Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lambert is unhappy.

That, in itself, is not the rarest of occurrences – he often finds himself angry or unhappy or both at once. However, the visceral disgust he’s feeling at the moment is uncommon even for him. Town prisons have never been to be the most welcoming spot on earth, true, but this one is worse than any he’s ever seen before. Dirty, smelly, and utterly inhospitable. What sets this one apart from others that he’s occasionally spent a night in is the fact that it has clearly been used for torture before – the stench of old blood, excrement and rotting flesh is so thick in the air that Lambert can barely smell anything else. He thinks he can almost taste the pain of its previous occupants in his mouth and shudders.

He can still see traces of the human’s cruelty around him firsthand. Small white objects that look suspiciously like human finger bones strewn on the other side of his cage. Patches of blood, shrivelled bits of skin. Most obvious, however, is the figure slumped against the wall next to him, one eye already long gone, the other almost swollen shut.

The elf seems barely alive, the slow rise and fall of their chest the only indication that they aren’t dead yet. It’s hard to see how injured they are, their skin and clothing encrusted with both filth and blood and Lambert isn’t sure whether they’re actually sleeping or simply unconscious.

He tugs at the chains pulling his wrists up on the wall and is rewarded with just the smallest bit of mortar crumbling down, as well as a stab of pain through his cracked ribs. The townsfolk here might dislike witchers, but evidently they don’t know them well enough to truly understand the power of their strength and Signs.

He pulls at his chains again, rewarded for his motion with a bit of give and another rain of mortar. His actions prompt the elf next to him to stir, forcing his swollen eye open as far as they can to look at Lambert. Something about their gaze touches on Lambert’s memory. There is something to their missing eye, to shape of his chin and the vines Lambert can see under the grime on their throat that is familiar.  

“Iorveth,” he says. “You’re Iorveth, aren’t you?”

“Witcher,” Iorveth rasps. “It seems I’m not the only non-human the townsfolk have decided to make a sport of.”

“Indeed not.” Lambert sighs, then grits his teeth, ignoring the way the motion aggravates his ribs and the various cuts on his body, and pulls again. More mortar rains down on him and he thanks all the deities that he has heard of on his travels that this is obviously an old prison cell that his captors must have repurposed. Age and humidity have taken enough of a toll for the strength of a witcher to be able to do enough to do damage. Lambert tenses his muscles, getting ready for one last pull, when he hears footsteps approaching the cell that he and Iorveth have been caged in.

The door opens, hinges squealing, and two men approach the iron bars that separate them from their prisoners. Lambert stills in his movements. The right moment is crucial, weakened as he currently is.

One of them remains standing between them whilst the other goes to Iorveth and begins unfastening his chains.

“What are you doing with him?” Lambert demands to know. He is rewarded for his question with a punch of a gauntleted fist into his chest. It hurts, and for a moment, Lambert fights to stay conscious. He groans, breathing through his nose as he forces himself to focus. Amongst the pain, he almost misses the answer.

“None of your concern, witcher.” The man has unchained Iorveth from the wall now, shackling his wrists behind his back. It barely looks necessary; the elf is barely able to keep himself upright under his own power and doesn’t seem in any shape to fight. Lambert is sure that, wherever they are taking Iorveth, it won’t be for anything good. He waits, muscles tensed.

The moment comes when the first man is half out of the door and the second one turns away from Lambert to join the other and help him drag the elf along. Lambert pulls, this time with all his might, and is rewarded by the pin holding the chain between his wrists up popping out of the wall above. He ignores the screaming pain in his shoulders at suddenly being free again and leaps forward, winding the chain around the throat of the man in front of him and pulling.

The move is sudden and strong enough to crush the man’s windpipe. He falls to the ground gurgling and clawing at his throat. Lambert untangles the chain just in time to catch the other guard’s sword striking down at him. He turns and twists, the chain winding around the blade and pulling it out of the man’s hand. One of his elbows crushes the man’s nose and he goes down, howling. Lambert takes the sword and finishes them both off.

Iorveth had jumped aside the moment Lambert had attacked and is now leaning against the wall, half curled in on himself and breathing heavily. His eye still tracks every one of Lambert’s movements, wariness warring with admiration in his expression.

“Right. We should get out of here.” Lambert rifles through the pockets of the dead men until he finds the key that unlocks their manacles. “Come on.”

“Why?” Iorveth asks as he shakes off the iron cuffs. He still looks like he can barely stand, let alone walk, but waves away Lambert’s offer for help.

“Why should we get out of here?” A smile curls around Lambert’s lips. Iorveth rolls his eye.

“And here I thought being insufferable was only a character trait of Geralt’s and not common to all witchers.”

“Ha.” Lambert sees his gear stashed in a corner of the guards’ room, next to what looks like it might be Iorveth’s possessions or at least the remnants of it that haven’t already been repurposed or bartered away. The elf looks like he is in no state to carry his own gear. Lambert winces when he shoulders his witcher’s packs and, after a moment, Iorveth’s items as well. “Wouldn’t be fair to leave you in here now, would it.”

Iorveth raises his eyebrow but doesn’t object. He takes a few steps towards the exit before almost collapsing and bracing himself against the wall, with a barely audible hiss.

“Hey.” Lambert approaches. He knows well what it’s like not to want to be touched, especially after an experience such as Iorveth has just had. Wording the question in a way that doesn’t seem patronising, however, also feels beyond Lambert right now. He simply walks up to him and offers his arm in a gesture as clear as he can make it.

Iorveth looks at him, then quietly lets Lambert slip his shoulder under his arm to support him. They make their way out of the small building where they had been held – not without trouble, but Lambert manages to dispatch any additional attackers with relative ease, although his injuries slowly begin to catch up with him. Iorveth looks to be in a much worse state than he is, however, stumbling and barely conscious by the time they reach the forest outside the small town.

“The glade. Leave me here,” Iorveth gasps out, pointing to their right once they’re far enough into the forest.

“I didn’t drag you out of there just for you to lie down and die here, elf.” Lambert frowns. There is a sound that it takes him a moment to recognise as a weak chuckle coming from Iorveth.

“Your concern is touching, vatt’ghern. My people are nearby. They will come find me.”

Lambert looks around him, focusing on his hearing and senses other than sight. He isn’t aware of any other presence besides his own yet, but he knows he isn’t exactly in prime physical shape at the moment; in addition, Scoia’tael are adept at hiding and can likely fool even a witcher.

“Well then.” He guides Iorveth over to the glade and helps him sit down and lean against a tree. There is still some water in his packs, and he offers it to the elf – the taste must be atrocious after more than a day, but it is better than nothing. By now he can also hear faint rustling in the trees and an increase in the amount of bird calls around. Iorveth’s people are here.

“What’s your name?” Iorveth asks, just as Lambert turns round to leave.

“Lambert,” he replies. Iorveth inclines his head briefly, a gesture of gratitude and acknowledgement that Lambert hadn’t quite expected. He returns it before making off into the forest to look after his own wounds.

*

Lambert is back in the forest a year later, giving the village a wide berth on his way west this time. It is a late spring evening, still warm but not with the sweltering heat of true summer days. The forest around him is quiet and the Scoia’tael in these woods usually leave witchers in peace, perhaps thanks to Iorveth’s influence, so Lambert has lit a fire and is roasting a hare he has caught in the fields earlier. Life has been kind to him this year thus far – not-too-difficult contrast with good pay, no over hostilities towards him and no major injuries. He’s humming slightly to himself as he turns the hare over the spit and cleans up some tubers he’s found on the way, to store for later, before settling down to sharpen his knife.

The velveteen blue of the sky had begun to fade into black, the first stars blinking into existence above him, when he can hear somebody approaching his little camp. His horse snorts softly but doesn’t seem too alarmed – although she isn’t exactly a great judge of character, and new to the Path. A murderer could win her heart if they just held an apple in their hand. Lambert grips his knife, scanning the trees, but whoever approaches is taking care to do so very loudly and obviously.

“Who’s there?” he calls out.

“No reason to be alarmed.”

Lambert recognises the voice a split second before the underbrush in front of him parts and Iorveth steps out. The flickering light of the fire highlights the sharp angles of his face and his glimmering eye, the other now hidden under his customary bandana. He’s carrying his weapons and is clothed in a manner that suggests he’s ready to fight at any moment but seems remarkably relaxed.

“Iorveth.” Lambert gestures to the fire side.

“Lambert.” Iorveth follows his invitation and sits down next to the fire.

“You look better,” Lambert acknowledges. One corner of Iorveth’s mouth twitches in a smile.

“Not exactly difficult. You, too.” He takes out a small, wrapped package and throws it at Lambert, who catches it one-handedly, eyebrow raised.

“What’s this?”

“It occurred to me that I never thanked you properly for saving my life.”

Lambert feels Iorveth’s eye on him as he unwraps the package. Soon, he holds a small knife in his hand, flat and utterly unassuming, in a small leather sheath. The blade is wickedly sharp, drawing blood at even the faintest touch.

“It is meant to be worn hidden away. I can show you, if you want.” Lambert nods and Iorveth walks up to him, showing him to strap it to his arm or leg, wherever he prefers. So close, Lambert can smell Iorveth’s natural scent, no longer hidden by grime and excrement. It is intriguing, heady and woody (and with no small amount of sweat), just as the elf’s entire presence is. Iorveth’s fingers are quick and sure, his touch deft. It sets Lambert’s imagination spinning.

“There.” Iorveth looks up when he has finished strapping the blade to his underarm. The elf is a good bit taller than Lambert but has bent over a little for the demonstration. It strikes Lambert how beautiful he is, how fine his features. He clears his throat, but doesn’t look away, uncomfortably aware of how long it has been since the last time that he has felt such a rush of physical attraction.

“Thank you.” Lambert is well aware that his voice is a shade lower than usual. Iorveth’s fingers rest on his hand for a second longer than would be entirely proper before he moves away.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Lambert indicates the fire with the cooking hare, glad to have thought of an out for the slightly awkward situation.

“If I am invited.” There is again, the little smile flickering over Iorveth’s face. Dinner is an amicable affair, dispelling some of the awkwardness, although Lambert can’t help but notice the way Iorveth’s hand and leg keep brushing him as if by coincidence. After their meal is finished, Lambert goes to his saddle packs and digs around until he has found one of the little flasks he usually keeps at the bottom.

“Want some?” he asks. Iorveth takes the flask from him and sniffs, eyebrow rising at the scent, before he takes a sip.

“This is good,” he acknowledges. Lambert feels an absurd wave of pride running through him. “Heather honey?”

“Yes. With some elderflower mixed in.” Lambert takes a mouthful of his own, revelling in the warmth it sends through him.

“Your own?” Iorveth want to know. Lambert nods.

“There isn’t much else to do in the middle of winter. Each one of us has their own hobbies. I repurposed part of the old alchemy lab.”

Iorveth laughs.

“As long as I don’t find bits of drowner stuck between my teeth.”

“Very unlikely.” Lambert sits back down next to him, this time very deliberately close enough for their legs to be touching. Iorveth doesn’t move away. His eye is bright in the firelight.

“Don’t you have to get back to your people?” Lambert looks into the forest around them. Darkness has fallen by now, the only light coming from the fire and the halfmoon peeking out from behind some clouds.

“They will only worry come the next morning.” Iorveth shrugs. “Why? Did you have something else in mind for tonight?”

Lambert licks his lips. It is as direct an invitation as he’s going to get.

“I am offering, if you are willing.” He leans over, placing a hand on Iorveth’s knee. The reason his hardness isn’t blindingly obvious by now is the groin protector he has taken to always wearing on the Path, even when sleeping.

“Hmmm.” Iorveth reaches out and pulls him into a kiss, demanding and filthy. There is an advantage of being hundreds of years old, Lambert supposes. There are no false pretenses to be found with Iorveth.

“Do not mistake my willingness as me offering some sort of compensation or payment for your act of saving me,” Iorveth says when they part again. There is a faint flush in his cheek and now Lambert can smell his arousal. It is different than in humans or other witchers, a deeper, earthier scent. “I am doing this because I want to.”

“Would’ve never assumed I could force you to do anything you didn’t want to,” Lambert says, slightly breathless.

“As long as we’re clear on that. Anything that I should know?” Iorveth is already beginning to pull at the laces to Lambert’s pants.

“I- “ It is slightly hard to think. Most of Lambert’s blood is concentrated far lower than his brain at the moment. “No namecalling. And my left shoulder has been fucked up for years, don’t lean on it. You can touch the scars, if you want, except for the one on my back and right thigh.”

“Good. Stay away from the scars on my face. The bandana stays on. Tell me if there is anything else.”

“Likewise.” Lambert reaches out, cupping his fingers around the back of Iorveth’s neck to bring him close enough to kiss again. Iorveth makes a pleased sound against his mouth.

Baring each other’s skin happens quickly enough. Lambert is pleased to discover that Iorveth’s fingers are just as deft and clever as he had imagined, skilfully stroking along his cock. It doesn’t take much to make him achingly hard and Lambert arches his back when Iorveth’s mouth travels over his chest, licking and biting, following the ridges of his scars. He is almost embarrassed by how quickly he comes under the elf’s hand, although Iorveth doesn’t seem to mind.

His own fingers wander down the lines of Iorveth’s tattoo, following it all the way down his side to his groin, catching on the scars that trace some of the vines with too much accuracy to be a coincidence alone. Iorveth’s cock is inviting, nestled among the sparse hair (so in contrast with the wealth of hair covering Lambert’s own body, something that Iorveth seems to find fascinating but not unsightly) around it. Lambert doesn’t lose a moment with taking him into his mouth – he knows he’s skilled in this, one of his most favourite parts of sex. Iorveth makes a pleased noise deep down in his throat once Lambert begins to suck in earnest. It still takes the elf longer to get hard than it would an ordinary human or other witcher – another difference between their biologies, perhaps. Lambert files it away for later, as it is obvious that Iorveth derives pleasure from the act. His hand closes around Lambert’s right shoulder, fingernails digging deep into his skin when he comes. His come is salty, once again laced with a slightly different taste.

“I’ve never had a witcher before,” Iorveth muses.

“Oh? Not even Geralt? Should I feel honoured?” Lambert feels his eyebrows rise. They are lying side by side, bathing in the afterglow and waiting for the heat on their skin to dissipate. Neither of them is particularly self-conscious about their nakedness, although their weapons remain within easy grabbing distance.

Iorveth snorts.

“Don’t feel too flattered. I have simply not had the opportunity yet. Although, perhaps, I will seek it out more often now.”

“I wouldn’t mind a repeat either. With some…preparation, I’m sure we can be a lot more thorough in future, too.” Lambert makes a grab for some fabric and water and wipes himself off. His cock gives a twitch at everything they could be doing if they’d take the time for it.

“You are planning to come back to these parts, then?” Iorveth looks up at him. His bandana has become slightly lop-sided, and he fixes it with a few quick movements.

“I am usually in the area once a year at least.” Lambert shrugs. “Can as well make it a planned stop. With some more time for rest.”

“Good.” Iorveth sits up and begins to reach for his clothes. Lambert mirrors his movements until they are both dressed. He offers Iorveth his flask again and he takes it with a grateful nod. They sit and drink for a while longer until they both know the time has come to part. Lambert goes to unroll his bedroll, watching as Iorveth stands up and stretches out, the lean lines of his body silhouetted starkly by the firelight. Iorveth turns to him and notices him watching. The smile that pulls at his lips this time is wider than before.

“I will see you around, vatt’ghern.”

“I hope so.”