence his wolves. Without a word, he pointed up into the vaulted ceilings. Only thanks to enhanced vision did the witchers see the small figure draped over a girder, arm dangling limply as Jaskier slept.

“How to we get him down from there?” Eskel asked, looking around.

“My question is, how did he get up there?” The counter from Lambert was also a fair one.

Before any answers could be give, Geralt broke into a run with “he’s rolling!” grunted between puffs of exertion. Sure enough, Jaskier had turned from his back to his side and gravity was doing its thing. Almost in slow motion, Jaskier toppled from the rafter.

“Eskel! Aard!” Geralt yelled. Only years of training together had Eskel sending a moderate blast towards Jaskier’s falling body. It won them enough time that Geralt could leap the final few meters and he caught Jaskier in his arms, his own shoulder slamming into the ground rather than their bard’s.

“Again! Again! Again!” Jaskier trilled, seemingly waking up without any kind of transition from sleep to sleepy to awake. Before anyone could react, he was up and off, rushing into the kitchen and, a moment later, running across a beam up high. “Catch me Geralt!”

The next minute Jaskier was falling again with a childish “whee!” and Eskel had to use aard to direct him towards Geralt once again. Thus the newest game was born. Jaskier had boundless energy to run, climb and jump, only to repeat again. And again. And again. Even Eskel was feeling the strain, his signs coming out weaker while Geralt huffed and puffed at having to run around to catch Jaskier who jumped off random beams, never the same one.

“Last one, then it’s lunch time,” Vesemir’s voice was clear through the hall and Jaskier took a running jump, almost missing Geralt as Eskel’s aard didn’t give him enough of a boost.

Sitting at the table, Jaskier eyed the plate of food, heated up remains from the previous night. While the witchers tucked in, Jaskier pushed it around on his plate before shoving it away.

“I don’t like it.”

“You ate it yesterday,” Geralt replied around a mouthful.

“But I don’t like it today. I want grouse.”

Even if Kaer Morhen had a stash of grouse, they wouldn’t have cooked any just because Jaskier was being picky. They ignored his indignant kicking of the table leg. The first sniffle and smell of salty tears had all of them looking up. Jaskier’s cheeky were ruddy red and large crocodile tears trickled down his cheeks.

“But I want grouse,” he wailed, voice breaking on a shriek.

Vesemir had honestly thought he had seen everything in his many years. But not once had he watched a child slither down a chair, muscles lax yet tight with rage. On the floor, Jaskier truly let loose, screaming, little fists pounding into the stone of the floor. The witchers all froze and stared at each other, not knowing what to do.

“If you won’t eat it, you’ll go hungry,” Vesemir ventured when Jaskier took a breath. Another howl of rage was his only answer.

Eskel was the first to decide this wasn’t for him. He picked up his plate and carried it into the kitchen, finishing his meal there, Geralt rapidly joining him. A look was exchanged between Vesemir and Lambert, neither wanting to be the last one left with a hysterical child. By virtue of being nearer the door, Vesemir won and made his hasty retreat.

Left alone with Jaskier, Lambert looked at his plate and then towards the door that led to the entrance of the keep. When no help seemed to come, he shrugged and kept eating.

There was a lull in Jaskier’s theatrics and Lambert felt a small wave of relief. “Hey kid, you done?”

“No.” More screaming.

“Okay.”

Eventually, Jaskier ran out of steam. After lying under the table for a little longer, he climbed out and sat back on his chair, arms crossed over his chest and glaring at the plate.

It was less than a day since Jaskier had turned into a child and already the witchers were tired. Not just the regular fatigue but the kind where they would have fallen into a pile in front of a fire and slept for probably a whole day. Eskel was worn ragged from all the signs, Geralt from the stress of catching Jaskier, Lambert’s nerves were fraying from the screaming and Vesemir thought he was too old for this shit. Sadly, his concoction only worked on witchers, otherwise he would have already pinned Jaskier down and forced a dose of the stuff down his throat.

The main door to the keep opened and a newcomer strolled in. A little put off by the lackluster greeting, Aiden followed his nose and found the others in the dining hall, a child opposite Lambert.

“You came,” Lambert sighed a waved. Three heads peered out from the kitchen and Eskel waggled his fingers with a tired smile.

“I did. And who is this? A Child Surprise?”

“Jaskier. The brat. I mean. The bard.”

Looking around, Aiden suppressed a smirk. He had a good idea what had been going on. Rather than make a big thing of it, he pointed at Jaskier’s plate. “You going to eat that?” A stubborn shake of head was his answer. “Sweet. I’m starving so you won’t mind if I-”

He cut off his words as a fork almost stabbed him in the hand. “Guess I’ll get my own plate then.”

The others watched as Jaskier glared at Aiden and hurriedly stuffed his food into his mouth, hunched over the plate. For his part, Aiden hid his triumphant grin and walked into the kitchen, getting a slight shoulder bump in greeting from Eskel.

After lunch seemed to settle down, the wolves were rather hopeful of an afternoon nap. Children did that, right? They piled in front of the fire, grumbling. Aiden joined them, Jaskier sat triumphantly on his shoulders and clutching his hair.

“Now,” Aiden said, “we need to put these big babies to sleep. Can you help me tuck them in?”

Little hands patted the throws down that Aiden draped over the other witchers. He tried not to laugh at how they were all drooping, cuddling up into a tangle of limbs.

A few hours later they woke in various states of decoration. Lambert had a candle stuck up his nose, Eskel’s hair was tied into a lot of small bunchies while Geralt’s face was scribbled on in charcoal and ash, giving him the most incredible eyebrows and scowl. Meanwhile, Vesemir was adorned in anything shiny that could be found in the keep.

“What the-?” Lambert growled and looked up at Aiden who was far too entertained.

“You left me with the kid. We kept ourselves entertained.”

Sitting up, Vesemir had to try and hide his own amusement. “How are you so good at keeping up?”

“He’s no worse than any other kid.” The shrug from Aiden seemed genuine. “You had them here too, didn’t you?” A look at the wolves and Aiden’s eyes went round. “You were all quiet and serious, weren’t you? Other than Lambert but even his firecracker ways were muted by comparison.”

It seemed that destiny had already matched the children to the schools they would fit in with the best. And it was safe to say, if Jaskier had been destined to be a witcher, he wouldn’t have been a wolf.