*material girl plays as i walk into kaer morhen, accompanied by a harem of increasingly eccentric individuals, ready to pick up our inheritance only to discover vesemir is very much so alive and well*
Training was fun for the first time in years. Cahir didn’t have to keep up appearances, didn’t have to be perfect. If he was tired, sloppy, lost a bout, it simply didn’t matter. Truth be told, he lost more bouts than won by a long stretch but that was to be expected when going against a witcher. But he was learning again, allowed to make mistakes, permitted to be a fallible human without consequences. Nobody challenged his authority, rode the momentary gloating fame of beating the White Flame’s chosen one.
In fact, after all that had happened, it was during training that Cahir had laughed for the first time in too long. He loved the secluded freedom Kaer Morhen offered, along with the friendships that were motivated purely on the desire of his company rather than the favours and social standing he could offer.
That wasn’t to say life was a smooth ride. Cahir couldn’t bring himself to go into the armoury or the pantry, the rooms too small and the doors had a knack for slamming shut. The one time Lambert had tried to playfully ruffle his hair, Cahir forgot how to breathe, the phantom echoes of fingers pressing against his scalp and tearing through his mind wrenched to the forefront of his thoughts. That evening Lambert had gifted him a hat, saying it would give a bit more protection because he’d managed to weave dimeritium laced thread through it.
Apart from such small hiccoughs, things were fine. Cahir happily clashed blades with Eskel, the familiarity of the weight in his palm, the ringing of steel against steel, it was all a way to relax. When his body was tired his mind didn’t have as much time to dwell on the past. It worked out just fine really.
So caught up in such thoughts, Cahir missed a parry and the world went spinning. There was a tight weight on his wrist as his sword went flying and he was forced to his knees, defenceless and restrained. Breath coming shallow, Cahir couldn’t remember where he was or why. All he could think about was how his wrist ached behind his back, how he was helpless to do anything as he was knelt in front of an audience. Even if it was a different group, Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt were all watching and Eskel was behind him with a sword. The why of it all eluded Cahir but Eskel was a good man. And if he agreed that Cahir needed to be beheaded then it had to be a damn good reason. It wasn’t as if anyone could call Cahir a good guy by any stretch of the imagination. No, he probably deserved it. All Cahir could think of was that at least it was Eskel. He was strong, had a sharp blade and was fair. At least he wouldn’t make Cahir suffer by needing to take several swings to carry out the punishment. The last thing Cahir wanted to was to make it more difficult for Eskel. Not like there was much he could do but he tried. Bending his head, he gave Eskel a clear view of his neck and held his breath. He wasn’t going to cry. That wouldn’t be fair on poor Eskel.
For some reason, the blow never came.
The reason was pretty obvious as far as Eskel was concerned. They’d been fighting, he saw an opportunity and took it like so many bouts begore. But never before had Cahir crashed to his knees like that, rigid yet pliant in the worst of ways. The sudden drop in Cahir’s heartrate was as terrifying as he shallow breaths and the haunted, distant gaze before Cahir’s eyes scrunched shut. Somehow that wasn’t even the worst of it. The sword fell from Eskel’s hand as he saw Cahir bend his head, revealing the vulnerable part of his neck in a blatant invitation.
“Cahir?” Eskel’s voice didn’t shake as he slowly walked round to face Cahir. Kneeling down, there was no reaction to his presence except a fine tremor that ran through Cahir. The sour stench of terror permeated the air and Eskel’s face fell. He didn’t expect to be shouldered out of the way by Lambert who plopped down in front of Cahir without explanation.
“Okay, Cahir, buddy,” he said as if it was an everyday conversation they were having, “I don’t need you to talk yet but nod if you can hear me.”
After a moment of tense silence there was a minute nod and Eskel tried not to think how that showed a bit more of Cahir’s neck.
“Good. Again, just nod or shake your head. Do you know where you are?”
A hesitant nod followed by a shake of head. Cahir knew who he was with but not where and why. It was all a bit of a blurry haze.
“That’s okay. You’re in Kaer Morhen. Came here about two moons ago. Do you know who I am?”
“Lambert.” Cahir’s voice was a soft whisper, barely more than a breathless exhale.
“Good. I am indeed the asshole Lambert. Next to me is-”
“Eskel,” Cahir cut in.
“Excellent.” Slowly Lambert extended a hand along the ground until he was certain Cahir would be able to see it. “Can you tell me what’s in front of you?”
There was a frown on Cahir’s face as he squinted at the ground in front of him, arms still behind his back, head bent. “A hand?”
“That’s it! Now, think you can follow it?” Slowly Lambert began to pull his hand back towards himself as Cahir tracked it first with his eyes then had to move his head. It was almost painfully slow, especially as Lambert began to raise his hand until it was next to his own head. But he smiled softly at Cahir who blinked at him in confusion. “There you are.”
“What?” Cahir’s arms fell limply to his side and he swayed, colour rapidly draining from an already pale face.
“You’re okay,” Lambert replied softer than the others had ever heard him before. “Just got a bit confused for a moment, lost in time. But you’re here in Kaer Morhen, you’re safe. What we’ll do is take you to the kitchen, okay? Eskel will carry you. And we’ll have a nice warm drink, maybe a small snack too. Okay?”
Still obviously confused, Cahir gave an obedient little “okay” which was all Eskel needed before scooping him up and holding him close to his chest. Murmurs of “you scared me” and “I’d never hurt you” were easy enough to hear. Lambert followed behind them and gave Vesemir a wry grin when their mentor fell in line with him.
“You were curiously well-versed.”
Lambert shrugged. “Got a friend. He gets like that sometimes.”
An eyebrow was cocked at Lambert as Vesemir read between the lines.
“Maybe you should bring him along next year. If he’s such a good friend.”
The grin on Lambert’s lips turned into something truly happy and excited. “Maybe I will. It’s been a while since Kaer Morhen had some pussy.”
The smack to the back of his head was worth it though and Lambert laughed as Vesemir shook his own in mock disappointment. “Just bring your damn Cat.”
Everyone had dreams, hopes, and aspirations. Even witchers.
Geralt
He dreamed of being a knight. Of being able to do the right thing, kill monsters and save people. That he would be seen as a hero, be lauded and appreciated. To make an honest living among humans who he called his peers.
Vesemir
More witchers. They were a dying breed. As awful and harrowing as the process to become a witcher was, and as horrible, lonely a life as it led to, there was a fate worse. To be one of the last of them. Vesemir had seen his brothers decimated, dwindle until there were only three other Wolves left. As the numbers decreased, each loss was more acute. Vesemir dreaded losing another one. But with the addition of more witchers, where the loss of trainees was an everyday fact of life, maybe when the time came, the loss of one of his three would hurt less.
Lambert
Life had dealt Lambert a shit hand. He wanted revenge. To be given what he felt Destiny, Fate, whatever the fuck else was out there owed him. He’d never asked to be born to a family with an abusive drunkard as the head. And he sure as hell didn’t ask to become a witcher. But he had, he’d been made to give his all. Now it was time for him to be repaid, and with interest.
Eskel
Sometimes big dreams were simple ones. Eskel had made peace with his lot in life. He didn’t want riches, didn’t want justice. All he wanted was someone to see past his scars, his size, his mutated witcher self and just see him. That was what he’d say his biggest dream was. But maybe deep down he had one even bigger. For someone not to just see him, but to love him too.
Ciri (to Geralt) : “You never gave me piggyback rides at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir was the only one willing.”
Ciri was sitting on the bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a hand-slapping game…. (Vesemir) fell silent and looked at Ciri, who with a joyful glee, acknowledged she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win - Andrzej Sapkowski (1994), Blood of Elves
I honestly adore the parts where young Ciri were training, playing or interecting with the witchers in Kaer Morhen. It is so adorablee
Ciri (to Geralt) : “You never gave me piggyback rides at Kaer Morhen. Vesemir was the only one willing.”
Ciri was sitting on the bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a hand-slapping game…. (Vesemir) fell silent and looked at Ciri, who with a joyful glee, acknowledged she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win - Andrzej Sapkowski (1994), Blood of Elves
I honestly adore the parts where young Ciri were training, playing or interecting with the witchers in Kaer Morhen. It is so adorablee
Concept: Before meeting Geralt, Jaskier went through a portal and was sent back in time, where he met Young Fuckboy Vesemir and they had a lovely time together.
I miss Star Trek fandom from time to time but I really miss it around this time of year. It was my only fandom that had (almost) canon Jewish characters and it made me feel so warm and Seen that the fandom embraced that and made all kinds of cute fanart and fanfic that included reference to Hanukkah when everyone else was solely focused on Christmas. All my recent fandoms have been so heavily fantasy based that I can’t really reasonably headcanon stuff like that anymore ):
I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot tonight. As far as introducing Jewish traditions into a fantasy setting, well, why not? If you can’t find yourself reflected in a specific setting, there’s nothing wrong with adjusting the mirror.
In more specific terms, how about a witcher Hanukkah tradition?
It’s a tradition from back before there were all the different witcher schools, back when there was only the Order of Witchers. The Order kept a beacon burning at all times to guide their brothers still on the Path home. To let the beacon go out was to extinguish hope that these brothers would return home at all. The beacon burned without problem for many, many years.
One terrible winter, during a blizzard, the Order ran out of fuel for the beacon. They were trapped by the wind and the snow. No one was able to leave to get any more fuel while the storm raged. And the poor witchers—their hearts collectively broke at the thought of the beacon going out, of seeming to forget those who weren’t with them, but what could they do? Past a certain point, they had nothing they could spare for fuel for the beacon.
And the storm raged. And the beacon…burned.
It burned day after day, and the witchers were beside themselves in disbelief. They didn’t dare check on how this was happening because, well, witchers are fundamentally practical and the beacon was doing better without their interference. But every day, they waited for the flame to gutter. They waited, dreading the moment it would go out.
It didn’t.
Finally, after eight days, the storm subsided and they were off like a shot to get fuel, because, well, witchers are fundamentally practical and they know better than to press their luck. Every moment they didn’t have fuel was a chance for the beacon to go out.
Much to everyone’s relief, the beacon was still burning when they brought the fuel home. They fueled the beacon and it burned like it had done for the last eight days. It burned just like it had in all the days before that.
Time went on and the Order fractured into schools. The beacon doesn’t burn anymore. But the witchers never forgot.
During the wintering season, for eight days, a candle is lit in Kaer Morhen. One for every day the old beacon burned without fuel to bring their ancient brothers home.
That’s the story Vesemir told Geralt and Eskel every winter, when they were small. That’s the story Geralt told Ciri. That’s the story they were telling each other when Lambert got banned from lighting the candles ever again because “apparently, igni from across the room and two floors up is frowned upon in this establishment.”
Truly believe that English/Polish/wever the common vernacular that most characters in the Witcher speak is not Vesemir’s first language. He speaks common but it’s w a heavy accent. He speaks his language to the wolf boys to which Geralt and Lambert answer in common but Eskel doesn’t. He teaches his language to Ciri and she picks it up faster than anyone ever has. Also when he does shout across Kaer Morgan in common it means someone’s in BIG trouble. Like:
Vesemir, in common: LÁMBERT. GET ASS OVER HERE. NOW.
Lambert:
Geralt: It’s been nice knowing you. I wish it didn’t have to end like this. Goodbye.
