Chapter Text
Contracts are shit, innkeepers are shit, and becoming a witcher was the shittiest fucking thing that ever happened to me.
Seven towns nestled in the foothills of some godsforsaken shithole of a mountain, seven noticeboards in one of the most underserved and monster-infested regions on the continent, and not a single damn contract to be seen. Every alderman Lambert asked had the same shitheel response. Some asshole breezed through right before him, taking every damn contract for himself. With the harvest season drawing to a close, there should have been a bounty of monsters to slay or odd jobs for him to take to get him through the winter. Instead, the townsfolk eyed him warily, unsubtly urging him to pass through rather than rest under a real roof for once. Not that he had the coin to spare, anyhow.
He was debating the merits of emigrating to Zerrikania, freezing rain extinguishing his fiery red hair and plastering it to his scalp beneath his worn hood, when he reached the next town on his circuit. Bypassing the message board entirely, he trudged through the mud to the alderman’s house. It only took one round of hinge-rattling knocking for the man to make his appearance.
“Back already?” the alderman asked as he opened the door, his eyes sliding from Lambert’s mud-soaked boots to blink at his wolf medallion. “Ah. We’ve no contracts for you here, m’afraid. Another bloke buzzed through last night. Said he’d take care of the thing what’s wrecking havoc near the quarry.”
Lambert’s lip curled in a snarl.
“What’d he look like?”
“Ehm… Tall, tan skin, brown mustache and goatee? He had his hood up, so I didn’t—”
“Which way did he go?”
“I—I don’t—He said he’d be back tonight. If he isn’t, then—”
Lambert snatched the man’s shirt collar, shaking him sharply.
“I don’t think you heard me. I said, which way?”
~~~~
Every stone and clump of grass along his path for the next mile was the unwitting target of Lambert’s rage.
Eight damn villages, now. Eight, each with their notice board stripped clean of contracts by some slimy motherfucker who always stopped long enough to have a pint and win over the tavern maids, but never long enough for Lambert to catch up and smash his bastard skull in.
Ever since… Well, ever since Volthere, honestly, but ever since that old bastard Varin tied him to the whipping post for ending a fight he hadn’t even picked, he spent less and less time in wolf territory. There was too high of a chance of running into a senior witcher with a chip on his shoulder, and frankly, wintering on his own was… More bearable. No intentionally cruel chores, no watching over his shoulder for someone looking to pick a fight, and no getting snowed in to a freezing keep with fuckall to do but listen to the rest of those bastards reminisce and joke and tell stories over tankards of white gull he brewed, without ever sparing him a sideways glance.
He preferred it to the lies. One of the tolerable ones, Gweld, wrote to him after his third season away, tracking him along his path gods-know-how. He read a single line about how he was “part of the pack” and how much everyone missed him before drawing a fitting symbol on the back of the parchment and leaving it with the innkeep who handed it off in the first place.
He heard, once, when his so-called brothers thought he wasn’t around, about the betting pool. Every year as they lit the funeral pyre for whatever scraps of their lost brothers made it home, coins changed hands in the glow of the flames. Maybe they’d remember him more fondly if their pockets were a bit heavier as they hung his medallion on the Tree of Valour. Then again, who would bet against them? No one gave a shit if he lived or died, let alone returned home for the winter, so he set out for the south, far from wolf territory.
After a few years of wandering, he stumbled upon a Bear’s camp, long abandoned. Poor bastard took a fiend hoof to the head, his helmet smashed straight through his temple. He burned the poor sod’s bones and cached his gear in a cave nearby, etching the bear clan’s symbol onto the stone. The Bear’s journal detailed a circuitous route through a series of shitholes and backwater settlements in the shadow of a barren mountain. Flush with harpies and with nothing to offer but piss-poor ale and a guarantee of solitude, it was the perfect hiding place. He had his pick of derelict shacks and empty caves to winter in, and best of all, there was a blizzard’s chance in hell he would run into another witcher, least of all another wolf.
He spent the latter part of each autumn shoring up his shelter of choice and stockpiling enough food and firewood to last through the worst of the frost. Luckily, as far south as he was, it wasn’t as bitterly cold as the miserable winters he spent entombed at Kaer Morhen.
One year, a farrier let him set up shop in his hayloft for the season as payment for breaking the curse on his son. The forge kept the barn comfortably warm, and if he got squirrelly, there was a forest flush with small game nearby. The man’s wife was a quick hand with a knife and would give him a portion of whatever meal she made from what he brought back. That was until the farrier’s customers started to complain that letting a beast such as him near the horses would make them go lame.
So, yeah, things were going pretty well until the absolute jackass he’d been tailing for the better part of a season decided to try to starve him off of his own damn path.
Underneath the heavy scent of rain and mud, he caught the barest whiff of wood smoke.
The hunt was on.
~~~~
Lambert followed the scent far into the forest. Wet leaves clung to his boots, slapping against the ground with every step, though he could barely hear it over the roar of the rain. He fought his way through the underbrush, not so much as a deer track to follow, until he reached a cave hidden behind a screen of rough-cut pine boughs.
He crouched in the entryway for a moment, listening and scenting for any sign of life. Someone had been here hours earlier, but they were either freshly dead, or gone.
The cave stretched forward for a few feet before jutting sharply upward. Rivulets of water ran down the stones and back the way he came. The claw marks scored across the stones and bone fragments littering the floor revealed it had once been home to a mountain lion.
The steep angle and lack of handholds would have made the climb impossible for a human without equipment. Lambert scrambled up the stones, the rainwater dripping from his sodden gear making the ascent more treacherous than anticipated. Halfway up, he slipped, clawing at the moss-slick stones. His palm caught a sharp edge as he struggled to recover, blood flowing from between his fingers and darkening his rain-soaked sleeve.
Throwing himself gracelessly over the top of the tunnel, he at last set eyes on his target’s camp. The cave was just high enough for him to stand. If he hadn’t been soaked to the skin, his hair would have brushed the mossy ceiling.
In a nook at the far side of the cave was a worn knit blanket spread over a pile of pine boughs. A satchel wrapped in a much-patched shirt served as a pillow for the makeshift bed. Atop the satchel sat a leather-bound journal and a sack of what smelled like jerky. A pair of socks, made of fine material and neatly darned, hung drying near the ashes of a fire at the center of the chamber. Rain dripped in through a small opening in the ceiling, serving as a convenient path for smoke to escape, though it did little to hold in heat.
Lambert shed his cloak and pack, pouring rainwater from his boots back down the tunnel and wringing out his hair. Once he was as dry as he could manage, he took a moment to tend to his bleeding palm. With the wound wrapped, he laid his dagger across his lap, gripping it with his good hand.
All he had to do was wait.
~~~~
Waiting was fucking irritating. Stalking a gravier or staking out a nest of nekkers was one thing. Waiting for the jackass who ruined his perfectly isolated routine to show himself was another. The longer he sat shivering and glaring at the meager camp, the angrier he became.
How dare this prick go out of his way to steal every contract on my path, then not even have the decency to be back in his camp in time for me to kick his ass? He had to be fast to finish every contract before I could catch up with him. Why was this monster giving him so much trouble? What if it kills him before I can?
Lambert ground his teeth at the thought of some two-bit monster stealing his kill.
He lasted all of twenty minutes before boredom won out. Snatching up the pouch, he was pleased to find a bundle of surprisingly flavorful venison jerky inside. Worrying a piece between his teeth, he reached for the journal. His fingers barely brushed the cover before movement in his periphery caught his eye.
A tiny spark of light flickered in the coals of the fire pit. Lambert froze, watching as it flitted to and fro, like a mouse creeping through a haystack. His instincts told him to back away, and yet burning curiosity niggled at his fingertips. He inched forward, hovering his hand over the coals. The light orbited the space beneath his palm, tendrils of sparks stretching searchingly towards him. A gentle heat kissed his skin, growing warmer as he brought his hand closer. Just before he could brush his finger over the flame, it darted beneath the coals like a spooked animal.
It felt… Alive.
Easing his hand away, the spark peered at him from amidst the ashes. After a moment, it found its courage, stretching closer once more. He reached back. It jumped at the twitch of his fingers. They repeated this dance for some time, curiosity ebbing in the face of Lambert’s burgeoning irritation.
“Damn thing,” he growled, smacking his palm against the coals as it darted out of reach once more. Leaning back against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, taking a bite of his jerky.
The spark peeked out from behind a charred bit of wood knocked free of the fire pit. Thin tendrils forked from its core like twiggy little legs. He hadn’t spent time around many animals, but even he knew the look of a creature begging for scraps.
He leaned forward with a put-upon groan, holding the jerky flat in his palm the way he had seen Geralt offer treats to his feral bitch of a horse. The spark danced from side to side before stretching one spindly pseudo-limb to tap the tip of his finger. He held still as it tested its weight, a near-imperceptible pressure like a sun-warmed feather skittering down his finger to the bit of meat in his palm. He barely had a moment to comprehend the feeling before the spark swept over the bandage, brushing against a smudge of blood staining his thumb.
The instant it touched his blood, the spark burst into a shower of light and heat, crackling deafeningly in the cramped chamber. Lambert threw himself back with a curse, the golden light of his quen encasing him as he braced for the detonation of some elaborate arcane trap.
For a moment he sat frozen, arms braced in front of his face. As the ringing faded from his ears, the roar of rain through the gap in the ceiling slowly returned.
He lowered his arms, cracking one eye open and coming face-to-face with…
A cat.
A small, scraggly cat, glowing like a blazing fire.
It lay on its back in the center of the fire pit, flickering flames licking at its fluffy tail as it blinked up at him from the coals. Lambert stared as it rolled over to pick up the discarded piece of jerky from the floor.
It considered him as it chewed, moss-green eyes unblinking.
“So hungry for knowledge. So curious. Yes, I think I will like this one.” It thought, though Lambert did not hear it.
It swallowed the unwitting offering, and Lambert’s blood with it.
“Our pact is sealed. I look forward to our partnership, my Eternal Flame.”
