The man that stood in the doorway of The Kingfisher was none other than Lambert, his silhouette framed by the grey light of the Novigrad morning. He was dressed in his usual black leather jerkin, the wolf's head medallion resting against his chest, his two swords crossed between his shoulders. His dark hair was a mess, more disheveled than usual, which was saying something and there was a flush to his cheeks that suggested he had already started drinking long before noon. His yellow eyes locked onto Sebastian.
"Seb!" Lambert said with a smile, pushing off the doorframe. His boots thudded against the wooden floor. "What the fuck are you doing here in Novigrad?"
Sebastian's eyes widened.
Then he smiled back, one that reached his eyes and softened the hard lines of his jaw.
"Lambert?"
Sebastian's arms went around Lambert's shoulders. Lambert's arms went around Sebastian's back. It was brief, barely a breath, barely a squeeze. In a world that offered witchers nothing but cold shoulders and colder steel, a hug between brothers was no small thing.
Then Sebastian pushed himself away, holding Lambert at arm's length. His nose wrinkled. His smile twisted into a grimace.
"Ugh, man," Sebastian said, releasing Lambert's shoulders and taking a half-step back. "You stink of vodka.."
Lambert blinked. He lifted his own arm, sniffed his sleeve, and made a face. "Shit. Is it that bad?" He sniffed again, deeper this time, and shrugged. "Didn't notice."
"You never do," Sebastian said. But he was still smiling.
Lambert's yellow eyes, darker than Geralt's, wilder, always on the edge of something reckless studied Sebastian's face. Taking him in, the tired lines around his eyes that had not been there four months ago.
"What are you doing in Novigrad?" Lambert asked. "Don't make me ask you a third time Seb."
Sebastian opened his mouth. Closed it. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his features.
"Oh," he said. "Right. You did, didn't quite catch it first."
Lambert crossed his arms. Waiting.
Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he had never been able to shake since he was a kid. "I don't know, exactly. I felt like... since I was in Redania, I thought I'd come here. See the so-called Pearl of the North, the largest city on the Continent other than the city of golden towers,Nilfgaard.. Which I have very little memory of.." He glanced around the common room, at the low ceiling and the scarred tables and the fire crackling in the hearth. "So far, it hasn't disappointed, but I've yet to see it fully, I only just got here."
Lambert snorted. "Just got here and you already found an inn with good vodka. Priorities, I respect that."
Sebastian's expression shifted. "Besides," he said, "I wanted to check on some friends. You know who." He paused. "Someone who visited us during winter alongside Geralt, four years ago."
Lambert's eyebrows rose. "Oh," he said. "You mean Dandelion."
Sebastian nodded.
Lambert scratched the stubble on his jaw. "Didn't know he was here, though I heard something like that... I dunno really, I don't pay attention to bards. They talk too much and sing even more." He shrugged. "I got here two days ago, been around in Redania since we departed Kaer Morhen. Told you I had business there. Well, it led me here, to Novigrad." He gestured vaguely at the city beyond the walls. "Apparently, the work doesn't stop just because I want it to."
Sebastian laughed. "Work? You? Since when do you look for work?"
"I don't," Lambert said flatly. "Work finds me, like a curse or a bad smell." He paused, then raised his voice. "Innkeep! Vodka. Two of them, and don't water it down, I'll know."
Willy, who had been watching the reunion with amusement from behind the bar, nodded and reached for a bottle.
Lambert turned back to Sebastian. His expression softened and he clapped Sebastian on the shoulder and guided him toward a table near the fire. The corner table. The one with the best view of the room and the fewest blind spots, Witcher habits.
"Come on, Seb," Lambert said, dropping into a chair with a grunt. He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. "Sit. I need to hear from you, how are you doing along the Path?" He looked at Sebastian, really looked and something flickered behind his yellow eyes. "Honestly, great to see you and all little brother.. But you look terrible, I know that damn look."
Sebastian sat across from him. The chair creaked beneath his weight. He pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, slowly and set them on the table.
"Thanks," he said dryly. "You really know how to make a man feel welcome."
"Someone has to tell you the truth," Lambert said. "Vesemir's not here to do it, and Geralt's too polite."
"Geralt is not polite."
"Compared to me, he's a courtier." Lambert leaned back as Willy arrived with two clay cups and a bottle of clear liquid. The innkeeper set them down, murmured something about calling if they needed food, and retreated.
Lambert poured two cups, generous portions.
"So," Lambert said, pushing one cup toward Sebastian. "Talk."
Sebastian wrapped his fingers around the cup, the clay was warm. The vodka inside was not.
"Few things happened," Sebastian said carefully. "Nothing too crazy for a witcher, anyway."
Lambert snorted, he raised his cup, took a long swallow, and set it down with a sharp exhale. "Nah. I need the whole story. Don't give me that 'nothing too crazy' bullshit. You've been on the Path for what, four months? And you already look like you've aged a decade. Something happened." He gestured at Sebastian's cup. "I've already ordered the vodka for it. So talk."
Sebastian looked at the cup. Looked at Lambert, looked at the fire.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Alright," he said. "You win."
He picked up the cup. Took a sip, the vodka burned going down, clean and sharp and honest. It tasted like Kaer Morhen's still, like winter nights in the great hall.
Sebastian set the cup down, his eyes found the fire.
"Where do I start?" he murmured.
Lambert leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes fixed on Sebastian's face.
"At the beginning," Lambert said. "Obviously."
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. "Right," Sebastian said finally. "Ard Carraigh.."
Lambert's eyebrows rose. "Ard Carraigh? Not far from home then. So?"
Sebastian took another sip of vodka. Longer this time.
"It started with a contract.." he said.
.
.
.
The fire had burned low by the time Sebastian finished speaking. The vodka bottle was half empty.. or half full, depending on which witcher you asked,
Lambert sat motionless, his cup was in his hand, had been in his hand for the last fifteen minutes, untouched. His yellow eyes were fixed on Sebastian's face with an intensity that bordered on disbelief. Not because he thought Sebastian was lying, Lambert had known the boy since he was.. Well, a boy, struggling to lift a small wooden crate.
The story was so absurd, so stacked wih violence and impossible turns, a cursed estate, a hym, then Redanian soldiers. A massacre in the forest, the Scoia'tael. And then the white frost.
Lambert set down his cup.
"Shit.." he said.
That word was all he had.
Lambert ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. When he looked up again, his expression had shifted, the mask of sarcasm and indifference, had slipped.
"That is... a lot," Lambert said slowly. "A fucked up contract as your first one. Then you butchered Redanians, and ended up helping Scoia'tael... Aaand somehow ended up in a white-frosted world." He shook his head, staring at the fire. "And then back here."
He paused. Looked at Sebastian.
"Honestly, all of this sounds like bullshit."
"Not from you though," Lambert added quickly. He gestured vaguely with one hand. "You're not a liar. You're too earnest for your own good. It's annoying. But.." he shook his head again, "..from Eskel, maybe. Eskel would tell a story like this, he's got that kind of face."
Lambert picked up his cup, finally, and drained it in one long swallow. The vodka burned and he welcomed it.
"But from you?" Lambert continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "From you, I believe it. Which is worse, honestly. Because that's a lot for one season. That's a lot for a witcher twice your age. That's a lot for fucking Geralt, and he's been through two wars and a djinn and a cursed child and gods know what else.."
Sebastian said nothing. He sat with his own cup cradled in both hands, the vodka untouched for the last half hour. He was looking at the fire, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing other things.
"All true," Sebastian said quietly. His voice was rough, scraped raw by the telling. "Every detail.. But it's not so bad after all, could have been worse."
"Honestly," Lambert said, leaning back in his chair, "I've heard something from the soldiers. A couple of days ago, before I came to Novigrad. I was in an inn, not as nice as this one, dirt floor, rats the size of cats.. and there was a group of Redanian soldiers drinking away their pay. They were talking about a demon. A demon that had killed soldiers in a certain forest east of Redania, near the borders with Kaedwen."
Sebastian's eyes flicked to Lambert's face.
Lambert held his gaze. "I thought it was some sort of story, soldiers get drunk, soldiers tell tales. You know how it is. 'I saw a drowners with three heads.' 'I fought a ghoul that could talk.' Bullshit, all of it." He paused."But now from what you've shared with me, it is safe to say that they were talking about you."
"Yeah," Sebastian said. "The Butcher of Redanians, at your service." He lifted his cup in a toast. "I did it for a good cause, though."
Lambert didn't laugh. He didn't raise his cup. He just looked at Sebastian with an expression that was difficult to read. "I don't know about that, man," he finally said.
/-\
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