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It’s in your head, it’s in your head, it’s in your head.
Aiden’s words run on a loop through his head. It’s all he’s holding onto at this point. He tries to remember the way the cat’s voice feels when their chests are pressed together. The way he lets his nails gently scrape against Lambert’s scalp while running his fingers through Lambert’s red hair.
He wishes Aiden were here now. He’d be able to get Lambert through the night. The wind from the winter storm has even brought the mangled body of Voltehre to stand by the fire, in addition to all the other broken bodies and pained voices that torment Lambert on bad nights. He’s heard them more this week. The short days, confinement, and distance from his favourite person are all taking their toll on him. He can hear voices in more quiet moments than not. At least when his brothers and mentor are around he can tell they’re not actually there. They’re in his head. They rarely visit on the path, at least during the day. It’s the slow months without contract or travel that are difficult. Or maybe it’s being back at Kaer Morhen. Either way, winters are harder than the hunting season.
Nonetheless, he’s here now, and so are the voices. So are the bodies. The nights are the most difficult. He closes his eyes, and tries to clear the images of his fallen brothers and humans he failed to protect from the back of his eyelids. Something nice… something nice… Aiden? Aiden’s pretty.
Lambert pictures the curve of his nose, and the scar on his forehead that takes a notch out of his eyebrow. Lambert remembers the way the morning light shines through Aiden’s hair and adds a golden shimmer to his dark hair. He pictures Aiden’s eyes; gold flecked with green, not the typical inhuman yellow Lambert has grown accustomed to seeing in his own reflection. When Aiden lets his eyes go soft, only ever far from the nearest town, shining by a campfire, it makes Lambert wonder what Aiden would have been like as a human.
Yeah, maybe Aiden can be a right bastard when he chooses to be, but he’s capable of kindness too. A tentative and wavering thing at first, akin to the only kind of vulnerability Lambert is capable of giving. The difference between them being that once Aiden chooses to, his uncertain kindness takes on a fire of its own. A thing that will devour if Aiden lets it. And what Lambert wouldn’t give to be on the receiving end of that right now.
What’s going on? Aiden would ask softly, and Lambert would tell him. He’d let it all fall from his mouth, in the way he’s always wanted to, but could never quite relinquish that last bit of control. Even with his cat. The words would drain like pus from an infected wound and Aiden wouldn’t call him a killer or a monster or a mutant or point out all the things he did wrong. All the blows that missed their mark, all the times he wasn’t fast enough to save them. The times that he wasn’t strong enough to save everyone. All the ways he couldn’t live up to the expectations his brothers have for him.
What would Aiden say? Lambert keeps his eyes shut tight. When the voices get too loud, what does Aiden tell him? Breathe . He’d start with breathing. Lambert tries to imagine the pillows beneath him are Aiden’s thighs. Tries to convince himself that Aiden is here, calloused hands petting over his hair. Breathe , he’d murmur above Lambert. Lambert forces his shaky, gulping breath to slow and deepen. You’re doing so well, Lamb, Aiden would say, You’re doing such a good job, being able to tell the voices are there again. I’m so proud of you . A part of Lambert questions whether Aiden would be proud of him, but he knows to shut it out. Aiden would want him to shut that thought out. Besides, this is about getting through the night. He has to believe that Aiden would be proud of him, that Aiden would care and believe in him tonight. It’s a bad night, but it doesn’t need to progress into one of the worst nights.
Once his breathing is under control, Lambert has to wrack his brain again for what’s next. He fights to keep his breathing even and steady as he thinks. You can relax, Lamb. I’ve got you, you’re safe. Aiden’s hands run over his shoulders, digging into soft sports to release tension. Lambert focuses on his shoulders and consciously releases tension. He takes stock of his body, releasing tension where he can. It doesn’t work as well as when Aiden helps, firm touch chasing away the last of the stiffness and letting his limbs go limp. Instead he does what he can with thought alone. You’re safe, Lamb. I’ll watch over you; I’ve got you. He repeats Aiden’s reassurance in his mind until he can feel his shoulders settle deeper into the mattress.
Part of him knows he’s in Kaer Morhen. He’s safe here. His brothers are a couple doors away, asleep on the other side of the hallway. But it's Aiden's embrace that means he’s safe. He feels safest tucked against his cat, so instead of trying to argue with the fear in his mind, he just leans into whatever comfort his mind can give him.
Who’s with us tonight, Lamb? Aiden asks once Lambert has settled down.
Voltehre. Lambert answers.
Is he the only one tonight?
Lambert shakes his head. They’re all here .
Tell me about them. Take your time. Stop when you need to Lamb, don’t push yourself tonight.
Lambert tells him. He starts with Voltehre, it’s been a long time since Voltehre has joined the chorus in his head. He’s in the room too. Lambert’s throat feels tight, despite not actually talking. Even thinking the words is difficult, but this is the routine Aiden takes him through. He needs that sense of structure and control now more than ever. He needs to hear Aiden’s kind words, even if he won’t be able to believe them tonight, and even if they’re false, constructed from memories.
Voltehre is standing by the hearth. His skull is— The image is too strong in Lambert’s mind. He tries to remember the way Aiden’s hair smells, the dried sweat and dirt from the road, the cheap soap he uses when he washes it in rivers and bathtubs. He tries to remember the scent of Aiden’s skin. Of leather, and horse, and silver, and that touch of burnt chaos that lingers on all the cats, and a freshness that only Lambert can only describe as spring.
He imagines Aiden understands. Lambert imagines that he somehow describes the blood and shattered skull running down the side of Voltehre’s head. The way two of his broken ribs stand like twin monoliths, exposed by his pale skin and blood-soaked shirt. The grotesque image of the arms that helped pick Lambert up in training, one of the few sets of hands that have shown Lambert kindness in his life, mangled and bent in unnatural angles. He knows if he looks down at Voltehre’s feet, if he follows the line of his broken femur down to his shattered kneecap, he will find a knife still poking out of Voltehre’s boot. A knife with a carving of a wolf in the handle. Lambert carved it after they were released from the infirmary following the grasses. They let Voltehre go a day earlier than Lambert, but Voltehre stayed. He told Lambert he could make it, that he was almost there. He wiped the sweat off of Lambert’s face with a cool cloth. Lambert carved one of his own knives and wordlessly gifted it to Voltehre. Voltehre never got the chance to use it on the path. He never had time to pull it out of his boot before being crushed under the club.
What happened to him? Aiden asks.
Lambert has told Aiden most of the story before. All the important parts, anyways. But it’s the question he always asks on nights like this, no matter how many times he hears Lambert’s struggling answers. Old Speartip got him. He never got his medallion.
Aiden gently takes Lambert’s hands from where he’s fidgeting and picking at the edge of the fur draped over him. Lambert stills his real hands and breathes. Imagine Aiden holding them still. He wouldn’t want you damaging one of your good blankets.
Old Speartip got him, Aiden repeats. His death is not your fault. You were just a trainee. You had no chance of saving those boys from a cyclops. You were lucky to survive yourself, Lamb. You did what you had to do, and you survived. Voltehre would be so glad you survived, that you continued to give your instructors hell. That you took the path and gave the world hell, Lamb.
Last time Lambert saw Voltehre, Aiden held him tight and told him Voltehre’s death wasn’t his fault, that there was nothing Lambert could have done to save his brothers and that it’s okay for it to hurt, even if he did all that he could. Tonight there’s still pain in his chest, but he doesn’t cry. He wishes he could. Letting out the pain while Aiden stroked his back and continued whispering assurance felt like a weight off his back, at least for a few hours, the burden was shared. He wishes he had that release tonight.
Instead, he keeps his eyes closed, ignoring any voices he hears that he doesn’t intentionally create in his mind. He describes the people to Aiden, one by one. The girl who was torn apart by a harpy’s claws when Lambert didn’t see the one split off from the nest back toward the village. She was wearing a yellow dress. She had five siblings. The fisherman who was torn apart in a bog. If Lambert had caught him when he slipped, the man wouldn’t have been in range of the teeth that tore through flesh and made a sickly crunch of his bones.
After each, Aiden’s voice tells him that their deaths weren’t his fault. Aiden tells Lambert that he saved countless others. That he brought peace to their families, knowing their children, siblings, and parents had been avenged. They feel like hollow words. They always do, but tonight especially. He remembers Aiden’s words almost exactly, but despite his best efforts to pretend, he knows the words aren’t really from Aiden tonight. That they’re his own attempt to appease his mind from all his failures just so he can sleep. People are dead, and he’s trying to convince himself that it’s not his fault just to make himself more comfortable.
That’s not true, Aiden says. The words don’t sound like Aiden’s. The way his voice wraps around the ‘r’ doesn’t quite match Aiden’s accent, but he doesn’t have a memory to work from. He doesn’t have a memory of the exact assurances he needs, so he just has to do his best to make his own thoughts sound like Aiden. What he thinks Aiden would say. What he desperately hopes Aiden would tell him. You deserve comfort, Lamb. You do so much more good than evil— No. Aiden wouldn’t say that. I’d be more like You protect so many people, and you deserve to be happy, even if you can’t see it. Yeah. That’s what Aiden would say.
He tries to believe the words. He does. He almost opens his eyes in frustration when he can’t use them to drown out the voices accusing him of causing their deaths. Blaming him for the child that never returned home. For the spouse left to raise children all alone. He tries to imagine Aiden’s hands soothing his hair, and running over his arms.
He tries, he really tries.
He tries repeating It’s in your head, it’s in your head, it’s in your head, over and over again, but he can’t drown them out.
He finds himself staring blankly at the ceiling. He catches motion out of the corner of his eyes before squeezing them shut again.
There’s more bodies in the room.
He tries to listen for his brothers. Hear their heartbeats and breath from their rooms, but he can’t hear anything over the cacophony of voices and pain and his own gasping breath. If something doesn’t change soon, the night is rapidly approaching one of the worst nights. Gods, he doesn’t want to be alone. If it’s going to get that bad, he doesn't want to be alone.
With eyes still closed, he sits up in bed, stripping off his shirt. It’s covered in sweat. He hopes it’s not one of his good ones as he tears a strip off of it. Two for good measure.
He ties each of them around his head as a blindfold. One should do it, but he really doesn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of anything. He can’t open his eyes again if he leaves the room. While this hall is one of the better repaired ones, there’s still evidence of the battle that took place here. The last thing he needs to do is step out of his room into the cold and find himself back in the pogrom, a scared kid, fresh off the path, watching hardened witchers getting cut down around him. Knowing he stood no chance of survival as his former instructors died by his side.
Blindfold in place, Lambert pulls the furs back, and cautiously sets his feet on the floor. He pauses there, letting the cold seep in. It’s stone, and it’s dry. There’s no blood. There’s no bodies.
It’s his room.
He knows there’s nothing on the floor. His path to the door is clear. With a few deep breaths to gather his courage, he stands and quickly strides to the door. He takes a moment to feel the wood under his fingertips. He’s safe. He knows he’s safe, and he has to trust that knowledge as he does his best to block out any sounds.
He opens the door and quickly makes the eight paces to Geralt’s door. He knows Eskel would be able to offer him more assurance. Eskel is better at verbalizing than Geralt is. He knows in his gut Aiden would want him to go to Eskel for that simple reason, but Aiden isn’t here. If anyone can keep Lambert safe, it’s Geralt. If anyone can keep the door locked shut through the battle waging downstairs, it’s Geralt. Geralt, Kaer Morhen’s golden boy, will be able to keep him safe until the sun rises.
Part of him knows the battle isn’t real, or at least it isn’t currently happening. He knows the voices yelling at him aren’t real. He knows the pool of blood slowly spreading to engulf his foot isn’t actually there, but there’s little left for him to do to fight the heavy fear in his gut that’s threatening all the hard work he’s done to get his breath under control.
He knocks on Geralt’s door. It might be more of a panicked banging than a proper knock, but he can’t distinguish what sounds come from his hand on the door from everything else around him.
It’s only a few seconds before Geralt opens the door. It feels like forever, the seconds dragging out into their own eternities, but it’s less than a breath cycle for the door to fly open. He can smell Geralt’s worry. It smells sharp and sour, but his heartbeat is steady and slow. Or he’s pretty sure, anyways. The battle is getting louder. He can barely hear the voices anymore. He can hear Varin yelling to Remus to get to the trainees, before getting cut off with a wet thump.
“Please, I’m sorry. I’m- It’s all— please, Geralt, I’m sorry. It’s bad. It’s really bad.” Lambert can’t tell how bad his voice is shaking. There’s too much. It’s everywhere now. It’s everywhere.
He can feel Geralt pull him into the room and close the door. It’s a bit quieter, then. He’s pulled into Geralt’s bed and wrapped in blankets. Geralt holds him tight. After they get settled, the door briefly opens. Lambert shouts and tries to free himself from the blankets and Geralt’s hold. Then there’s two sets of hands on him. Soothing him. “You’re safe, Lambert,” they say.
“It’s Esk, he’s got you. We’ve got you,” Geralt says gently.
“The door is locked, just let me move the dresser in front of it, I’ll be right back.”
Eskel. It’s Eskel’s voice. Lambert isn’t entirely sure how Eskel knew to join them. A sound must have alerted him. Gods know Lambert can’t tell what the real noises are. He just has to trust that his brother’s voices are real. He knows that their touches are. The ghost feel of their touch is never close to feeling real. The feel of pain or dead bodies under his hands feel more real than he’d care to understand, but the way Geralt’s arms hold him tight, and the way Eskel lays himself over Lambert isn’t something his brain has ever been able to fake.
He focuses on their voices. The rumble of their chests as Eskel and Geralt talk. They tell him he’s safe, that they’ll keep watch over him. They tell him what happened that day, that it was only the wolves in the keep. They recap the conversations they had. They tell him how well he did in training, and all the repairs he finished. They talk about the winter storm going on at the moment, and what they can hear in the keep. They remind him how long it’s been since unwanted visitors have found the keep. That the passes are snowed over, that only friends know where they are, that all the monsters in the area have already been cleared out.
He focuses on their voices. They tell him stories. They tell happy stories. Good days on the path. The experienced witchers who were kind to young trainees. The people who have thanked them over the years. He slowly settles into their hold on him. His body begins to believe that he might be safe. It’s hard to believe in anything good other than the arms wrapped around him and his brothers offering kindness, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to escape in some way to survive the night.
He focuses on their voices. He never sleeps. He never settles enough for meditation. He feels guilty for keeping his brother awake, but they’re sure to tell Lambert many times throughout the night that they want to be there with him, that protecting him is more important than anything else they may have to do this winter. The storm passes at some point, and the battle quiets. His brothers never loosen their hold on him or stop talking.
Eventually, Eskel informs him that the sun is up. “You don’t have to open your eyes or move, just want to let you know the night’s over. Are they gone?”
Lambert nods. The battle is over, and the voices are gone. He’s still afraid that if he removes the blindfold he’ll find Voltehre watching over him or Gweld’s body on the floor, so he keeps them on. He doesn’t try to move until there’s a knock at the door.
“I’ve got breakfast, boys.” Vesemir announces from the hallway. Eskel carefully extracts himself from the bed and sets about moving the furniture to let Vesemir in.
Lambert reaches up to remove his blindfolds. Geralt’s hand stops him. “Are you sure? Don’t feel like you need to take them off for breakfast or because Vesemir is here.”
“Yeah. I’m sure,” Lambert says with a rough, shaky voice. Geralt doesn’t comment.
Lambert sees Geralt first. For a minute he just stares at his brother. He’s alive. And safe. Of course he is, but it’s still a relief to see. When Lambert feels ready, he turns to look up at the ceiling. It looks the same as he remembers it. The same as practically every ceiling in Kaer Morhen. But those are the easy parts. He still has to look down at the room, the real test of whether the night is over.
He decides to look toward Eskel and Vesemir first. When he looks, Eskel has just finished barricading the door again, and Vesemir is approaching with a tray of food. It’s all food that can be eaten by hand, no need for bowls or cutlery. The old wolf looks tired. It occurs to Lambert that their mentor may have had a more restless night than his pups. At least Eskel and Geralt were with Lambert, able to do something to help. Vesemir had nothing he could do but wait, or risk making it worse.
After Eskel and Vesemir have settled onto the bed, Lambert looks at the rest of the room. First he quickly sweeps it with his eyes. If there is something there, it’s better to just catch a glimpse of it and put the blindfold back on than get a detailed image in his mind. When he spots nothing out of the ordinary, he looks again in detail. His eyes slowly sweep the room, the walls, the floor, and he spots nothing abnormal. No bodies blaming him for their death. No brothers, killed decades ago, laying on the floor in fresh blood.
Lambert settles back in against Geralt, finally convinced the night is over. He’ll be free from the voices for the day as long as he keeps someone real nearby. He can keep them at bay. His pack will keep them at bay for him. He has no idea what the next night will bring, but as Geralt shifts him into a semi-seated position, he knows he won’t be left to find out on his own.
Vesemir makes sure Lambert eats his fill. It’s slow going, but eventually the eldest wolf is satisfied. Eskel brings him water that Vesemir left on the dresser, and makes sure Lambert drinks two glasses of it. As annoying as their prodding and concerned tones are, especially after a sleepless and draining night, Lambert begins to feel better. He feels warm and… maybe not as hollow as he expected to feel. He’s suddenly very grateful for his family and the care they offered him—the care they continue to offer him.
He catches Geralt's eye while Eskel and Vesemir talk about the animals, and goes to say something. Geralt just presses their foreheads together, “We know, pup. We know.”
Geralt holds Lambert’s head against his chest, and Lambert finally falls asleep.