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Walking into the small village, he’s met with jeers. People part around him, not wanting to be near him once they catch a glimpse of his eyes and figure out he’s a witcher. He ignores them and marches forward, only stopping when he reaches the town’s notice board. Yellow eyes skim the bulletins, searching for something that stands out amongst the requests for eggs or men demanding for the head of whoever ploughed their wife the night previous.
Fortunately for Lambert, he spies what looks like a promising contract. Yanking, he tears it from its spot nailed to the board and reads. It appears that some kind of siren is menacing the village’s nearby shore. From where he stands, he can faintly hear the sound of waves falling onto themselves.
It’s not uncommon for towns this close to the coast to be in constant need of witchers. The rocky outcroppings at the shore are a prime spot for sirens to nest and breed.
Reading over the contract for a second time, he nods to himself. The job won’t be fun - fighting something airborne never is - but it looks like it’s a single siren so it’ll be easy work. The contract itself seems to have been posted by the alderman, who specifies where he can be found in a postscript.
With a shrug, Lambert heads to the local tavern. Hopefully, the alderman will be there like the contract said, and if anything he can at least get a drink and something to eat. It will give him time to go over his potions and bombs to get ready for the fight ahead.
The doors slam open without grace, and Lambert heads to the counter to ask for a drink and whatever their special of the day is. The barhand doesn’t meet his eyes, but beyond that seems to treat Lambert the same as any other customer. He doesn’t blame the guy, he doesn’t like staring himself in the eyes either, at the constant reminder of what was taken from him without his choice.
Payment dealt with, he scans the tavern, seeing if there’s anyone he can identify as the alderman. Most folk look like common farmers or fisherman, clothes dull and ragged, the deep greens and browns of cloth dyed from the earth. Finally, his eyes catch on someone whose clothes are slightly less worn, colours slightly brighter, and wearing a frankly ridiculous hat.
Who knew Vesemir had better taste in hats back when he was young than people do now.
He makes a beeline to the alderman, who sits with his back to him. Judging by the relatively rhythmic clinking and slurping, the man is enjoying a meal. Lambert’s loath to disrupt it - actually he doesn’t give a shit if he does.
Clearing his throat, he hears something splash into the alderman’s food and watches as his back stiffens.
“Heard you need a witcher,” Lambert says, sitting down across from the alderman.
“Ah, yes. I do,” the alderman answers. He grasps his hands and rubs them together in an effort to soothe his nerves. “We gots a siren problem. The fishermen are too afraid to work, and think they’ll get lured to their deaths.”
Lambert leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Sounds like a problem.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the barhand approach with a bowl of something as well as a tankard. Sensing that Lambert’s doing business, he quickly places the food in front of Lambert and retreats in what the witcher would consider to be record time.
“Can ye - can ye do something about it?” the alderman asks, meeting Lambert’s eyes.
“Probably. But before I do anything we’re gonna have to discuss my pay.” He picks up a spoon and dips it into the bowl, taking a bite. It seems he was given some kind of barley soup. Not the worst thing he’s eaten lately. “There’s no rate on the notice and you can’t expect me to work for free.”
“Erm, yes. Pay…” The alderman continues to ring his hands together. Lambert fights the urge to grab them just so he stops.
“You’re a successful fishing town. You’ve got farms too.” Lambert takes a swig of ale. “I’ll do it for 135 crowns. No less, but I accept tips.”
The alderman sighs, but nods. “Agreed.” He shoves his arm forward and Lambert takes it with a firm grip. After a quick shake, the terms of the contract are set. Once his hand is released, the alderman leaves as quickly as possible, leaving Lambert to his own devices.
He just snorts, continuing to eat his meal. He has the coin right now, so he can afford to take some time before heading out. It doesn’t seem like this siren has targeted anyone yet.
Soon enough, he reaches the bottom of his bowl and tankard. He takes the dishes, returning them to the counter where the barhand stands. He sends him a nod of acknowledgement and heads out.
Before heading toward the coast, Lambert finds a clearing where he can prepare. Kneeling, he opens his pack, taking stock of which potions and decoctions he has available, and if he might need to brew anything for the fight. Once he’s finished checking, he moves on to his bomb pouch. He should have enough, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure. He’ll never hear the end of it if a measly single siren is what kills him in the end. He can practically hear Eskel laughing already at the thought.
Materials checked, sword sharpened, and oil applied, he deems himself ready and continues on toward the shoreline. Stepping foot on the bright sand, everything seems calm. The waves lap against the shore while sunlight glints off the water’s surface, with a gentle breeze cooling his face.
It’s a lovely day. Too bad he’ll have to shed blood.
The beach is surprisingly clean. There are some fishing nets that lie abandoned in the sand, but beyond that it seems relatively well taken care of. There’s no signs of anything being disturbed. There aren’t any carcasses left from a hungry siren, nor can he see any sign of a nest being built.
He’s just about to call it, chalking it up to the villagers’ paranoia, when he sees something bright white reflecting off the sand. Whatever it is stands out against the shore, and upon a closer inspection appears to be moving.
This is probably the siren that he’s been tasked to kill. Lambert can’t recall any sirens of this specific colouring, but mutations do happen. A simple enough explanation.
As he approaches, the wriggling figure becomes clearer, and to Lambert’s dawning horror, it is not a siren. Wriggling in the sand, caught in a fishnet, is a merman.
His scales are white and opalescent, reflecting different colours in the sunlight. Where scales meet skin is almost indiscernible; the merman’s skin is bone white. Lambert’s only able to tell it’s skin only because of how dull it is in comparison. He thinks he can see splotches of scales on different parts of the merman’s body. His hands end in sharp claws, perfect for tearing through things with ease. However, his hands are tangled in the net wrapped closely to his torso, the merman completely unable to use his claws to his advantage.
The merman stares up at him with wide, yellow eyes. To Lambert’s shock, they remind him of his own right down to the slitted pupils. The merman’s hair is frizzy and dry, probably from being above water for so long. It worries Lambert. Merfolk shouldn’t be outside of water for too long, they’ll quickly become dehydrated and can die. They’re rather fragile outside of their element.
“Not gonna hurt you,” Lambert says, showing the merman his empty hands. He keeps his swords affixed to his back and does his best to make no sudden movement. “I just want to get you out of that net.”
“Why?” the merman croaks, it sounds painful for him to speak. “Everyone else ran screaming as soon as they saw me, no matter what I said.”
“Yeah, well I’m not everyone else.”
The merman bows his head, resigned. He doesn’t meet Lambert’s eyes, but he stills his frantic movements, allowing the witcher to grab his hunting knife to start slowly hacking away at the net.
“I’m Geralt.” The merman’s voice breaks through the silence. Lambert pauses in his movements, knife resting over the last bit of net that traps his arm to his side. He’s surprised by how innocuous Geralt’s name is. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to someone who lives deep in the ocean, but then again what does he know. It’s not like he has an encyclopaedia of merfolk culture he studies.
“Lambert.” With a final swipe, Geralt’s arm is free. He moves to start freeing the merman’s tail while Geralt reaches over to his other side, sharp claws slicing through the net as if it were wet paper and freeing his other arm.
“Lambert,” Geralt repeats quietly, testing the name in his mouth. Lambert notices sharp teeth that poke out as the merman speaks. “Your name?”
“Yeah, don’t wear it out and all that,” Lambert mutters. It doesn’t take him much longer to free the merman’s tail. Sand is caked between his scales, and some of them appear to have been loosened from the rope chafing. Now that he’s freed from the net, his skin is covered in marks from the material rubbing against it. They’re stark against his pale skin.
“Thank you,” Geralt rasps. He squirms slightly, trying to move, but his limbs are shaking and he’s unsuccessful. “Might still need your help though.”
Startled by the words, Lambert looks up to meet the merman’s yellow eyes. Geralt has a frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed as he quickly breaks eye contact to stare out at the ocean in front of him.
“With what?” Lambert asks.
Geralt huffs, blowing a strand of frizzy white hair off of his face. “I’m weak, dehydrated, and can barely move. I need help getting to the ocean. Just enough for my tail to be submerged.”
Lambert gives him a sharp nod. “Fair enough,” he says. He moves behind Geralt and grabs him from his armpits to lift him up. He’s surprisingly dense. He thought the merman was a bit emaciated looking at him, but his muscle must be tightly packed.
“How long have you been stranded here for?”
“A couple days I think. If you hadn’t showed up, I probably would have died.”
“I don’t want to know what kind of stupid rumour that the locals would create if they came across your dead body,” Lambert comments as he manages to position Geralt so he’s covered by water up to his torso. More than the merman had requested, but he thinks it will be better in the long run. He helps Geralt lean backward and grabs the remains of the net to ball up in a makeshift pillow. Carefully, he makes sure there aren’t any parts of the net that Geralt could accidentally get his limbs caught into again, and he props it up behind the merman.
Leaning back, Geralt lets out a sigh of relief as the balled up net holds his weight. “Probably warn everyone about a new breed of siren - this time male - that will lure the women away from the men. Even though I look nothing like a siren.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Humans don’t know the difference between a ghoul and a drowner.” Lambert sits down beside Geralt, cross legged. “They might not even consider you’d be a fucking male siren.”
“Really?” Geralt asks, turning to meet Lambert’s gaze. “They wouldn’t be able to tell? At all?”
“Nope.” Lambert pops the ‘p’.
“Hm.”
“I know.”
They sit beside each other in silence, watching the sun sink closer and closer to the horizon. The yellows, oranges, and reds from the sunset dance on top of the water’s surface as gentle waves lap against the shore. After several minutes, Geralt’s rough voice breaks the silence.
“I don’t know very much about witchers, or how things work above water. But, I do know that you have contracts and you need proof of your kill. By freeing me, you sacrificed your pay didn’t you?” Geralt asks. “Is there anything I can do so you can still get paid?”
Lambert’s eyes widen in shock. It always amazes him that humans are so quick to label creatures that are different ‘monsters’. Geralt has shown him much more kindness in their short time knowing each other than he has seen from a human in quite a while.
“I need some kind of trophy. Normally it’s the head of the monster I’ve been contracted to kill. But, I don’t think you’d appreciate it if I chopped off your head after all of this.” Lambert’s smirk softens into a smile when he hears Geralt’s soft chuckle.
“I have an idea. Hopefully it’ll work, but it spares me from getting beheaded so I think it’s the better option.” Geralt grins, showing off a mouth full of sharp teeth perfect for rending fish.
“I’m open to hear it.”
Geralt just nods, and reaches over to the loosened scales that adorn his tail. He seems to test several before settling on one and gently wiggles it back and forth before giving it a final yank. He repeats this several times and when he has a handful of bright opalescent scales in his hand, he reaches out to offer them to Lambert.
Lambert’s mouth drops open. All he can do is stare at the scales. “I can’t take these.”
“Why not? They’ll grow back, they were just gonna fall off anyway. If they make you coin then they’re better off in your hands. The ocean floor doesn’t need ‘em. I don’t either,” Geralt says. He takes one of Lambert’s hands in his own and turns it so his palm is facing upward. “Think of it as payment for freeing me.”
The bright scales are dropped into his open palm, landing with a soft clink as they hit each other. The warm colours from the sunset reflect off the scales. If he didn’t already know what they were, he’d have guessed they were rare gems.
“Are you sure?” he asks, still unsure.
Geralt nods. “Like I said, they’ll grow back. Hurts the same amount as pulling out a loose tooth.” He shifts, turning to face Lambert better. “You should head back, get your payment.”
“That eager to get rid of me?” Lambert can’t help but feel his heart sink. He’d been enjoying the company, the company was pleasant and their silences were without any expectations. Geralt is also rather easy to talk to.
“Nah, but I’m eager to see you paid. You’re sweet.”
Lambert is beyond grateful he can’t blush, because he’s sure if he could he’d be red as a beet. “Sweet like vinegar maybe.”
Geralt just stares at him, a small smile on his face as he examines Lambert. He seems to consider something for a moment before surging forward, capturing Lambert’s lips in a kiss.
He freezes, any thoughts left in his mind have disappeared. He feels Geralt starting to pull back, probably thinking he’s getting rejected, but before he can Lambert grasps the back of his head and pulls him forward, deepening their kiss.
Before long, they pull back. Lambert gasps for a breath while Geralt smirks, his yellow eyes sparkling in the setting sun.
“You just gonna kiss me and then disappear forever?” Lambert tries to joke. He tries to keep his voice light and jovial, but can’t help but let some bitterness bleed through. Geralt just smiles wider.
“I have an idea,” he says. “You go get your reward and meet me back here in a couple of days.”
“You promise you’ll be here?” he asks.
“I promise.”
Lambert frowns, unsure if he should trust Geralt’s word. They’ve only known each other for a couple hours. Only shared one kiss between them. That’s hardly a foundation for any kind of relationship or promise. He also doesn’t want Geralt to feel like he’s being pressured into doing something he doesn’t actually want to do.
“Alright. You better be here in three days then.”
Geralt’s nod is the last thing Lambert sees of him before turning away, marching back to the town to get his reward from the contract. For the first time in a while, he feels hope start to build in his chest.
Those three days seem to pass as slow as molasses in the middle of winter up in Kaedwen. The alderman does accept the scales as proof of a job completed successfully. If the look on the alderman’s face when he saw them is any indication, then Lambert is sure the man will be coming into money soon.
The rest of the time he spends drinking at the tavern. He listens to a mediocre bard croon about something inane that he can’t muster up any energy to give a shit about. He thinks it’s the longest three days he’s experienced, except for the trials.
On the third day he’s filled with apprehension as he makes his way down to the shore. Lambert doesn’t know what to expect. That small flicker of hope inside him wants to grow, but he’s tried his best to keep it from getting out of hand. He’s known enough disappointment in his life. It’s foolish that he already wants Geralt enough to come back to see if he kept his promise.
Standing on the beach, next to where the discarded net still lies balled up, stands a man. He’s tall, a bit taller than Lambert, and wears a loose white shirt with black britches and knee high boots. His white hair gleams in the sun, and his skin pale as the moon. When Lambert meets his yellow cat eyed gaze, Geralt smiles.
“Told ya I’d figure something out, didn’t I?” he says, wrapping his arms around Lambert. Lambert presses his face into Geralt’s neck, and feels giddy. Maybe his hope isn’t so foolish after all.
Pulling back, Lambert holds Geralt’s shoulders and examines his face with a lopsided smirk. “Lookin’ good, pretty boy.”