Chapter Text
“Who did this to you?” someone asks, sounding somewhere between horrified and enraged, and Lambert feels cool hands cover his where he’s holding his own guts in place.
He cracks his eyes open - it takes more effort than it should - to see the fucking Cat who’s been following him around and stealing his contracts, down on his knees in the bloody mud beside him, green eyes wide and wild.
“What’s it t’you?” Lambert croaks. “Less fuckin’ competition, right?”
“This was not how I wanted to see you fallen at my feet,” the Cat replies, and takes his hands away to fumble at his belt, then holds a vial up to Lambert’s eyes. Swallow, maybe, if Lambert’s hazy vision can be trusted. “Drink, Wolf.”
Lambert opens his mouth. Even if it is poison, he’s dying already. Poison will just make it a little quicker.
The Swallow hits like a charging boar, and the surge of pain as his body starts to heal is enough to tip him over into blessed dark unconsciousness.
Lambert wakes up lying beside a fire, on something softer than the bare and rocky ground, under a dark sky spangled with stars. From the feeling of it, his injuries are at least half healed, and have been stitched and bandaged; his mouth tastes like a horrid mixture of Swallow and Kiss, bitter and foul. There’s a dark form bent over the fire, stirring something in a pot that smells fucking amazing.
Lambert tries to sit up, and groans softly at the sudden bolt of agony from his partially-healed gut. The figure over the fire turns hastily and kneels down beside him, one long-fingered hand settling on his shoulder to push him back to the bedroll. “Stay down, Wolf,” the Cat says softly. “Don’t ruin my stitching.”
“Fuck,” Lambert pants through the waves of pain. “Yeah, alright, I’ll stay down.”
“Good,” the Cat says, patting his shoulder gently. “Get some broth into you and then you can have another Swallow or three.”
“Why are you doing this?” Lambert demands as the Cat stands up again.
“Everyone knows Cats are crazy,” the Cat says, shrugging eloquently. “Chalk it up to that.”
Lambert’s pretty sure that’s not the answer, but also he’s in some significant pain and it’s making thinking a little difficult. At the very least, the Cat doesn’t seem to mean to kill him out of hand. So when the Cat comes back over with a mug of broth - venison, by the smell - Lambert doesn’t fight against the gentle hand that lifts his head enough for him to drink.
It’s good broth. Better than Lambert ever manages to make, that’s for sure. There’s salt in it, and some sort of spices or herbs, he can’t quite tell what. Lambert drinks eagerly.
“Who did this to you?” the Cat asks again, as he lowers Lambert’s head gently to the bedroll again.
“Local lord,” Lambert says, starting to shrug and thinking better of it. “Decided getting rid of me was cheaper’n paying.”
“Did he now,” the Cat murmurs. “What an interesting choice.”
Lambert blinks up at him. “Interesting?”
The Cat’s grin has a great many sharp teeth in it. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘May you live in interesting times’?”
Lambert has, but before he can ask what the fuck the Cat is on about, his much-abused body decides it’s time to pass out again.
He wakes a second time in daylight. The Cat is meditating beside the fire, hands open on his knees. Lambert takes the opportunity to study his erstwhile rival and current rescuer. The Cat is a handsome man, lean and lithe, with sharp cheekbones and a jawline you could use to cut glass, emphasized with a short-cropped beard. His hair is dark and wavy and falls to his shoulders; it looks very soft. There’s a scar over one eye and the bridge of his nose, but somehow it manages to make him look rakish rather than villainous. He’s probably shorter than Lambert is - most people are, unless they’re Wolves or Bears or that one absurdly big Viper - but given witcher mutations, that doesn’t mean much about his strength. He clearly carried Lambert here, wherever here is.
He has good hands, long-fingered and graceful. Good forearms, too, where his sleeves are rolled up: sinewy and strong, and laced with faded silver scars.
“Like what you see, Wolf?” the Cat drawls, and Lambert snaps his gaze upward to see that the Cat has opened bright green eyes and is grinning at him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like some fuckwit stuck a sword through my guts yesterday,” Lambert bites out.
“Fair,” the Cat says, tilting his head and shrugging. “Alright, let me have a look at how you’re healing.”
Lambert doesn’t try to fight as the Cat carefully pulls away the blankets and unwraps the bandages, frowning down at the revealed injury. Lambert manages to lift his head up enough to take a look. It’s not pretty, but also a lot better than it was. All the inside bits are on the inside again, for starters.
“Not great, but not bad,” the Cat concludes. “Another Swallow and some meditation, and you should be healed enough to move, at least.”
Lambert nods; that’s about his own assessment, as well. The Cat wraps his bandages up again and goes over to his pack to retrieve a Swallow, holding Lambert’s head so he can drink it; it’s not as good as one of Lambert’s own, but those are presumably in a midden heap back at that fucking lord’s estate. Assuming nobody was stupid enough to drink them, anyhow, which would actually be a slightly hilarious form of revenge if they did.
“Go on and meditate,” the Cat says. “I’ll keep watch.”
Lambert closes his eyes and obeys, because doing otherwise would just be stupid, but as he slips into the peaceful silence of meditation, he wonders what the Cat is going to want as repayment for this.
Lambert’s reasonably sure he’s not going to like it, whatever it is, because in his experience thus far, nobody does shit like this for free. And Lambert doesn’t have much of value to his name, especially with most of his possessions still back at that noble fuckwit’s estate.
He’s got Wolf School secrets, he supposes, whatever those are worth after the sacking. Ooh, improved Swallow recipe, big fucking deal.
And he’s got himself.
Well, he pays his debts. Whatever the Cat wants, Lambert’s definitely been through worse. He’ll get through it.
And then hopefully he’ll never see the smirking asshole ever again.
*
Lambert rouses himself from meditation to find the Cat strapping on his armor. “Think we’re gonna need to get moving, Wolf,” he says. “Can you walk?”
Lambert grimaces. He wants to bluff and say he’s fine, but that would be fucking stupid and probably get them both caught and killed. “Not fast or far,” he admits.
“Gotcha,” the Cat says, nodding. “Let me get you upright so I can pack that bedroll, then.” He bends down and lifts Lambert with a little grunt of effort, lowering his feet until Lambert can get his balance.
The bedroll, Lambert sees with some surprise, is on a little heap of bracken to pad it from the ground. Which is…weird. Just the bedroll itself was a kindness; padding it is…
What the hell is the Cat after anyway?
The Cat makes quick work of rolling up the bedroll and scattering the bracken; the fire is already out and the blackened bits disposed of, and once the Cat lifts his pack onto his back, the clearing looks almost untouched. Pursuers would need dogs or expert trackers to know that two witchers have spent any time here at all.
“I’d put you over my shoulders but I think that would be bad for your stomach,” the Cat says. “So I do apologize for the indignity.” And he scoops Lambert up into a bridal carry. Lambert hisses through his teeth as his injuries are jarred, but it’s a surprisingly gentle hold.
The Cat sets off into the trees at a steady, astonishingly smooth jog.
Lambert squirms a little to get comfortable, and discovers that slinging an arm around the Cat’s shoulders works best, even if the intimacy is deeply unsettling.
“Where the fuck are we going?” he asks after a few minutes. The Cat clearly has a destination in mind; he picks a path unerringly between the trees.
“Hunter’s hut about half a day into the hills,” the Cat says. “It’s been a Cat waystation for decades. I’d have brought you there earlier if you weren’t too fucking close to bleeding out.”
Lambert grunts and nods. All the Schools have their waystations, huts or caves hidden in the backside of nowhere; Lambert’s actually a little surprised the Cat is going to let him know where one of theirs is. Sure, Cats and Wolves aren’t enemies or anything, but they’re not precisely allies either.
He and the Cat are both silent for a while, Lambert gritting his teeth against the pain of his healing injuries, the Cat probably looking for landmarks. Eventually, though, the Cat says, “So what’d you kill for the fucker, that he didn’t want to pay?”
“Noonwraith,” Lambert says shortly. The Cat nods.
“He made her?”
“Of course,” Lambert sighs. “Asshole.”
The Cat wrinkles his nose. “I would probably use a stronger word than asshole, for someone who makes a noonwraith and then tries to kill the witcher who banishes her.”
Lambert grins. “Thrice-cursed camel-fucking troll-brained morally bankrupt offspring of a poxy doppler and a halfwitted katakan, who got the worse parts of both parents.”
The Cat’s eyebrows go up and he grins. “Now that’s more like it. Is that what you called him?”
“No, I didn’t get much past ‘you cheapskate cheating fucker’ before he set his guards on me,” Lambert admits.
The Cat snorts. “Not your best work.”
“No,” Lambert says. “Very much not.”
“Personally, I rather liked ‘fish-faced fuckwitted horsethief of a mangy moggy’, I thought it had some nice alliteration,” the Cat continues.
Lambert blinks. “That’s - that’s what I called you after you stole that wyvern contract out from under me,” he says blankly.
“Yep,” the Cat says cheerfully.
“You remembered that?”
“I do pay attention,” the Cat says. “Especially to you.”
“What the absolute fuck is that supposed to mean?” Lambert demands.
The Cat raises an eyebrow. “I thought I was fairly clear.”
“You were not.” Lambert scowls.
“Huh,” the Cat says. “Well. Something to talk about when there’s not a hole in your guts.”
Lambert glares. “Bastard.”
“As far as I know, my parents were married,” the Cat says lightly.
“Fucker, you know what I meant,” Lambert snarls.
“I do,” the Cat agrees. “But winding you up is awfully fun, you know.”
Lambert bristles. “I’m not a fucking toy, you ass.”
The Cat’s face softens oddly. “No, you aren’t, and that’s not what I meant in the slightest. You’re just delightfully prickly, and you have the most marvelously foul vocabulary, and it’s charming.”
“Charming?” Lambert blurts. No one has ever called him charming before. It’s not a word that applies to him. He’s a foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, prickly ass, and even his brothers think so.
“Charming,” the Cat says, shrugging a little.
“You are insane,” Lambert says blankly.
“I am a Cat,” the Cat points out. “It kind of comes with the territory. Now hush, this next bit’s a little tricky and I don’t want to drop you.”
Lambert hushes obediently, still boggling. Charming? Charming? What the absolute fuck is the Cat even on?
*
The hut the Cat eventually stops in front of is a truly dilapidated structure, but it has a roof and four walls, so it’s better than nothing. The Cat sets Lambert down carefully and says, “Stay put a moment - I have to disassemble the traps.”
“Of course there are traps,” Lambert sneers. “Fucking Cats.”
“Do Wolves not booby-trap their hideaways?” the Cat inquires.
Lambert opens his mouth to say No, of course not, because when you fetch up at a hideout you just fucking need someplace to hide, realizes that insofar as the Wolf School has secrets that’s probably one of them, and closes his mouth again. “Of course we do,” he lies grumpily.
“You’re a really, really bad liar,” the Cat says cheerfully. He’s headfirst in a bush, doing fuck only knows what. “I’m gonna guess you don’t do it often?” He emerges from the bush, grinning; there’s a leaf stuck in his hair, and Lambert has an inexplicable urge to reach over and pluck it out.
“No, I don’t,” he admits. Usually he doesn’t have to lie. Bluster and threats do him well enough.
“Charming,” the Cat teases, and scoops Lambert up again. “Right, let’s get you lying down before you fall down.”
Lambert sighs but doesn’t protest being carried into the hut; there’s a little bed under a rather dusty sheet, a rickety table with a single chair, and a chest that Lambert assumes is full of useful supplies. The Cat sets Lambert down again just long enough to yank the dusty sheet away, revealing a well-stuffed mattress, then tips Lambert gently down onto the bed.
“Get some rest, Wolf,” he says softly. “I’ll go catch us dinner.”
Lambert wants to object, but he’s exhausted just from being carried about, and he aches everywhere, and sleep would honestly be good for him. The Cat pours another Swallow down his throat, tips Lambert a wink, and vanishes out the door again.
Lambert sighs. Fuck this, he hates being weak - being helpless. Being at anyone’s mercy. And yeah, sure, the Cat hasn’t hurt him yet. Hasn’t demanded any repayment for his kindness.
But he’s gonna.
And the more he helps - the more effort and time and Swallow he expends on keeping Lambert alive - the higher that price is going to be.
It’s already so much more than Lambert is looking forward to paying. Not that he’d look forward to paying anything, but if the Cat had just, say, poured a Swallow down his throat and left him somewhere relatively hidden near a water-source, then Lambert could have responded by making him a whole batch of much better Swallow or something like that. But for this - for patching him up and carrying him to safety, feeding him and expending what must be most of a batch of Swallow on him -
He falls asleep still wondering what price the Cat is going to demand.
When he wakes, he can smell cooking rabbit, and he feels like he might be able to stand up without falling right back over. So he does, moving slowly and carefully so as not to re-open any of his mostly-healed injuries, and makes his way gingerly out of the hut. The Cat is kneeling beside a little fire, two rabbits on a spit over it and a dozen more waiting to be cooked.
“How hungry do you think I am?” Lambert asks.
The Cat looks up and grins. “At the moment, about two rabbits’ worth,” he says. “And I want one, too. But these aren’t just for today.” He stands, stretching. “You should be safe here for three or four days, I should think. I’ll leave you with these, and plenty of Swallow, and the spring’s not far - you could probably walk it now, if you had to.”
“You’re leaving me here?” Lambert asks warily.
“Just for a few days,” the Cat says. “You’ll be fine without me, I’m sure.”
“Of course I will, but what the fuck.”
The Cat just grins. “You’ll find out when I get back!” he replies. “Now here -” he pulls a roasted rabbit off the fire and holds it out - “sit and eat while I finish cooking these, and then go lie down again.”
Lambert sits and eats, frowning at his companion in confusion as he does so. What the hell is the Cat up to, leaving Lambert here with no guarantee Lambert will even still be here when he returns?
Well, aside from the fact that Lambert is still not in any shape to go traipsing about through the forest, and has neither weapons nor gear, and his armor is in terrible shape.
The Cat finishes cooking all the rabbits, stashes all but two of them inside a sturdy cupboard in the hut, eats one himself - bones and all, like any witcher who isn’t bothering to pretend to be human - and gives the last to Lambert, then grins and bounces to his feet, far too energetic for someone who just carried Lambert through several miles of forest.
“Stay safe, Wolf; I’ll be back within five days, or not at all,” he says brightly, and vanishes into the forest.
Lambert stares after him in bafflement for a long moment, then shrugs and eats the second rabbit. Bones and all.
*
It turns out sitting around in a hut in the middle of nowhere with no supplies and nothing to do but heal is incredibly boring. Lambert investigates the hut, finding some decent leather in the chest that he uses to patch his armor, pokes his way through the gear the Cat left behind, finding a pretty normal assortment of witcher paraphernalia, does a few slow circuits in the woods around the hut, finding the promised spring and a few patches of useful herbs, and does a lot of meditation.
Three and a half extremely long days later, the Cat returns.
He’s carrying Lambert’s pack.
“What the fuck,” Lambert says as the Cat dumps it proudly on the ground at Lambert’s feet. His pack - his bedroll - his swords -
“I paid a little visit to the fine young lord who tried to have you killed,” the Cat says, grinning broad and sharp. “He’s very sorry.” He drops a small bag on top of Lambert’s pack; it clinks the way only money does. “Very, very sorry indeed.”
“Is he dead?” Lambert ventures. Not that he’d shed a tear if the dipshit was, but it’s the principle of the thing.
“Oh, dear me, no!” the Cat laughs. “Dead nobles can’t learn their lessons.”
“And what lesson did he learn?” Lambert asks slowly.
“That trying to kill the nice witcher gets him a visit from the less nice one,” the Cat replies, very smugly. “I left him most of his body parts and only took thrice the fee he promised you; really I think he got off easy, don’t you?”
Lambert is still reeling from being described, apparently sincerely, as ‘the nice witcher’ - not a phrase anyone has ever applied to him before - but he does catch that most. “Which bit did you remove?”
The Cat’s smile gets even smugger, and much toothier. “If he’s going to be enough of a prick to make a noonwraith, I don’t think he needs a prick. He’s got a brother. He can name one of his nephews his heir.”
“Uh,” Lambert says, genuinely at a loss for how to respond to that. It’s sort of…weirdly, horribly sweet? In a way? That this Cat has castrated a man for harming him? “...Thanks?”
“You’re very welcome, Wolf,” the Cat says warmly.
Lambert swallows. He wants the coin, of course he does - but he wants to not owe this Cat anything much, much more. He picks up the sack of coin and holds it out - thrice the fee for a noonwraith is a hefty sum. “Here,” he says. “For - uh - for your trouble.”
The Cat’s eyebrows go up. “I didn’t rescue you for coin, Wolf.”
Lambert can feel his shoulders starting to tense, the hair on the back of his neck rising. “Then what do you want of me?” he demands. “What’s your price for my life, Cat?”
The Cat looks genuinely startled. “My price for your life?”
“What do you want?” Lambert snarls. “There’s no fucking Wolf School secrets left, and I wouldn’t know them even if there were, scapegrace that I am. Do you want my mouth? My ass? What?”
“Ah,” the Cat says, and he looks suddenly and unaccountably sad. “No, Wolf,” he says, very gently. “I don’t want you as payment.”
“We’re witchers,” Lambert snaps. “We don’t do anything for free.”
The Cat hesitates. “Tell me your name,” he says slowly. “Tell me your name, and I’ll leave you be. Call it Cat-madness, if you like, that I saved you.”
“I’m Lambert,” Lambert says warily. “Lambert of the Wolves.” This has to be a trap, but he can’t quite see how.
“Lambert,” the Cat says, savoring the word like it’s sweet as honey. “Lambert of the Wolves.” He smiles, and reaches out, and his fingers brush over Lambert’s cheek, soft as a feather. “There. You’ve paid your price. And now I’ll leave you be.”
Lambert stands there staring in dumb incomprehension as the Cat swiftly gathers his possessions, puts his pack together, and, with a last little smile - somehow dimmer than the bright grins Lambert has grown used to - vanishes into the forest again, leaving Lambert quite alone.
“What,” Lambert says, to the dilapidated hut and the rustling trees and the heavy sack of coin in his hand, “the absolute godsdamned fuck just happened?”