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Marlenna was used to being awoken in the middle of the night by frantic pounding on her cottage’s front door. Being the only healer and midwife for miles around meant one was always on call, and unfortunately, emergencies didn’t tend to pay much heed to such trifles as time of day.
So, when she was roused rather abruptly by the heavy beating against the groaning wood of her door, she immediately reached for a shawl to throw over her shoulders and stepped into her slippers on her way out of the bedroom. Doubtless her rust-red curls were a disastrous mess thanks to the rude awakening, but she could only spare a moment to ensure the locks covered the tips of her slightly pointed ears for her own safety as she shuffled quickly for the door.
“Yes, yes, I hear you!” she called as another impact rattled the hinges concerningly, tossing a log onto the embers in the hearth before lighting a candle on the table with a snap of her fingers. She moved quickly then to open the door and, as the aging wood door swung on its protesting hinges, nearly screamed.
In the darkness, backlit by only a scant smattering of moonlight through the partially cloudy sky, and the flickering firelight behind her casting ominous shadows, the figure on her doorstep appeared for one heartstopping moment to be an actual wraith. Her brain could hardly process what it was she was actually seeing: skin paler than parchment, crosscut with spiderwebbing lines of ink-black veins centered around eyes darker than pitch; splatters of some sort of dark liquid glimmering in the moon- and firelight against the canvas of that corpse-like skin, painting a macabre picture; and finally, the glinting silver of chain and medallion, slick with that same liquid but recognizable all the same.
A Witcher. Here, on her doorstep.
“H… hel… p…” the figure croaked out in a voice cracked and weak from pain and - likely - blood loss.
“Gods above,” Marlenna gasped, reacting instinctively to shoulder the man’s weight as he tipped forward. He was heavy, but she was sturdy and prepared. Still, it was a struggle to maneuver him to sit upright on the cot in the back room that she used for just this purpose.
“‘riff’n,” he murmured, clearly fighting against the exhaustion and pain with all his might as unsteady hands fumbled with the sword belt and closures of his armor. Marlenna helped as much as she could, unfamiliar with the design and function, and after they managed to peel away the outer layer and inner padded gambeson she was finally able to see the wound.
It looked as if his entire left shoulder had been torn into by a very hungry pack of wolves; it was a mess of flesh and muscle and bone, still sluggishly bleeding even as she tore away the remaining shreds of the man’s already ruined undershirt to leave him bare-chested before her. Just the thought of whatever creature could do this through so many layers of armor made her shudder.
Focus, she reprimanded herself, moving away to gather the materials she would need to treat the wound properly; her heart nearly skipped as the man swayed dangerously, bereft of her steadying touch, but let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding as he managed to stay upright.
When she returned to his side, cleaning and medical supplies set on the table just to her right within easy reach, she dipped a cloth into the (cold, unfortunately) water to begin cleaning away as much blood as she could but was stopped by his blood-slick hand struggling to grasp at her own.
“I need to clean your wound,” she spoke as if he were a frightened child, trying to pull her hand from his when he finally caught hold, but even in this state his grip was unbreakable as iron. She could have easily willed him to sleep or into a daze with just a touch of her innate Chaos, but with a wound such as this she knew that she would need every drop if he were to survive the night.
“Wisss…” he tried to speak with a mouth that was frustratingly uncooperative, struggling to lift his injured arm but giving up when that proved too difficult and painful, moving her hand to his limp left one instead.
“Rrr… ng. Ring. Wissst.”
He was clearly delirious from the loss of blood, but when she tried to pull her hand back once more his grip remained tight and unmoving. So, in the interest of attending to more pressing matters without his resistance, she allowed him to press her fingers against the small, twisted metal band of a ring around his left pinky, and slid it easily from the blood-soaked digit.
“This?” she clarified, holding the crimson-coated silver object out for his inspection and receiving a dopey half-nod for her trouble.
“Wist,” he repeated again, his good hand clenching into a fist and motioning as if he were… wringing out a cloth, or something. She didn’t have time to parse out his semi-lucid rambling.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she agreed (much as one agrees with the nonsensical babbling of a toddler), setting the jewelry to the side as she reached once more for her medical supplies. “Now, let me take care of that wound.”
———
An hour later, the man dozed soundly thanks to a strong concoction of herbs she’d managed to feed him while Marlenna cleaned herself and the table that held her supplies. Her hands shook with the aftereffects of depleted Chaos reserves, a bone-deep weariness settling in that she knew from experience would (counterintuitively) keep her from achieving any sort of meaningful rest.
The healer was still worried about the paleness of her patient’s skin, even after her treatment, but it seemed as if the blackness of his eyes and veins had started to fade, even allowing a touch of color back into his cheeks despite the frankly horrific amount of blood he’d lost.
Other than that, well, she had to admit he was rather good looking. His slicked-back brown hair showed a bit of a receding hairline, matching a close-cropped beard that had just as much silver and red as brown, and his nose was just a smidge crooked from where it had been broken in the past and not set properly. She could see plenty of scars littered across his bare torso (well, everywhere except his left shoulder, which was heavily bandaged at the moment), and a few on his face as well, cutting down over his right eye.
As she absentmindedly wiped over the table with a cloth, she was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of something small and metallic cluttering against the wooden floor.
Oh, the ring, she remembered as she knelt to retrieve the bit of jewelry, cleaning off the drying blood with the cloth in her hand. It was a pretty little thing, naught but twisted strands of silver with clear signs of wear.
“Now, what did you want me to do with this?” she murmured to the unconscious man, turning the ring this way and that as she studied it carefully. He didn’t seem to have any other jewelry on him, aside from the medallion that marked his trade; perhaps this had been given to him by a friend or lover. Did he want her to return the gift, then, if he succumbed to his wounds? That seemed the most likely, given the circumstances.
Still. What is it he’d been muttering about? Wis? Wist? Could that be the name of the person? It was an odd one, for sure. But he’d motioned with his hand, that clumsy twist of his-
Twist. That was what he’d been trying to say. Perhaps the ring was magical!
Well, she’d seen stranger things happen. The man lying beside her was proof of that in his own right.
Tempering her expectations, she slid the ring onto her finger (it had been on his pinky, but her hands were much more slender and it only fit snugly on her middle) and then, biting her lip, she turned the ring once around-
And there was only silence.
Letting out the breath she had been holding, she tried turning it the other way. Still nothing. She couldn’t even feel a tingle of magic.
So. She’d been looking far too much into the situation, after all. A pity. The ring returned to the table, likely to be forgotten for another day.
Except…
She couldn’t stop staring at the damned thing. There had to be more to it, right? He’d been so concerned about it, even above his own wounds, so it had to be important.
Right?
Sighing, and resigning herself to the fact that she would get no more sleep this night (in fact, she could feel the first rays of sunlight tentatively brushing the horizon), she picked up the twined silver ring once more and sat at her kitchen table, where the candle she had lit so many hours ago was still stubbornly burning on its stub of a wick.
Here, by candlelight, she couldn’t make out any further detail than what she’d already seen. It was solidly made, if rather plain, and had obviously been worn for a long time. She’d seen similar patterns of wear on wedding rings of couples well into their second or third decade of marriage. That thought left her oddly wistful, and even a little ashamed, feeling as if her careful study of the ring was obtrusive into this mysterious Witcher’s life.
Well. A little late to turn back, now.
———
Marlenna had no idea how long she sat there, pondering the significance of the ring and the man’s insistence on the instruction to twist, but by the time she could distantly hear the sounds of a cock’s crow, she’d made no sort of progress on unraveling the puzzle. There didn’t seem to be any obvious marks or seams where the silver could be twisted.
Frustrated, she fell back on her elder brother’s tried-and-true method of puzzle-solving: brute force. It wasn’t likely she could damage the sturdy metal, so.
She tried holding one half of the ring in each hand, twisting this way and that at several different angles, but (unsurprisingly) neither side budged. Grumbling a few colorful words she’d learned throughout her career as a healer, she turned the ring and placed her fingers on either side of the thin band, and-
Twisted.
She nearly dropped the ring in shock as the intertwined silver strands actually moved, seams that hadn’t been there before suddenly splitting the band straight down the center before disappearing completely as the design lined up perfectly once more. She felt the object vibrate twice, like a slow heartbeat, both in her fingers and deep in her chest.
It was magical, she realized, some part of her mind cheering with the realization that she had been right.
A thin spear of light like a needle sparked to life, and she found with utter fascination that, no matter which way she turned the ring, the light always pointed the same way: South.
The ring vibrated again, in that same heartbeat-like way, and she could only sit back and wonder exactly what it all meant.
Only time would tell, probably. And as much as she hated it, much of her job was waiting, so.
Careful not to disturb the resting Witcher (not that she likely even could, with how potent the herb drink she’d given him had been), she slipped the ring back into his finger and began to prepare herself to face another day.
———
Over the next few days, life more or less returned to normal (aside from the whole gravely-injured-Witcher-recovering-in-the-back-room thing).
The Witcher - whose name she had learned to be Lambert - woke periodically, though due the healing herbs and his body’s own recovery process he didn’t remain conscious or lucid for longer than a handful of moments at any one time. That being the case, Marlenna wasn’t able to ask any of her burning questions - how he had gotten there, what had happened, what was the significance of the ring - but she was content to wait for the time being. It wasn’t like he would be going anywhere, in the shape he was in.
She never would get to ask about the ring.
———
It was on the fifth day that it happened.
The sun was dipping steadily lower toward the horizon, and Marlenna was busy quietly reassuring a sniffling little boy as she patched up his skinned knees - yes, I know it stings, you’re being such a brave little man - when the front door slammed open so viciously that she was baffled as to how it hadn’t shattered (and also how her heart hadn’t physically lept from her chest, because Gods above).
“Where is he?!” a voice snarled as she lurched to her feet, carefully keeping little Ermin hidden behind her skirts even as she herself shook with fear.
The man before her was tall, lithe, but judging by the ease with which he hefted the sword in his grasp, deceptively strong. His skin was tan, hair falling in dark, messy curls about his jaw, and the features of his face - which she would have easily described as handsome under other circumstances - were twisted into a mask of fury.
“Wh-who?” she stuttered, reaching back to place a hand on Ermin’s shoulder, who she felt grasping at her skirts in fear. Surely he wasn’t looking for the boy?
The man stepped closer, and the only thing keeping her from retreating was the trembling figure behind her. She felt less than an inch tall under the piercing gaze of emerald, split only by the slightest hint of slitted black pupils.
Oh, she realized breathlessly, tongue thick in her mouth as she tried to swallow dryly. He’s a Witcher.
Before she could open her mouth, she was saved from having to croak out anything past the painful lump in her throat by a voice from the other room.
“Aiden?”
The man’s head snapped to the sound immediately, hardly caring about her or the boy now that he’d found what - or who - he was searching for. It wasn’t until he’d fully disappeared through the doorway of the back room that she was finally able to breathe again, and freed her skirts from the now openly sobbing boy’s shaking hands with a gentle smile.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she assured him, pulling him into a steadying hug even as her own muscles still trembled from the lingering terror and adrenaline coursing through her veins. “It’s okay. Run on home now.”
Little Ermin needed little convincing. He bolted out of the front door (that was damaged, she noted distantly, splintered wood surrounding the impact point of what she assumed was the Witcher’s foot), hardly pausing to look back as he ran like the hounds of hell were at his heels. Marlenna hardly blamed him.
With the boy gone, she could now hear the words between the two Witchers in the back. As much as she didn’t want to eavesdrop, unfortunately her curiosity won out and she tried her best to steady her breathing to listen.
“-so happy to see you-“
“-the fuck was all that noise?”
“We need to go-“
“Go? The fuck did you do, cat?”
“I don’t know what she did to you, but I’m getting you out of here.”
“What she- Aiden, you ignorant slut,” Marlenna had to bite her knuckles to muffle a surprised guffaw at that, the insult full of exasperated fondness, “she saved my life. What the hell did you think?”
They were both silent for a long moment, broken finally by a low groan which she assumed came from Lambert.
“Aiden-“
“But the ring, Lambs, I thought-“
“You fucked up a perfectly good door, is what you did. Now put away your fucking sword and go apologize.”
She heard a noise then that she could only describe as a whine, and then had to structure her face very quickly as she heard the sound of reluctant footsteps heading in her direction.
It was very hard to bite back the smile that tugged at her lips at the sight of the man - Aiden - with a sheepish look and a light blush prettily coloring his cheekbones (she was right, he was handsome) and even the tips of his slightly pointed ears.
They both gauged one another in silence for a long moment, before Aiden cleared his throat and looked away with obvious embarrassment.
“I’m. Sorry about the door.”
She was very tempted to grouse about how she’d have to get a new door cut and fitted and how much it would cost and how long that would take - and the nights were getting much colder now, you know - but decided that the long moment of silence she’d forced him to endure, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as he awaited her ire, was punishment enough.
“Would you like some tea?” she offered instead, stifling the triumphant smile as his shame-filled expression morphed into one of surprise and then quickly ended up at tentative hopefulness.
———
“- and then the damn griffin took a chunk out of my arm,” Lambert told his enraptured audience-of-two, recounting the battle that had led to his showing up at Marlenna’s door half-dead. He was a good storyteller, she mused, for all he peppered in expletives as often as possible.
“I imagine you don’t remember much after that,” the healer responded, earning a shake of the head from her patient. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear how you nearly gave me a heart attack, looking like a wraith on my doorstep.”
As she’d expected, the admission drew a wide grin from the man.
“Witcher potions can have that effect,” Aiden remarked, which was the most he’d spoken since they brought chairs and tea into the recovery room to tell their stories. “The black eyes, black veins - generally pretty unsettling.”
“Does that happen to anyone who takes the potions?”
“Nah, they’re straight poison,” Lambert responded. “A human’d die if they tried it. Our bodies metabolize toxins differently, more efficiently, but even a Witcher could die from it if they’re not careful and take too much.”
Marlenna hummed, finger tracing around the rim of her empty teacup as she thought. Lambert seemed ready to doze off again, having expended the most energy he had in days just by talking, but Aiden seemed the exact opposite; in fact, she didn’t think she’d seen him sit still for even a moment, fingers tapping and leg bouncing and beautiful gold-flecked emerald eyes restless as they sought for… something.
“How did you find us here, Aiden?” she prompted, hoping maybe he would calm if he had something to focus on.
“The ring,” he answered simply, raising his left hand to show a replica of the one she’d studied so extensively resting on his index finger. “They’re a bonded pair - when you twist one, both point to one another and vibrate, more frequently the closer you get.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, delighted and fascinated by the prospect. “That’s wonderful!”
“Speaking of,” Lambert drawled, stubbornly fighting back a yawn before he continued, “when was the last time you slept, kitty cat?”
Aiden glanced away, looking decidedly ashamed and embarrassed.
“I meditated-“
“Fuck’s sake,” the bedridden Witcher groaned with exasperation. “You know that’s only a stop-gap. It’s not a replacement for actual sleep.”
“I know!” Aiden retorted petulantly. “I was… worried about you. You never used your ring before, and I thought…”
Marlenna felt, very suddenly, as if she were intruding on a private moment. Before she could excuse herself from the room, however, Aiden quickly changed the subject.
“Did you kill the griffin?”
“Fuck no,” Lambert hissed, graciously allowing the diversion. “You think I was gonna stick around after that thing turned my shoulder into ground beef? Fuck that, I got the fuck out of there as soon as I could.”
If Marlenna hadn’t been looking at Aiden in that moment, she would have missed the way his pupils contracted sharply into that same furious slit she’d first seen as he slammed through her front door, lips pulled back to bare his teeth in an almost feral look.
She startled as he jumped to his feet with a low growl, prowling out of the room with single-minded focus.
“Aiden-“ she began to call after him - surely he needed rest, having gone the past near-week without sleep - but was interrupted by Lambert’s drowsy voice.
“Let ‘im go,” he drawled, golden eyes fluttering closed. “When he gets worked up like this, best to let him find an outlet ‘fore he explodes in a bad way. Learned that one the hard way.”
Marlenna bit her lip but heeded the man’s words, instead busying herself by gathering up their teacups to be washed later and hoping desperately that she wouldn’t find herself with another injured Witcher on her hands.
She left Lambert to his rest, the explosive energy that had come and gone with Aiden settled into a near silence punctuated only by the bedridden Witcher’s light snores. It was damn near peaceful.
Well, for a moment at least.
“Marlenna!”
“What is it now?” the healer grumbled under her breath, having had enough excitement for the day thank you very much. Of course, that fickle mistress known as Fate had a wicked sense of humor.
Marlenna opened her front door and, for the third time in less than a week, nearly screamed at the sight before her.
Not one or two, or even a handful, but the entire village of sturdy men and women stood before her, baring implements ranging from pitchforks to kitchen knives, each with a look of steely (if not fearful) determination.
“What in Melitele’s good name is the meaning of this?” she cried out, voice wavering nearly as bad as the rest of her.
“Ermin came howlin’ through the door like a banshee, sayin’ you was bein’ attacked by a Witcher man,” replied the leader of the pack, who she quickly identified as the young boy’s father. “We rounded up all the folk what could hold a weapon, t’ chase ‘em outta town if’n we gotta.”
That was. Well, incredibly misguided, but sweet all the same. Still, she thanked all the Gods - minor and major - that she could think of for the fact that Aiden had gone before this mob appeared at her door. She didn’t even want to imagine what could have happened if they’d clashed.
She spied the boy in question then, clinging to his mother’s skirts as he had to her own less than an hour ago. Marlenna couldn’t help the fond smile that tugged at her lips, even as she looked around at the gathered would-be warriors.
“Thank you all for your concern, but I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. No one is being attacked, I promise. You may all return to your homes. And, Ermin,” she knelt before the boy, petting his hair fondly, “that was a brave thing you did. Even though you were scared, you wanted to make sure I was alright, and that’s very courageous of you. Thank you.”
The boy sniffed and nodded, burying his face in his mother’s skirt once more. The gathered crowd began to murmur amongst themselves, then seeing that she was speaking the truth, lowered their makeshift weapons and trudged back down the path to their own homes.
Marlenna let out a heavy sigh as they disappeared, thanking whichever higher powers that may be listening for another avoided catastrophe, before heading back into her little cottage.
———
Aiden returned a few hours after nightfall, covered in muck and blood and even a few feathers here and there, a self-satisfied grin stretching his lips from ear to ear. Marlenna squawked her displeasure as he stepped inside, shooing him back out to clean himself at the well behind the house before he could track filth through her home.
She gathered some plain clothing - a large tunic and soft linen trousers - that she kept for her patients and a drying cloth, as well as some soap and scraps of fabric for scrubbing, to take to him, setting it on the edge of the well as he upturned a bucket of water over his head and let out a sound like a yowl as the frigid water splashed over him.
“Well what did you expect?” she teased the shivering man as he scrambled to unhook his belts and armor, considerately looking away as he shed the under-layer of clothing that was just as soaked and filthy as the rest of him. Once he’d tossed those into the washbasin she presented, along with a bucket full of water, she returned to the house to add a considerable amount of the water she had boiling in the kettle for tea and left them to soak while she prepared leftovers for the man to eat once he’d scrubbed himself clean.
When he did finally return indoors, shivering and skin pink from the cold and the scrubbing, she ushered him over to the table where the steaming bowl of stew awaited. He gave a noise halfway between a groan and a moan, shoveling in a few bites without even pausing to breathe.
“You should be careful,” he warned with that same satisfied grin he’d worn after slaying the griffin. “They say if you feed a stray, it’ll just keep coming back.”
Marlenna hummed with a smile, settling down beside the washbasin with a cup of tea and some soap to scrub at his dirty clothing.
“I could use the company,” she retorted, happily refilling his bowl when he devoured the first helping. He ate the second much slower, though still quite ravenously, and as she refilled his bowl for a third time she allowed herself to wonder how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal.
Finally sated after the three helpings of hearty stew, Aiden turned his attention to the armor and swords he’d leaned against the wall near the doorway. The bucket of water he’d upturned over himself had rinsed away most of the muck and blood, but still he sat them on his lap and cleaned each one with great care and the practiced ease that could only come with decades of repetition. Marlenna noticed with intrigue that, though he only had two sheathes, he carefully tended to three swords; at her questioning look, the man gave her a roguish grin.
“Lambert’s,” he explained, holding the hilts together to show her how they differed. “Must’ve dropped it when the griffin chomped him. Found it in the damn thing’s nest when I killed it, like a little shiny trophy. I am giving him so much shit for losing his sword, believe me. That’s the first thing they beat into little would-be Witchers: lose your sword, lose your life.”
“It was a close thing,” Marlenna responded dryly as she hung his now-clean clothes by the fire to dry. Her fingers were a little pruny from how long she’d scrubbed at them. “If you’d seen how he was when he showed up here… I’m still not sure how he even managed it, with how much blood he lost. He was half out of his mind.”
Aiden hummed, his ever-present grin fading a little as he no doubt imagined the moment. They were both quiet for a long moment before he spoke again.
“Thank you. For… for saving him. I don’t know what I’d…” He swallowed, looking away. “Healer or not, most people wouldn’t have helped a Witcher as you did. So. Thank you.”
Marlenna reached out, placing a gentle hand on the man’s shoulder. He looked up at her with such earnestness in those green eyes that she found herself at a loss for words.
“There are good people in this world,” she finally managed, and was rewarded with a soft smile in return.
“I’m glad he found you,” Aiden responded sincerely, and she couldn’t help the pang of fondness that struck her heart like a spear, leaving her breathless.
They both finished their separate tasks - he with his cleaning and caring for not only his but Lambert’s swords and armor, and she with emptying the washbasin and preparing for the next day’s meals - before retiring for the night. Aiden padded quietly into the room where Lambert dozed, crawling into the cot ever-so-delicately to tuck himself under the man’s good arm; miraculously, he didn’t wake the other Witcher at all, even as he tucked his head under Lambert’s chin to pillow on his chest.
Marlenna blew out the remaining candles before collapsing into her own bed, exhausted.
———
For all she housed and cared for two Witchers, life seemed to settle into a sense of normalcy. Lambert remained bedridden as he healed, sleeping and complaining in equal amounts, and Aiden proved himself to be exceptionally handy around the house. He helped Marlenna to fix the door he’d nearly shattered (with one kick), and spent a great deal of time in the woods about the house foraging for herbs for her healing and edible plants and fungi to add to their meals along with the deer and rabbits he hunted.
He was great company, too; a skillful conversationalist, with a wide breadth of knowledge on many a topic, and not to mention easy on the eyes.
(Though she was fairly certain, with the way he and Lambert interacted, that he was quite well taken; still, it didn’t hurt anything to look. So she did.)
One day, while she and Aiden tediously peeled potatoes for the night’s meal (feeding herself and two grown Witchers was quite the task, she found out), the two men happily conversed about whatever monsters or contracts they’d taken on in their time apart. Having little knowledge or experience on the subject, Marlenna was content to listen idly while her hands worked, though she found herself struggling to keep her hair out of her face as she bent over the growing pile of peels at her feet. Perhaps she should have bundled it up in a scarf before sitting to work, but by then she was already halfway through the pile of potatoes and loathe to relinquish the rhythm she’d settled into.
Still, it was mightily distracting to have to turn to her shoulder to awkwardly push the hair back every minute or so. After the fifth or sixth time, a warm hand settled on her forearm and she glanced up to see both men watching her with varying levels of amusement. She wondered how long ago their conversation had stalled, and how she hadn’t noticed.
“Is your hair bothering you?” Aiden asked, squeezing her arm just a little in understanding. His hair was long enough that he often pulled it back into a half-tail or bun while working, the shorter curls lying against the curve of his neck.
“A bit,” she admitted sheepishly, letting out a puff of air to rustle the rust-colored curls that tickled at her nose. “I’m almost finished, though.”
“Would you like me to braid it for you?”
She blinked at him in surprise, her expression drawing a laugh from his lips.
“I used to help with my sisters’ hair, back in the caravan,” he explained, setting his knife to the side and wiping his hands on his trousers before moving to stand behind her. “And they did mine in turn. Braids are a blessing for little Witcherlings, keeping the hair out of our face for training while also offering a way to relax and bond with your siblings in… stressful times.”
As he spoke he worked his fingers delicately through her locks, teasing out any tangles he came across, and she could immediately understand the relaxing he spoke of. She felt herself go almost boneless after only a few moments, eyes drifting closed as those clever fingers began combing and twisting her hair into what she assumed was the neatest plait her curls had ever seen.
How long has it been, she wondered idly, unable to even recall the last time she’d felt a touch so gentle as his knuckles brushed over the pointed tips of her ears.
“You’re part Aen Sidhe.” It wasn’t a question, just a soft observation, the words holding none of the malice or accusation that normally would come from any other person. She hummed in acknowledgment.
“As are you,” she pointed out idly, having noticed the subtle knife-point of his own ears the first day he’d arrived.
“The villagers…” Lambert began, and she cracked open one eye. She’d almost forgotten he was there.
“They know,” she confirmed.
“And they treat you well?” There was something strange to the Wolf’s voice, almost like a threat. It was quite endearing, especially coming from the one who had been bedridden in her healing room for days.
“One tends to overlook trivial things such as blood and race when that person has helped set bones, birth children, break fevers…”
He grunted - an understanding, she assumed - just as Aiden tied off the braid at the base of her skull with one of his own leather hairties.
“Done!” he proclaimed happily, patting her shoulders before he returned to his own chair and pile of potatoes. Marlenna reached back to touch the twist gently, astonished with how neat it felt, even with how short her hair was.
“Thank you.”
———
Marlenna could tell as the days drew on that Lambert was growing more and more restless and agitated the longer he was confined to his bed. Coarse and irritable already, as his partner had confirmed was his usual temperament, he became steadily more snappy and short-tempered with every interaction until even Aiden’s endless well of patience began to run dry.
“My darling Wolf,” he huffed one day, after a particularly scathing remark aimed at the healer as she changed his bandages, “I love you with all of my heart, but if you don’t mind your fangs I will turn a blind eye if Lenna decides she would rather smother you with a pillow.”
Marlenna bit her lips to hide a smile as Lambert’s face twisted into something that could have been embarrassment - whether at the gentle rebuke or the admission of love, she couldn’t tell.
“Sorry,” he finally managed to growl out between gritted teeth, pointedly not meeting either of their gazes.
“It’s a wonderful day out,” she spoke up, tying off the last of his bandages and turning to Aiden with a smile. “Maybe some fresh air would do our Wolf some good.”
Neither of them commented on the use of ‘our Wolf’, more focused on helping the man to his unsteady feet, but she did notice the beginnings of a flush at the tips of Lambert’s ears and smiled to herself in satisfaction. Maybe there was a bit of softness under all those prickles, after all.
Slowly and steadily, Aiden and Marlenna helped Lambert out to the bench in front of her home that was perfectly situated so as to be shaded from the midafternoon sun. They let him move under his own power as much as possible, knowing he would only be more upset if they’d had to carry him, but the wound and his long days of recovery had definitely taken their toll on his body.
When he was situated, growling at the fussing hands of the two caretakers, he finally stretched out his legs and let some of the tension that had been coiling within him release. Aiden settled next to him on the ground, head resting on Lambert’s thigh, and a happy noise rose from his throat when the Wolf buried his fingers in the dark waves of his hair.
That became part of their daily routine, then, and most afternoons found at least two of the three lounging in front of the house enjoying the light breeze - Aiden whittling at pine knots he found during his forays into the forest or Marlenna scrubbing at the laundry and hanging up the sopping clothes to dry while Lambert basked in the fresh air.
It was on one of those days that little Ermin returned, a basketful of his mother’s best jams in return for a burn salve Marlenna had given her carried very carefully with both hands. He froze in place at the first notice of the Witchers, shrinking under the gaze of two sets of cats’ eyes. The desire to turn tail and run warred with sense of duty, and Aiden couldn’t help the delighted smile that lit up his face as Ermin set his mouth into a determined line and marched forward.
“Miss Lenna!” he called, and she paused in her scrubbing to answer her name.
“Yes? Oh, Ermin! Lovely to see you. How are your knees doing? Have they healed well?”
The boy flushed under the attention she gave, both hands holding out the (quite heavy, judging by the shaking of his arms) basket.
“Momma sent these for you. Strawberry and raspberry, your favorite!”
“Oh, how delightful!” Marlenna exclaimed, accepting the present. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?”
Ermin froze again, trying not to glance over at the two Witchers too obviously. (Both of whom graciously avoided his gaze, trying not to scare the boy any further. Aiden had hidden his whittling knife - where, she hadn’t a clue - and was now working over his carving of a curled, sleeping cat with a rag.)
“Okay,” he finally agreed, voice wavering only a bit. Marlenna was so proud of him, she promised herself she’d set aside a jelly tart for him once she got around to baking them with the jams he’d brought.
“Would you like to meet my friends?” she questioned gently, a hand on his shoulder for reassurance as he stiffened again at the reminder of the two Witchers nearby. She could almost see the wheels of thought spinning in his mind.
Surely if Miss Lenna says they are friends, they can’t be terrible, right? she imagined him reasoning with himself.
“Okay,” he finally said, again, almost a whisper.
You beautiful, brave boy, she cheered mentally, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from grinning stupidly.
“Ermin, this is Lambert, and Aiden. They’re Witchers,” she introduced gently, turning him to face the men but not forcing him to move any closer than he was. “Aiden, Lambert, this is Ermin. He’s the best berry-picker in all of the village. Isn’t that right?”
Ermin nodded hastily; he earned that title fair and square, and she knew he was proud of it.
“What a great pleasure to meet you, Ermin the berry-picker!” Aiden crowed happily, and Marlenna was delighted to see the boy flush with happiness at the recognition of his talent. “Are those jams from your berries?”
Ermin nodded, not quite finding his voice just yet. Aiden started to grin but then thought better of it, settling on a close-lipped smile that hid his sharper-than-normal canines.
“Then I’m sure it will be the best jam anyone has ever tasted. Isn’t that right, Lambs?”
Lambert scoffed at the nickname and looked away, but muttered a ‘yeah, sure’ regardless.
“What is your favorite kind of jam?” Ermin ventured to ask, voice quietly wavering.
“Any sort of berry,” Aiden responded with a wink, “and Lambs loves orange jam. Isn’t that right?”
Lambert grunted an affirmative, and Ermin’s eyes widened at the mention of something as foreign as oranges . They must have traveled very far if they’d had anything like that!
“Wow,” he whispered, glancing up at Marlenna with a look of awe. She smiled back down at him, then shooed him inside to pick out the tea they’d be having.
Thank you, she mouthed at the two, and Aiden finally did give a full-toothed smile at that.
And the look of delight on the boy’s face when he rushed home later, a carved cat figurine in his hands, was enough to have Marlenna grinning herself until bedtime.
———
Despite herself, Marlenna found she was rather fond of the two men who had - quite literally - crashed into her life.
So, naturally, when the day came that Lambert was no longer bound to her care and the two Witchers said their goodbyes, Marlenna struggled with the sudden feeling of aching loss that settled in her chest.
“We’ll come back and visit,” Aiden assured her jovially as he pulled her into a tight hug that she happily reciprocated.
“I’ll hold you to that,” she laughed, though it felt uncomfortably hollow even to her.
Lambert didn’t hug her, when it came to his turn, though she didn’t blame him as he was still on the mend and didn’t seem much like a hugger, anyways.
Instead he looked her up and down pensively, then turned his head to hide… some sort of expression that she couldn’t read.
“Should introduce you to my brother, Eskel,” he grumbled. “He’d like you.”
“Not if I introduce her to Gaetan first!” Aiden butted in with a gleeful cackle, then danced away gracefully from Lambert’s fist.
“Fuck you! I saw her first!”