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Geralt wondered what about Novigrad and Velen made so that Witchers of the Cat found their demises there. Firstly, there was the witcher that had been tortured, that he’d found under the Temple Isle in Novigrad, then that one Cat, who got mauled by a whole village. The man’s last words still haunted Geralt during dark nights.
And then, there was Aiden, that Lambert was trying to avenge, of course. Geralt hadn’t pushed about his brother’s friend, he’d just asked what had happened and a quick description of the man. He’d of course agreed to help Lambert, and while on Karadine’s trail, Geralt found himself stuck. So, in order to get a fresh start, he asked Vienne to lead him to where Aiden had been killed. Maybe there, he could find a trace, a trail even, something. Maybe skin under Aiden’s nails, or blood on his armor that could help him identify someone.
The scene was eerily clean. There were still obvious traces of a fight, but Aiden’s body and weapons seemed to have disappeared into thin air. It was common for corpses to be looted of their goods, Geralt himself was guilty of this. But what of the corpse? Last he checked, the ghouls didn’t eat properly enough for the whole body to disappear. No, it had been moved. When he squinted, Geralt could make out the imprint of something that had been dragged through the thick grass. If he kneeled next to it, there were definitely blood splatters along the trail. Someone got themselves a cat.
Geralt followed the discrete trail for a good hour, taking the time to make sure he didn’t lose his way, but finally he found a cave. Against the rock, the blood almost disappeared, but sure of himself, the witcher progressed further deep. Surely, after a few minutes, the scent of ozone and copper washed up on him, putting him on the trail. He ignored the neighboring scent of infection.
The “mage”, if you want to call him that rather than a psychopath, had been made a quick deal of, as simple as a sword through the back, silently. Gently deposing the body down, Geralt gave a long, circular look to his surroundings. The room was dark, and lit by the candles on the tables. There was an alembic with a too-familiar scent coming off it, set on it’s unsteady table, while next to it stood a boarding desk, covered in notes and journals from the School of the Cat. Across the room, in a little alcove, there was a bunch of hay. On it, barely breathing, laid a chained up man.
If not for his witcher senses, Geralt would have declared him dead. He had little clothing on, one or two hastily wrapped bandages full of pus and blood, and large, heavy dimeritium shackles around his limbs and neck. His lips were parted and chaffed, bloodies and covered in a dried up substance that smelled uncanny enough to Geralt to make him wince. Looking up, the dirtied cheeks were cut by many trails of tears, coming out of closed eyes. When Geralt gently touched the man’s shoulder, he painfully opened them. Yellow, cat-like eyes stared at him in terror, and then turned to thankfulness when Aiden realized who was standing above him.
The man tried to talk, but his throat wouldn’t let him, and Geralt acknowledged him with a nod. Gently, he looked at the shackles and stood up to look for the keys. He also took the time to search for the man’s equipment, and medallion that he wasn’t wearing. He found none of them.
“Just nod at me, I need to ask a few things.” He said while opening the shackles. “You’re Aiden, right?”
The man tried his best to nod briskly, looking the wolf in the eyes.
“Do you know where your equipment is?”
He nodded gently, this time, and pulled a face.
“Let me guess, they stole it?”
Another nod, painful.
“All right. Let’s get you out of here. I know a place. We’ll get you patched up and I’ll bring Lambert. Can you stand?”
Obviously he could not.
Jaskier’s establishment was a well known refuge for misfits, such as artists or witchers,who were brave enough to stumble into Novigrad. The wine was precious and high quality, the bedding, royal and the host was as welcoming as one can get.
It was the private quarters that the bard reserved for his friends that they set up Aiden. Priscilla had been rushing in and out of the room with water basins, cottons and clean clothes all the while trying to keep Zoltan updated. Jaskier and Geralt were carefully patching up the Cat, cleaning infected wounds and sewing up others. The bard was whisper-yelling to his friend, outraged at what Aiden had just suffered, while Geralt was still baffled at the fact that Lambert’s friend was still living. He’d have to get a hold of his brother immediately.
When Aiden seemed clean and cared for enough, Geralt held him up so Jaskier could make him drink warm tea. Aider could not hold himself, even if he’d wanted to, and he was leaning halfway onto the headrest and onto Geralt. When he was done drinking, he let his head rest on the Wolf’s shoulder, and Geralt could feel gentle tears staining his shirt. Jaskier helped him lower the man under the covers, and let him rest for the night.
It took Geralt almost three days to find and bring back Lambert: two and a half to find him, and barely three hours to cross all of Velen with him. They’d pushed their horses as much as they could, but Geralt could definitely forgive that to his brother, just like he could resist pointing out the tremor in his voice.
They’d “snuck in” through the back door, and Jaskier had quickly patted Lambert’s back before turning his attention back to the service. Geralt led his brother upstairs. It was about night, and he was thankful for the younger’s witcher senses, or else in his rush he would never have walked around the crowded floor with such ease.
Geralt stayed back as Lambert tiptoed towards the bed. Aiden seemed asleep, but the pain made it hard for him to be truly out of it. He stirred awake with the sounds of soft steps, and opened his eyes when another weight sat on the mattress. There was a gentle sound of recognition, and joy, in the back of his throat and he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. Immediately, Lambert grabbed his body and held it up against himself, pressing his friend tightly into his chest.
Weakly, yet with all his strength, Aiden grabbed at the man’s armor and nestled his face in his neck. Geraldt didn’t hear clearly, but he made out the sound of Lambert’s voice mumbling in Aiden’s hair. There was a hiccup, the Cat was trying not to cry.
“Lambert?” Asked Geralt.
“Yeah?”
“We’re still going after Karadine, right.”
“Bet your fucking arse we are.”
His tone was full of hatred, and spoken right against Aiden’s scalp. There were steps behind him, and Geralt recognized Jaskier’s fancy boots. A hand gently reached onto his shoulder.
“Come rest, Geralt,” Whispered the bard, “let’s leave them together now.”
“Hmm.”
When the door closed and they were alone, Aiden crumbled into his friend’s chest, sobbing. Lambert held on tighter. He had no idea how to act, he just did what felt right. His heart was full of wrath, and guilt, because he could have saved Aiden, could have protected him, as if it hurt more to see him in pain than to know he was dead. Somehow, he had faulted him.
“I’ll never leave you alone anymore.” Was what came out of his train of thoughts. “I should have been there with you. I’m sorry.”
Gently, Lambert looked down to finally glaze over the man’s body. The shirt was too large, and probably one of Geralt’s. It slipped down the shoulders to reveal bruises, stitches and bloodied bandages. But those were common, every witcher had their share of scars after all. The ones that attracted his eyes were the burn-like scars around Aiden’s lips. Lambert remembered them, he’d seen that scorched mouth in his mirror, for months, after each trial.
He couldn’t bear to see it any longer, and reached behind Aiden’s head to tuck it right back into his neck. The Cat’s tears had partially dried up, yet his breathing was still troubled. His body slowly relaxed, and he wasn’t holding on for dear life on the collar of Lambert’s armor anymore.
“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of Karadine with Geralt.” said the Wolf with a sombre tone. “He’ll fucking pay for all he’s done to you.”
To that, Aiden nodded silently, eyes focused on the wall across from him. It felt like he was scared to look up to Lambert, no matter how much his face was held flush against the man.
“Did… did they… They took your medallion?” It was more of another outrage than a real question.
“Yeah.” Aiden sighed, closing his eyes.
Finally, he had spoken out loud.
“We’ll make you a new one at Kaer Morhen.”