bakerstreet | (no subject)

A couple of options, though none of them are exactly small changes:

1. AFAB Trans Lambert
2. Aiden Lives
3. Lambert WAS at Kaer Morhen for the sacking and survived with Vesemir

If Eskel had ever prayed in his life, he didn't remember it, not like he would remember this. Praying his horse wouldn't drop dead under him for how hard he drove her. Praying the appalled whispers and smug insinuations in Ard Carraigh were wrong. But both got more vicious, more graphic with every town he passed through. For the first time in a while he was met with violence in villages he had been seen in for years, coming and going with the seasons.

"Get out of here, mutant!" Insults hurled with every stone. "Go and die like all the the rest."

He went to no more towns after that. He didn't sleep, he barely meditated. He drove the mare until she drooled and sweated and he cursed her because he could catch the faintest whiff of something on the wind, could see the faintest wisp of smoke. He tried to tell himself he was making too much of small things but he knew somewhere in the pit of his stomach:Kaer Morhen was smouldering.

The mare didn't make it. They don't call that trail The Killer for no reason. But Eskel had run this trail what felt like a thousand times. He could run it in the dark, he could run it with his eyes closed. He could run it with potions coursing through his veins, or bruised and bleeding. This was not the first time he ran, trusting his instincts, through a haze of tears. He told himself it was from this damned smoke that settled like a shroud over the valley and reeked of flesh. Flesh that was something just a little sharper than human.

Eskel is often the first one home in the winter. He likes to be home to help get the keep ready before the winter weather sets in. Perhaps he is the first home now and so it is Eskel who has the burden of seeing what has become of the only home he has ever known.

Kaer Morhen is not empty during hunting season. There are the old masters who stay to give their lessons, witchers convalescing from injuries, rare guests from other schools. Those to stay to hunt nearby or do work around the keep.

Novices, untrialed witchers who come to Kaer Morhen as frightened little boys and leave it perfected, fearless killing machines. They often range from four to fourteen.

They hadn't stood a chance.

Staggering through the wreckage like a drunk, Eskel's rough voice is like the barking, snarling of a wounded animal as he shouts the names of the men who comprise the only family he's ever known. Praying that somewhere in the horrific remains of his world anyone, anything, might have survived.

Being new to the Path, Lambert hadn't meant to return to Kaer Morhen at all that winter. He'd planned to return only if Eskel or Geralt had asked, pleaded with him. But life on the Path was hard, in part due to the insults and stones hurled at him in every village he passed through. A wyvern had gotten an excellent shot in before he'd killed the beast, raking its claws over his face, narrowly missing his eye and leaving him half blinded by the blood. A stupid mistake that left him with few options if he wanted to heal properly.

Vesemir had been the only one not to chide him for recklessness. His fencing master had seemed happy to see him, in fact, had even offered to patch him up. And rather than heading back out for a handful of weeks just to end up needing to climb back up the trail once more, Lambert had simply stayed and helped to train the young boys who hadn't yet undergone their Trial of Grasses.

The weather had only just started to turn when they'd smelled the smoke and heard the angry voices coming up the mountain.

The young ones were herded into the keep with old Barmin, and anyone able to fight was sent to defend their home. When Lambert saw the mages, he knew they didn't stand a chance. Their numbers were already dwindling, and the fanatics far outnumbered the witchers of the Wolf School.

The only thing that saved Lambert was likely his insistence on staying by his mentor. He and Vesemir did what they could to drive back the attackers, but a poisoned arrow quickly took the young witcher out of the fight.

When he wakes up, he's under a pile of training dummies. He can smell burning flesh, that of humans, witchers, and animals. He can hear the crackling of fire, feel the heat of one nearby, and even taste the acrid smoke lingering in his mouth. And he can hear a familiar gruff voice, calling out names. A voice that hadn't been here before the massacre.

Mustering what strength he has left, Lambert shoves at the dummies covering him, struggling to crawl out from beneath them. He tries to call out for Eskel, but his voice is hoarse, hardly above a whisper. Belatedly, he notices the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder, and so he breaks off the shaft and tosses it aside. Looking around the wreckage, he catches sight of the older witcher, coughs to try and clear his throat, and calls out again in a raspy voice. Despite the carnage around him, he feels relief flooding through him at the sight of Eskel across the courtyard.

"Lambert?!" The call is hoarse, weak but he knows it. The young minted witcher with whom Eskel had shared a long friendship and a brief but intense dalliance."Fuck! Lambert--!" He tries not to think about what he slips on as he scrambles to the slumped form of his brother. He takes Lambert's face in his hands and the younger witcher might see how badly he's shaking. "Holy fuck, you're alive." He says, thumb tracing the new scar before he starts checking Lambert for injuries, finding the arrow. He can smell the glass-sharp smell of poison.

"Gotta get that out, Lamb."

Lambert offers a weak smile, leaning into the rough touch. "'Course I'm alive," he answers. "Can't leave you all alone."

He doesn't want to think about what lies around them, who he might be lighting a pyre for later. Eskel is here, and that means he's safe. "Stupid bastards got lucky...Fuck, but it hurts." The keep is still standing, at least. Maybe Barmin and the boys are still safe.

"Hang in there, brace yourself and don't crack any teeth." Eskel says, grimacing as he pulls his hunting knife from his belt. Better to make a couple of small cuts, wiggle the arrow free rather than simply rip it out of Lambert's shoulder. Still, it was an unpleasant business and Eskel's hands were slick with blood.

"Gotta get you inside." He says, his voice gone flat with a heavy sport of determination. Keep Lambert alive, that's all he's thinking about now. "Get you bandages..."

He does not tell Lambert that he's almost certain that the novices and the old master are dead. Who else have they lost? Every face that looks up at him from the sooty, blood soaked ground makes his heart sink. Who was here, when the humans came? Not Geralt, he'd left before Eskel and going too far south to have returned so soon.

"Vesemir...?" He rasps, hauling one of Lambert's arms over his shoulder to get him upright.

Having the tip of an arrow dug out of one's shoulder is never a pleasant experience, but having Eskel be the one to dig the arrow out at least makes it tolerable. Still, he winces and whines throughout the process, reaching out to clutch at Eskel's gambeson with his good hand.

Eskel mentions getting him inside and getting him bandaged, and all Lambert can do is nod. He's never witnessed this amount of violence in one place. The smell alone turns his stomach.

"He's here. Was here." Lambert leans against his brother, allows himself to practically be carried towards the doors. "I fought beside him. Shit, he...where is he?"

"I'll find him." Eskel promises. "Gotta get you patched up."

Eskel is much older than Lambert, has seen something of the world. The sight of the keep door, blasted and charged, makes his insides turn cold and liquid. He knows what lies beyond is the worst thing he will see in however many years he will be given in this life. He also knows he needs to get Lambert inside. Once they stopped the bleeding, they could start to make sense of things. He hauled his brother through the doors.

Nothing would ever force what they saw within the walls of the keep where they had lived most of their lives, the safest place in the entire world for lost little boys.

Except until it suddenly, violently wasn't. Old Barmin had put himself between the zealots and the novices but it simply hadn't been enough.

"Come on." Eskel rasps, when he can speak again, the half-whispered words feeling so loud it was obscene in that charnel house nightmare their come had become. "Should be medical supplies this way."

Lambert || The Witcher 3 || OTA for canonmates

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