With Tenderness and Nobleness - inexplicifics - Wiedźmin | The Witcher (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Aleksander follows Livi through an absolutely dizzying array of oddly bare stone corridors - no tapestries or statuary to be seen - and up several sets of stairs to a hall lined with wooden doors, one of which she pushes open to reveal a suite of rooms. The furniture in the front room is simple and sturdy, chairs and a couch and a low table made of heavy wood polished to a fine sheen and padded where appropriate with plain woolen fabric, and there’s a thick rug on the floor; through a door standing ajar, Aleksander can see a bed in the same simple style, piled high with furs and blankets, its heavy curtains drawn back invitingly. There’s a fire laid ready in the hearth that spans the wall between the rooms, which Aleksander is rather painfully glad to see. It was quite warm in Redania; here in Kaer Morhen, it’s frankly chilly.

“May we come in?” Milena asks, and Aleksander realizes his companions have all paused on the threshold. Which...why? He is a guest here - but these are apparently going to be his rooms, so...perhaps this is a Kaer Morhen custom, to be so punctilious about not intruding upon another's space. He nods hastily.

“Please do.”

Aiden flicks a hand at the fireplace, and the fire springs to life; Aleksander flinches, hard, and takes a too-long moment to get himself back under control. It’s nothing like what Master Gustavus did, he tells himself sternly. Fire is much less terrifying than the spell which stopped Aleksander’s tongue. He covers his unfortunate lapse by going over to put his little bag of clothing and toiletries just inside the door to the bedroom, then turns back to find his guests are making themselves comfortable.

Aiden sprawls out onto the bearskin hearth-rug, looking very like his School’s namesake animal. Livi settles onto a couch, patting the seat beside her to urge Aleksander to join her, and Lambert sits down in an armchair, tugging Milena onto his lap. She curls against him easily, as though this is perfectly normal, so Aleksander does his best not to stare. No one would ever be so openly affectionate with a lover or even a spouse in Tretogor - but she greeted Lambert in the hall with such a kiss as Aleksander has never seen before, so this sort of informality must be quite usual here.

“So,” Livi says, patting Aleksander’s knee comfortingly, “I thought perhaps we should give you a very quick overview of some of the more startling aspects of living in Kaer Morhen, before we go down for supper.”

“That would be very kind of you,” Aleksander says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “Are they more startling than the hot springs?”

“A bit, yes,” Milena says, rather ruefully. “The hot springs, I find, one grows used to rather quickly; after a little while, it gets easier to ignore the fact that there are ever so many very naked people around. It does help that nothing untoward happens, except after midnight.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says. On the one hand, that’s quite reassuring; he had begun to worry that ‘bathing’ might be a euphemism for ‘orgy.’ He is glad to know that he should avoid bathing after midnight. But on the other hand, what people in Kaer Morhen consider untoward - given that Milena is currently cuddling her lover, in public - might well be substantially more shocking than anything Aleksander has ever encountered before. “That is good to know, and I would welcome any other advice; I do not wish to give offense in any way.”

“Witchers are hard to offend,” Aiden says, grinning up at him from his lazy sprawl.

“Nevertheless,” Aleksander says, rubbing his thumb against the little scar on his finger where Master Gustavus bound him to silence. He would rather avoid even the possibility. He does not know how tenuous his sanctuary here might be, and does not wish to find out.

“Well then,” Livi says, and tugs a bit of parchment out of her trouser pocket. Milena giggles.

“Livi, sweetheart, did you make a list?”

“Of course I did!” Livi grins. “It seemed the best way to avoid forgetting anything. So, first of all - and I still have not forgiven you for not warning me, Milena my dear - you should know that Witchers can smell lies, so you shouldn’t bother telling any, and they can also smell emotions, most especially including fear and lust.”

Aleksander can feel his face heating with horrified embarrassment. Can smell emotions? So Lambert and Aiden - and all the other Witchers he’s met thus far - can smell how terrified he is? And Aiden - Aiden could tell that he was -

“Hey,” Lambert says, frowning. “Stop panicking. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

Aleksander swallows hard and tries to calm his racing heart. “I apologize for my discourtesy.”

“None of that,” Aiden says gently. “You can’t control what you feel, pup. Nobody’ll give you any sh*t for your emotions.”

Milena giggles and her cheeks go slightly pink. “No one gave me any trouble, even though I know everyone could smell how I felt about Lambert for quite some time - and I had to practically trip him into bed, too.” Lambert snickers and kisses her cheek.

“That’s true,” Livi agrees. “Nobody even teased me a little, not even when Eskel had to tell me that Witchers can smell lust because I’d started thinking about Dragonfly while doing paperwork in his office.” She grins sheepishly as Milena goes off in a peal of laughter. Lambert muffles a snort against Milena’s shoulder, and Aiden puts a hand over his eyes and shakes with silent mirth. Aleksander tries not to gawp like a yokel, but - the Livi he knew in Tretogor would never have dreamed of saying such a thing.

She also would never have dreamed of having a female lover, for that matter. Or even wearing trousers. So Kaer Morhen has definitely precipitated some substantial changes.

“Honestly,” Livi says, ignoring their laughing companions with great dignity, “the lack of lying is far more startling. It’s so very different from Tretogor.”

Aleksander tries to imagine a court where no one lies, and fails utterly. He’ll have to see it to believe it, and even then…it’s going to take him a while to really trust that no one is so much as shading the truth.

“I shall not attempt to tell any lies,” he assures Livi. It will be rather refreshing, really, to not have to spend time and effort deciding which flattering lie is more appropriate to the moment - though choosing which truth is appropriate may be just as difficult. Actually, it may be wisest to speak as little as possible, at least until he truly gets his bearings.

Livi nods approval. “The next thing on my list is going to shock you - I nearly fainted when I found out - so brace yourself.” Aleksander takes a deep breath and a firm grip on the arm of the couch. “Jaskier, Eskel, and the White Wolf are all lovers, and do not conceal it, at least within Kaer Morhen’s walls.”

Aleksander sits there staring blankly at the stone wall for a while, feeling as though his brain is fizzing gently. It is one thing, after all, for the Warlord of the North to take a male consort - a choice generally assumed, in Tretogor, to be a sign of the inherent barbarity, savagery, and folly of the Warlord and his mockery of a court - but for him and his second-in-command and his consort to all be lovers is simply…bizarre.

It does, however, explain why Consort Jaskier was sitting on Lord Eskel’s lap.

“Thank you for telling me,” Aleksander says at last. “I…was a little worried, to be quite honest.” Worried that the Warlord and his second-in-command would have a falling out, or that Consort Jaskier would be caught with Lord Eskel and - what is the punishment for cuckolding the Warlord himself? Death? Worse? But evidently that will not become an issue, so he can lay down that worry, at least.

Livi pats his knee again. “They’re rather sweet, honestly. And that leads in to the third thing: Witchers truly do not care who you take as a lover, so long as everyone involved is happy with the arrangement.” She smiles rather dreamily, looking suddenly as young as she was in Tretogor before everything went wrong, lost in the romance of a bard’s tale of gallant knights and true love overcoming all. “No one’s even batted an eye at me and Dragonfly.”

“That’s because the two of you are painfully adorable,” Aiden says, smirking.

“I dare you to say that to Dragonfly’s face,” Lambert says.

“No, thank you, I should like to keep all of my fingers attached,” Aiden says with great dignity - or at least, as much dignity as anyone can have while sprawled on a bearskin rug.

Livi giggles. “She wouldn’t do more than lightly stab you,” she assures him. “Anyhow, Sasha, it really doesn’t matter here. And you’ll probably be able to tell who is in a relationship without too much confusion. Witchers tend to be very…tactile.” She glances pointedly over at Lambert, who is curling a loose lock of Milena’s hair around one finger and looking very contented indeed.

Aleksander frowns. “What of…more discreet relationships?”

“There aren’t any,” Lambert says bluntly. “There’s some as don’t flaunt it as much - you won’t see Gweld and Serrit kissing in corners - but we can all smell who’s f*cking who, so why bother trying to hide it?”

“Ah,” Aleksander says, boggled again. An entire court without any secret relationships - without hidden assignations and illicit flirtations and entire conversations held in the language of fans and eyebrows, without people slipping away to ‘walk in the gardens’ or ‘admire the portrait gallery’ - what would that even be like?

Apparently he is going to find out.

“That seems very straightforward,” he says at last.

“Straightforward is definitely the right word for it,” Livi agrees. “Witchers are very straightforward. Which brings me to the fourth item on my list: except for Griffins, every Witcher I’ve encountered so far seems to be absolutely allergic to honorifics. I have no idea why. Calling them ‘my lord’ makes them twitch and get very disgruntled. So it’s best to use people’s names, or ‘Master Witcher’ if you don’t know them. And if you can’t call the Warlord by name - I can’t, yet - he doesn’t mind being called White Wolf, or just the Wolf.”

“Don’t fret if that one takes a while,” Milena puts in. “It took me nearly a year to be comfortable enough to call him Geralt. It turns out he’s surprisingly sweet, but it does take a little while to learn to see through the whole…” she waves a hand in the air. “Warlord of the North mystique.”

Lambert snickers. “I’m telling him you said he has mystique.”

“Oh, don’t!” Milena says, ears going a delicate pink as she laughs. And then she smirks a little and adds, “I should like to save it up to tease him about myself.”

Lambert and Aiden both go off in gales of laughter; Aiden rolls over and hides his face against the rug, and Lambert puts his forehead against Milena’s shoulder and shakes with mirth.

Aleksander genuinely cannot imagine calling the Warlord of the North by his bare name, much less teasing him. ‘White Wolf,’ though, he might be able to manage. It could be taken as a title of sorts, if a very strange one.

“The fifth thing on my list is related to the fourth, I think,” Livi says briskly, continuing to ignore the laughing Witchers with great dignity. “Just as Witchers dislike being given the honors due their rank, so it is considered extremely offensive to speak to or treat the servants as any less than equals.”

“They make our lives easier,” Aiden says, recovering his composure and rolling back over to give Aleksander a serious look. “We value that highly. So we give them the respect they’re due.”

Aleksander nods, committing that firmly to memory. That alone is going to be such a difference from Tretogor that he isn’t entirely sure he can wrap his mind around it. Treating servants as equals - how does that even work?

He’ll be as polite to servants as he is to Witchers, he resolves, and that way hopefully he will not give offense.

“The last two things on my list are more about safety than anything else,” Livi says. “Do not, for any reason, drink the same alcohol the Witchers do. They all drink this absolutely horrid stuff called White Gull, and it is not safe for humans.”

“And the Manticores add poisons to it,” Milena says.

Aleksander swallows hard. Poisonous drinks - that is something he’s used to being wary of, at least. But - “Is there human-safe alcohol?” After today, he’d rather like a drink.

“Oh, a gracious plenty,” Milena assures him. “Jan - Steward Kelner - keeps very good cellars. It’s in the pitchers with the blue handles, rather than the plain ones.”

Livi nods. “And the last thing, at least for now, since you’re starting to look a bit overwhelmed, is that sometimes, after supper, the Witchers will decide to have a brawl. It looks dreadful, but they’re actually quite careful not to maim each other. And they don’t let any humans join, so you needn’t worry about that.”

“We won’t have one tonight, though,” Aiden says.

“Nah, we’re all good on hitting things for the day,” Lambert agrees.

“Oh good,” Aleksander says weakly. Brawls as appropriate after-supper entertainment. How…barbaric. But then again, is it truly any stranger than tournaments - or dog-fighting, which was quite popular in Tretogor? At least all the Witchers presumably want to be participating, unlike the unfortunate dogs.

“That’s all of the really urgent items, I think,” Livi says, tucking the list away again.

Milena slides out of Lambert’s lap to stand, offering him her hand. “You should write that up as a pamphlet. We could give it to newcomers - that and a pair of good warm slippers.”

“How many more wayward nobles do you think we’re going to get, Kitten?” Aiden drawls, rolling to his feet in a distressingly graceful motion. Aleksander tries very hard not to pay too much attention to the way Aiden’s grace makes him feel.

“Plenty,” Milena says. “Or at least, that’s the hope. You did hear Geralt’s going on Progress next year?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Lambert asks as he rises, twining his fingers with Milena’s.

“Jaskier wants to see if we can find a fair number of noble ladies - and noblemen, I suppose - who can come to Kaer Morhen and be helpful.” Milena frowns. “Actually, remind me to speak to him on the matter - we should be looking for common folk, too. We don’t need more servants, Jan has the household quite well staffed, but we could use more craftspeople, and merchants and scribes and accountants - all the people who can form the bureaucracy that Kaer Morhen doesn’t have and frankly does need.”

“Ugh,” Lambert says. “Better them than me.”

“Or me,” Aiden agrees, sidling over as Aleksander stands and slinging his arm around Aleksander’s shoulders easily - he’s most of a head taller than Aleksander, though slightly leaner. Aleksander tenses for a moment, and then decides that the warmth of Aiden’s arm and the odd comfort of having him near, of being so obviously under Aiden’s protection, is worth the slight uncertainty of wondering what this means, and relaxes again. “Trust me, pup, you don’t want me anywhere near paperwork.”

“If you come anywhere near my ledgers, I shall stab you with a pen,” Livi says. “Eskel found me a very nice glass one with a metal nib, and I think I could do some proper damage with it.”

“Fierce little Livi,” Aiden says, evidently approving of threats of violence against his person. “Don’t ruin your pen; borrow a dagger from Dragonfly, should I ever be so foolish.”

Livi giggles and leads the way out of the room. Aleksander falls into step with Aiden, mind reeling. Kaer Morhen is going to take quite a while to grow accustomed to.

On the other hand, strange and wild and barbaric as the Warlord’s court seems to be, it also seems…friendlier than Tretogor ever was, in an odd way. Less prone to backstabbing, at least; Aleksander has gotten the distinct impression that if anyone in Kaer Morhen wants to stab him, they’ll at least be polite enough to do it from the front.

*

The great hall is much louder now than it was when Aleksander arrived, and much more crowded, too: several hundred Witchers fill the seven long tables, with humans interspersed among them here and there, and servants walking to and fro from another set of doors, carrying heavy-laden trays and baskets to each table.

Up at the center of the head table, a great double chair stands empty. Consort Jaskier is sitting on Lord Eskel - no, not lord, Livi said they dislike honorifics - Eskel Amber-Eyed, then - sitting on Eskel Amber-Eyed’s lap in the seat beside the great chair. On the other side of the double chair, a young woman with white-blonde hair has just taken her place. Aleksander assumes she is the Warlord’s daughter and heir, Milena’s liege-lady. He can’t recall her name at the moment, which is most definitely a sign that he’s more shaken than he wants to let himself acknowledge.

He rather wants to find someplace small and dark and quiet, and just not think for a while, but that is clearly not going to be an option.

“I am not entirely sure where to seat you,” Milena says thoughtfully. “Either with me or with Livi would probably be best -”

She’s interrupted by the approach of a short, stocky, dark-skinned Witcher with a shaven head, who Aleksander recognizes as the one who freed Aren from that dreadful table this morning. Was it only this morning? The day seems like it has gone on for quite a long time, with so many events packed into it that Aleksander can barely believe it has been so little time in truth.

“Hullo, Merten,” Aiden says, grinning at the newcomer.

“Aiden,” the other Witcher replies, nodding solemnly. “Aleksander.”

“Master Merten,” Aleksander says warily, rubbing his thumb on his scarred finger again and hoping it’s the right form of address. Livi did say that ‘Master Witcher’ was acceptable, and Aleksander doesn’t think he can quite bring himself to call any Witcher but Aiden and Lambert by their bare names just now.

“Come and sit with us tonight,” Master Merten says, which is not quite what Aleksander was expecting.

“I am honored by the invitation,” Aleksander replies, trying desperately to figure out if he’s supposed to accept or decline and how to do either politely.

Aiden sighs dramatically and lets his arm slip from Aleksander’s shoulders. Aleksander immediately misses the warmth and comfort of it, and tries just as quickly to quash that feeling before any of the Witchers can notice. “I suppose you’ve got a claim, but remember he’s new - don’t you poison him by accident,” he says to Master Merten.

A claim? Why does Master Merten have a claim on him? And accidental poisoning is a possibility?

Livi pats Aleksander’s arm. “Master Merten is the Head of the Manticore School,” she says, which actually does explain a great many things. Aren is a Manticore, and Milena mentioned specifically that the Manticores liked to put poison in their drinks.

“Then I will gladly join you, Master Merten,” Aleksander says, as steadily as he can.

Master Merten nods in satisfaction, and gestures for Aleksander to follow him. Somewhat to Aleksander’s relief, he leads the way to a table next to the one where Livi and Aiden take their seats, though they are down at the foot of their table while he is near the head of his, and Milena and Lambert both settle into chairs up at the head table and give him encouraging little smiles, or at least what Aleksander decides is probably meant to be a comforting scowl in Lambert's case.

Aleksander takes the empty seat to Master Merten’s right, eyeing the Witchers already at the table a little warily. Many of them are dark-skinned like Master Merten, and they all have the same symbol on the silver medallions strung around their necks, which, now that Aleksander thinks of it, is a different symbol than those on Aiden’s or Lambert’s or the smaller one Milena wears. Master Merten and his companions have a sort of stylized lion’s face with a scorpion’s tail -

Oh, of course. It’s a manticore. The medallions must indicate the School. And Milena wears a wolf medallion to show that she is allied specifically to a member of that School. That will be very useful to take note of, Aleksander is quite sure.

Eskel Amber-Eyed rises, setting Consort Jaskier gently into the double chair, and whistles sharply. Silence falls across the hall.

“Geralt’s still in Redania,” he says, voice a little rough but clear enough - a battlefield voice, Aleksander thinks, rather than a courtier’s practiced intonations. “If he were here, he’d say ‘Well done.’ Redania is the Wolf’s now, and we’ve gotten back a brother we thought lost, and four sisters we didn’t know we had. They’ve been through pure hell, so take care with them.” He turns and looks at the Manticore table - straight at Aleksander - and gestures for Aleksander to rise. Aleksander does so, and braces himself against the table as he becomes the focus of every eye in the hall. It’s more than a little intimidating, and his knees feel shaky. “This is Aleksander, from Redania. He told us about Aren and the girls - found a loophole in a nasty f*cking spell to do it, too. He’s under the Wolf’s protection, and the Manticores’, too, I expect. Make him welcome.”

“Yes, Eskel,” comes a low rumble from every Witcher in the hall. Eskel - no, it will have to be Lord Eskel, at least in Aleksander’s mind, he can’t call the Warlord’s Right Hand by his bare name, even with an epithet appended - nods and takes his seat again, Consort Jaskier immediately moving back into his lap. Aleksander collapses back onto the bench, feeling rather as if he’s just run up every stair in the keep while being pursued by an enormous wolf which, upon catching him, licked his hand like a friendly dog.

A tall, lean, extremely dark-skinned Witcher with hair in many dozens of tiny braids grins, teeth very white, and holds a hand out across the table. “I’m Leocadie.”

Aleksander shakes hands carefully, grateful that the Witcher doesn’t squeeze the way too many nobles in Tretogor are wont to do. “It is an honor, Master Leocadie.”

That earns him a friendly chuckle. “It’s just Leocadie, lad. I’m one of the alchemy trainers, for those who show a talent for the craft.”

“They’re the finest alchemist in the keep,” Merten says, grinning fondly at Leocadie. “Bar none.”

“Oh, Lambert’s quite good too, and Ivar is entirely my equal,” Leocadie says cheerfully. “But it’s true that Manticores tend to be the best at alchemy,” they (they? - but that is what Master Merten said, and he would hardly have misspoken, surely) tell Aleksander. “Each School has a specialty, you see, and that is ours.”

Well, that’s a useful opening. “May I ask,” Aleksander says carefully, thumb pressed against his scarred finger, “what the other Schools’ specialties are?” Getting people to talk about themselves or their…rivals? Companions? Kinsmen? - in any case, getting other people to talk is the best way Aleksander knows to not risk opening his own mouth and saying something foolish.

“Of course,” Leocadie says warmly, and then looks up as a serving girl reaches past his shoulder to place a platter of sliced venison on the table.

Master Merten also looks up and nods a greeting. “Thank you, Karolina.”

“You’re welcome,” the girl - a woman, really, probably in her thirties if Aleksander is judging correctly, dark-haired and pretty in a quiet sort of way, and wearing a medallion that has seven symbols on it instead of just one - says amiably. “Hullo, new lad; welcome to the keep!”

“Thank you, Miss Karolina,” Aleksander says, sending mental thanks also to Livi and Milena for warning him about how servants are treated in Kaer Morhen. A serving girl in Tretogor who spoke so familiarly to a noble would be sacked on the instant - but Karolina clearly has no fear of any reprisals from the Witchers, nor from Aleksander himself.

Karolina grins and pats him on the shoulder before hastening away, and Aleksander tries very hard not to react to that. Gods, he doesn’t have any scripts for this. He feels as though he’s floundering like a fish on land, and gods help him when he makes a misstep. He may be under the Wolf’s protection, but how far does that extend?

“In answer to your question,” Leocadie says as Master Merten forks venison slices onto his own plate and Leocadie’s, then pushes the platter over to where Aleksander can reach it, “let me think how best to describe our cousin Schools.”

Aleksander takes a slice of venison and passes the heavy platter onward with an effort; the Witcher beside him, a broad-shouldered man with a shaven head, a scar across the bridge of his nose, and the fairest skin Aleksander has ever seen, a startling true white, takes it with one hand as easily as if it were a mere feather.

“Cats are good at acrobatics, and with knives,” Leocadie says, in the cadences of a born teacher. “They tend to be more mercurial than the other Schools in their tempers, and some are prone to what they call the Cat-madness, a sort of berserker fit.” Aleksander swallows hard, trying to squash a wave of apprehension. The pale Witcher hands him a basket of bread-rolls and pats him on the shoulder.

“None of ‘em have gone off in a couple years,” he says reassuringly. “Our theory is that since we don’t end up half-starved and treated like sh*t anymore, it just doesn’t come up so often, y’know?”

Aleksander nods slowly. “That makes a great deal of sense, sir.” And is remarkably comforting, too.

“Just Dilan,” the Witcher says cheerfully, and grabs one of the blue-handled pitchers to fill Aleksander’s tankard before filling his own from a different jug. Aleksander gets a tiny whiff of whatever is in there, and has to stop himself from reeling back at the smell of extremely strong alcohol, sharp and stinging. The blue-handled pitcher, however, has small beer in it - quite good small beer, he discovers when he takes a wary sip. And the food all smells amazing, too, and is still hot, which meals in Tretogor often weren’t, given the distance between the kitchens and the dining hall.

“Here, Bricriu, pass that butter over,” Dilan adds, and the Witcher next to Leocadie, a short, dark fellow with his hair braided in gloriously intricate patterns against his scalp, obligingly pushes a bowl of butter across the table. Dilan takes a scoop and passes it on to Aleksander.

“So that is the Cats,” Leocadie says. “The Cranes are inventors, as we are, but they specialize in weapons; they are very fond of crossbows especially, and explosive bolts, and bombs.” They frown slightly. “They have gotten better in recent years about testing their inventions outside the keep, but do be wary should they be lighting anything on fire in the courtyard or the training fields.”

Aleksander nods. Staying away from people who are lighting things on fire seems like a good piece of advice in any case.

“The Griffins have stronger connections to Chaos than most of us,” Leocadie continues.

“Most of us except Eskel,” Dilan puts in.

“Just so,” Leocadie agrees, chuckling. “Aside from Eskel, however, the Griffins have the strongest Signs among our cousins - the Signs are the magic we can do,” they add, obviously having spotted Aleksander’s confusion. Aleksander hadn’t realized it was so obvious -

Oh. They smelled it, of course.

That is…that is going to make being polite much more difficult. What if they take offense at his emotions?

Aleksander takes a bite of venison and tries very hard not to panic. Aiden said Witchers are hard to offend. Surely mere emotions will not be enough, if he makes an effort to be polite in word and deed. “Magic?” he asks. “Like - ah - like the fire Lord Eskel used to burn down the manor?”

“Exactly like,” Master Merten says, looking immensely satisfied.

Aleksander nods and doesn’t ask what other magic they can do. That sort of information might well be kept secret for any number of reasons.

“The Griffins also all think they’re knights,” Dilan says. “Daft birdies.”

“Are you not all knights?” Aleksander blurts, and then winces at the incredulous looks they all give him, digging his fingers into his leg under cover of the table.

“Why would you think we’re knights?” Bricriu asks, sounding honestly confused.

Aleksander swallows. “You…you are the White Wolf’s personal troops; you speak as equals to great lords, and give commands to high and low alike. In Tretogor, it was assumed that you must all be knights at the very least, and those of you who are known to hold high rank in his service must therefore be great lords in your own rights.”

“Huh!” Master Merten says. “That explains a lot, actually.”

Leocadie grins at Master Merten, looking very mischievous. “I wonder what rank a Head of School holds?” They raise an eyebrow at Aleksander, as if inviting comment.

Aleksander does some swift mental calculations. The Warlord is an emperor, roughly speaking, for he has kings as his vassals; Lord Eskel, then, would be a prince or perhaps an archduke; and then the other members of the Warlord’s council and the Heads of the Schools would be… “I think you would be accounted a duke, Master Merten,” he concludes.

“Lebioda preserve me,” Master Merten mutters.

Leocadie laughs. “Does that make me a duch*ess?”

“It makes you a menace,” Master Merten sighs.

Aleksander assumes that that means Master Merten and Leocadie are lovers - and also, since they joke of it so easily, that as Livi and Milena insisted, it is no sort of secret, nor a scandal.

“Anyway,” Leocadie says. “That is the Cats and the Cranes and the Griffins. The Bears are the quietest of us all, and the least emotional; they do not bother with any inventive weapons or Signs, but rely on their great strength to strike down their enemies.”

“They like puzzles,” Dilan says, frowning at Aleksander’s plate - he has finished the small serving of venison and bread he took initially - and reaching further down the table for a tray of little egg pies, setting one on Aleksander’s plate and taking three for himself.

“So they do,” Leocadie agrees. “Let me see. Vipers are even fonder of knives than Cats are, and colder in temperament; they do not tend towards sentiment. I would have called them heartless, once, but that is quite obviously untrue; they are only ruthless when they find it necessary.”

Aleksander has no idea what proof Leocadie has that Vipers are not heartless, but it’s rather reassuring to hear all the same.

“And, of course, last but by no means least, there are the Wolves.” Leocadie glances up at the high table with a fond little smile. “Who will do what they consider to be the right thing, regardless of the cost. They are possibly the most balanced School: more agile than the Bears, less mercurial than the Cats, not so rigid as the Griffins, less prone to flights of fancy than Cranes or Manticores, and kinder than the Vipers.” Leocadie’s smile widens into a grin. “Not that I’d be a Wolf for a sack of gold and all the alchemical ingredients I could ever dream of!”

“f*ck no,” Dilan agrees. “Catch me being that sort of honorable fool.”

Aleksander really hopes he doesn’t smell as shocked as he is feeling. That is an insult to the Warlord - one which in Tretogor, had anyone spoken of the king’s kinsmen in such a disrespectful fashion, would have resulted in the speaker being expelled from court at the very least. And yet none of the Manticores even seem to think it worth batting an eye!

“I’d not be a Wolf either, given the choice,” Master Merten says solemnly. “Yet there’s more than temperament that makes a School.” The other Manticores go quiet - the whole table of them, silence rippling down like a wave at some signal Aleksander doesn’t see. “Brothers, we owe young Aleksander a debt. He has brought our lost brother back to us, and four sisters we did not know we had.”

Aleksander tries not to shrink under the weight of dozens of yellow eyes suddenly fixed on him. “You owe me nothing for that,” he says.

Master Merten shakes his head. “It would have been very, very easy for you to turn away. Easier and safer than daring to contact the Wolf, especially if you had magic binding you. We have all seen many humans turn a blind eye to similar horrors, with far fewer excuses than you had ready to your hand.”

Leocadie nods. “Many and many. It is easy to turn away, especially when the victims are not…important. Not noble, nor of your own country, nor of your own kin. We have lost many brothers on the Path, not to monsters, but to human cruelty. It is still very odd, even now, for us to be given kindness by…” Leocadie trails off, clearly trying to find the right words, and Bricriu snorts.

“By anyone,” he says bluntly. “Anyone outside Kaer Morhen, anyhow. Especially anyone human.”

Dilan nods. “We still aren’t entirely used to the servants liking us - nor to having servants, for that matter. Having a complete stranger help one of ours, at no little cost to himself? A man not even from the Wolflands, who went against his own king and a mage’s work to do it? Hell, lad, at this point we’d adopt you if you wanted.”

“Aleksander of the Manticores,” Bricriu says thoughtfully. “That has a ring to it. I think we’ve only got one other Aleksander to mix you up with, too, and he goes by Aleks mostly.” He gestures down the table, and a lanky, dark-skinned witcher with his short hair shaved in runic patterns waves up at Aleksander, grinning broadly.

Aleksander takes a drink of small beer, trying frantically to figure out what to say. He’s not sure how to deal with this. No one has ever offered to adopt him into their…clan? Pride? School? Family? He’s got his own kin, his mother and his younger brother, but he may not see them again for many years, and he would honestly be just as glad to set aside the name of Velen forever, and all the horrid memories that go with it.

He has not got so many friends that he can afford to offend these, and it is…

It is rather pleasant, actually, to have people want to keep him around, not for his name or his wealth or his power, but because of his actions. Because they seem to approve of him as…just a person. Just Aleksander.

He sets his tankard back down carefully. “I would be honored beyond words to be accounted an…an ally of your School.” He’s not quite ready to be adopted, but an ally he most certainly is, and has no qualms about remaining.

“Aleksander, kinsman to the Manticores,” Master Merten declares, nodding firmly. “Let it be so.”

“Aleksander!” chorus the Manticores, all the way down to the foot of the table, and several of them thump their mugs or fists against the table in punctuation. Leocadie chuckles at whatever expression Aleksander is wearing - or, possibly, at his scent, which he presumes is filled with the shock that he is trying so hard to keep off his face.

“Eh, little cousin, you’ll get used to us,” Leocadie says warmly, as the rest of the Manticores go back to their own conversations.

“I shall do my utmost,” Aleksander promises.

Dilan claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t fret, little cousin,” he says gently. “We’ll look out for you, as you did our brother. It’s only fair.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, and then is immensely grateful when Dilan turns to Master Merten.

“So young Aren and the girls - they’re in your old suite?”

“They are,” Master Merten confirms. “And our new sisters are as feral as wildcats, so give them space until they come to you, brothers.”

“How is Aren?” Bricriu asks, frowning.

Master Merten grimaces. “Alive,” he says. “And I do not think there is another Witcher living who has been through anything like what he has. He is…” he shakes his head. “If they yet lived, I would give the Grasses to the mages who tortured him, aye, and the duke and the king who bade them do it, too, and I would count their screams sweeter music than the bard could ever play.”

Aleksander shudders, horrified at the vicious rage in Master Merten’s tone. It’s not that he thinks the mages and his grandfather and King Vizimir wouldn’t have deserved such a fate, but hearing it said so bluntly is…terrifying, actually.

“No you wouldn’t,” Leocadie says evenly. “Not under the Wolf’s law. And not before, either.”

Master Merten sighs and rubs a hand wearily over his face. “No, I wouldn’t. But they would deserve it.”

“That I’ll not argue,” Leocadie agrees.

Which is…slightly reassuring, at least. But all of a sudden, the whole day’s chaos seems far too heavy for Aleksander’s shoulders, and he very much needs to be elsewhere. In Tretogor, leaving the dining hall before the king finished his supper was not allowed, but the Warlord isn’t here and surely having a fit of hysterics would be ruder than leaving early. And Aleksander is very tired from a long and terrifying day. “Your pardon,” he says softly, into a brief lull in the conversation around him. “I am very weary. Is it allowed to depart before the meal is done?”

“Oh, certainly, little cousin,” Leocadie says, giving Aleksander a surprisingly compassionate look. “No one minds that. We shall see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, cousin,” Aleksander says, hoping Leocadie can smell the genuine gratitude in the words. “Goodnight, cousins all.”

“Goodnight!” the nearby Manticores chorus, and Aleksander stands and follows one of the servants out of the hall, grateful that no one seems to notice him leaving.

Then, of course, he realizes that he has no idea how to get back to his rooms. He stops in the corridor, taking a deep breath and trying not to let himself panic. He can figure this out. Perhaps if he stops a servant who does not seem to be carrying anything -

“Aleksander!” someone calls behind him, and he turns to see Aiden trotting out of the hall, looking rather worried. “Are you alright?”

“I am very tired,” Aleksander says carefully. He knows he’s close to tears of exhaustion and stored-up terror, and can’t tell if he’s relieved to see a familiar face - insofar as any of the Witchers are familiar - or miserable at having to continue pretending he is fine.

“Oh, right, yeah, that makes sense,” Aiden says, visibly relaxing. “Want me to walk you back up to your rooms? I know this place is a maze for humans for the first little while.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander sighs with relief. “I would appreciate that a great deal.”

Aiden grins and drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders. “This way, pup,” he says cheerfully, urging Aleksander down the corridor. He’s quiet for a moment as they walk, watching Aleksander with some unreadable expression in his sunshine-yellow eyes, and then he says, gently, “I’d ask how supper with the Manticores went, but pup, you smell wiped. Let’s get you back to your rooms, and I shall pester you tomorrow instead.”

“Oh gods, thank you,” Aleksander breathes. He’s not sure he could manage any further conversation tonight. Even just climbing the stairs is almost more than he has energy to do. Aiden’s forbearance feels like a drink of cool water, a gift he’s offering Aleksander without even knowing how precious it truly is.

“You’re welcome,” Aiden says, and then doesn’t speak again until they reach a door Aleksander vaguely recognizes. Aiden pulls it open to reveal the rooms Aleksander has been given, and lets his arm fall from Aleksander’s shoulders. Aleksander doesn’t let himself miss the warm weight of it, the comfort of having Aiden so near. It makes no sense to find the Witcher’s presence so comforting, after all.

“Goodnight, Aleksander,” Aiden says, not making any move to follow Aleksander in.

Aleksander turns and offers him a slight bow. “Goodnight, Aiden, and thank you for your escort.”

“It was my pleasure,” Aiden says, smiling softly. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, wolf-hearted Aleksander.” And he bows, just a little, and pushes the door closed again.

Aleksander sighs, drooping as the tension of being in public falls from him, and stumbles into his bedroom, kicking his boots off into a corner and falling into the bed with a thump, just barely awake enough to pull the curtains closed around him. Gods, what a day.

This morning he had a dukedom, one brother in a different city, five tortured prisoners in the basem*nt, and a spell keeping him from telling anyone about his king’s treachery. Tonight he has no dukedom, nor any title at all, one brother even further away from his new home in this cold keep, more than fifty new kinsmen, an uncertain place at a court so unlike Tretogor as to be nearly incomprehensible, and no spells binding him at all. He cannot really complain about the change, but his last thought before he falls asleep is a plaintive prayer:

Please, gods, let tomorrow be a little less dramatic.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Aiden slips back into the great hall by a side door and catches Lambert’s eye. Whatever expression he’s wearing must be truly plaintive, because Lambert grins and kisses Kitten and leaves her talking to Merigold. He follows Aiden out of the hall without asking any questions. Aiden leads the way to their spot high above the battlements, tucked away in an old bricked-up window where nobody else ever goes, and slumps down, resting his head against the cool stone. Lambert tucks in beside him, pressing his shoulder against Aiden’s, and - for a wonder - doesn’t speak, just hums one of the bard’s songs under his breath and watches the clouds ghost across the sky.

A spider skitters across the stone, and Aiden carefully does not flinch - it’s tiny, and he’s a Witcher. Being wary of spiders is a folly he ought to have grown out of. Lambert, who may be an ass but who doesn’t prod at the truly sore spots, reaches over to flick the little creature away. Aiden bumps his head against Lambert’s in silent thanks and turns his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Which…

f*ck. Aiden has no idea why Aleksander has caught his attention so thoroughly. Yes, he’s cute as a button - a good head shorter than Aiden is, stocky and plump, with a lock of his brown hair falling over his forehead no matter how often he shoves it back, freckles dusted across his cheeks, an adorable little gap between his front teeth, and big hazel eyes flecked with green; he fits perfectly under Aiden’s arm, and oh, he’d be a pleasant armful, if he cared to be - but that’s besides the point. Aiden’s met a great many button-cute men and women, and while he’s flirted with many of them, he’s never felt so desperately hopeful about any of them before.

“Lam,” he says at last, far more plaintively than he wants to admit, “help?”

“Damn, you’ve got it f*cking bad,” Lambert chuckles, nudging Aiden’s arm with his elbow.

“I don’t even know why,” Aiden wails - quietly, since he doesn’t want any of the wall-guards to overhear this. Not that anything stays secret in this keep for long, but he’d like to have his crisis in private at least to start with.

Lambert snorts. “Catmint,” he says. “Beauty, courage, and talent. I dunno what f*cking talents he’s got yet, aside from being polite, but I’ll give him courage, and honor too. And I guess he’s handsome enough, if that’s your taste.”

“It is,” Aiden says, covering his face with his hands. “f*ck, he’s so cute. I just want to - to curl up around him and purr. And then stab anyone who makes him sad.” Beauty and courage and talent - yeah, that rings true. Aleksander is button-cute and brave as a Wolf and clever and honorable and good - it’s just not fair how appealing he is. He’s going to have Witchers lining up outside his door.

Lambert, bless him, doesn’t laugh. “I know that feeling,” he says instead, rather ruefully.

“How the hell did you get Kitten to let you court her?” Aiden demands.

“I offered to teach her to use a dagger, and she decided she liked it. You know that. Don’t ask me why she liked it, I’ve still got no f*cking clue.”

“She likes you because you’re an asshole and she can trust you’re never hiding anything,” Aiden says absently; Kitten was very clear about that when Aiden asked her. “I don’t get the impression Aleksander’s going to have the same taste.” Aleksander. It rolls easily off the tongue, but Aiden dares to hope that someday, if he’s very lucky, he’ll win the privilege of calling Aleksander ‘Sasha’ as Kitten and Livi are allowed to do.

f*ck, Aiden is gone over the pup, and he doesn’t even know why!

“Look, I am not the person to ask about courting,” Lambert sighs. “I still don’t know how the f*ck I got so lucky. Ask Milena, maybe; Aleksander’s her friend. Or Livi, she’d probably have a list. Hell, ask Dragonfly how she got Livi’s attention!”

“Dragonfly hasn’t got any idea, I’ve asked. Says Livi just decided she liked her.”

“Well, then, definitely ask Livi. I’d say ask Eskel, but I’m pretty sure Buttercup did all the flirting there. For him and Geralt both.”

“Augh,” Aiden says, and bangs his head gently against the wall a couple of times. “I could bring him an elk. Do you think he’d like an elk?”

“Live or dead?” Lambert checks.

“Dead, I’m not Bran.”

“I have no f*cking clue, then. I’ve never brought Milena an elk. Geralt brought Buttercup one, back when we had the husband-hunters hanging around. Seemed to impress him, I guess.”

“Dragonfly brought Livi griffin feathers. That’s like an elk, right?” Aiden is grasping at straws here. Although - “Oh! Flowers! Redanians court with flowers!”

“That’s true,” Lambert says thoughtfully.

“I will bet my f*cking boots Kitten has a book of flower language,” Aiden says, grinning at the stars. “And I bet she’d lend it to me, too.”

“I’m sure she would,” Lambert agrees. “Want me to ask tonight?”

“Nah, I’ll ask,” Aiden says. Lambert nods and nudges his shoulder against Aiden’s; Aiden leans into the touch, and they sit there in companionable silence, watching the clouds scud across the half-full moon, for a long peaceful while.

“Can I sleep on your couch tonight?” Aiden asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Lambert says at once. It isn’t the first time Aiden has done so, nor, he suspects, will it be the last. There’s something about being able to hear Lambert and Kitten’s soft breathing, the steady beats of their hearts in syncopation, which is incredibly soothing; it certainly helps that their rooms smell like them, and Lambert has been the smell that means safety to Aiden for decades now. Kitten’s pleasant rose perfume doesn’t so much distract from Lambert’s familiar leather-and-sword-oil scent as give it a lovely depth and complexity. Aiden always sleeps well on their couch, even if it’s objectively not as comfortable as his own big bed.

Kitten, bless her, never objects to his presence. Aiden knows exactly how lucky he is that his dearer-than-brother’s lover likes him, too.

“C’mon, then,” Lambert says, hopping down from their little niche and landing easily on the walltop. “It’s been a long f*cking day.”

“That it has,” Aiden agrees, and follows him down.

*

“A book of flower language?” Kitten asks, raising an eyebrow at Aiden. “Do I need to ask what your intentions are regarding my friend?”

Aiden gives her his best plaintive look. “He’s adorable,” he says. “I just want to cuddle him and kill anyone who ever made him sad.”

Kitten covers her mouth to muffle a giggle. “That is a very Witcher sentiment.”

Aiden sighs. “I just - I want to make him happy, that’s all.”

Kitten smiles softly. “Well then, that’s alright. And I do have a book of flower language, as it happens, which you are welcome to borrow, but I would advise you to wait a few days - perhaps a few weeks - until he has gotten his feet under him properly, before you begin indicating a wish to court him. You must know that in Redania, men do not court men.”

“Right,” Aiden says, nodding. “Do - do you think Aleksander will object? I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know,” Kitten says slowly, frowning in thought. “He was raised to be a duke’s heir, with all the expectations that implies, including marrying an appropriate noblewoman and siring heirs for the duchy; if he didn’t have a younger brother, he’d be married already, actually. Kaer Morhen may be harder for him to adjust to than it was for me or Livi or even Jaskier. Let me speak to him, and sound him out a little, before you do anything too overt. And give him time to adjust, regardless. And - maybe run any courting ideas past me, to begin with, just to be sure they aren’t things that would mean something else in Redania.”

“I’ll be grateful for any advice you’ve got,” Aiden admits. “I don’t wish to scare him, nor make him think he’s got to put up with me in order to stay in Kaer Morhen.” He hesitates. “Do you think he’d appreciate an elk?”

Kitten’s eyes go wide. “An elk?”

Aiden can feel his ears going hot. “I don’t actually know anything about courting a human!”

“Oh dear,” Kitten says, and bites her lip to keep from laughing aloud, which Aiden appreciates. Lambert, drat the man, is leaning against a wall and shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh, darling Aiden. No. Do not bring him an elk.”

“Not a live one,” Aiden protests.

“To be fair,” Lambert says, and then has to stop and take a few deep breaths to keep from going off in gales of laughter again, “to be fair, Buttercup was very impressed when Geralt brought him an elk.”

“Jaskier is a little less…habituated to courtly behavior than Sasha is,” Kitten points out. “And also, he’d been at Kaer Morhen more than a year at that point, and knew what Witchers are like.” She hums, tapping a finger against her lips. “If you wanted to bring Sasha gifts, I might suggest art supplies. There are shops for that down in Wolvenburg. Pastels, perhaps - I know he sketches, and he might like having the ability to render his works in color.”

Aiden grins down at her. Now that’s useful information indeed. “Thanks, Kitten.”

Kitten pats his arm. “You’re welcome. Just be good to Sasha. And wait, at least until I can learn if he’d even be interested in a male lover.”

“I will,” Aiden promises.

Lambert smirks. “Smitten kitten,” he teases. Aiden rolls his eyes and reaches over to whack his friend on the shoulder. Lambert snickers.

“Had an idea, actually,” he says to Kitten, who makes a curious sound and raises an eyebrow. “Aleksander’s supposed to teach the trainees courtesy, yeah?”

“Yes,” Kitten says warily.

“Tell him he can practice on me.”

Kitten and Aiden both stare at Lambert for a few moments in utter shock. Lambert sighs and shrugs. “Look. I’ve been thinking since you mentioned going on this f*cking Progress. You’re gonna be dealing with all sorts of noble dipsh*ts, and I’m gonna be right there, because f*ck if I’m leaving you to deal with that without me. Which means I need to know what the f*ck I’m doing. And how to insult them on purpose instead of just by existing.”

Kitten giggles. Aiden snorts.

“I’m serious! Pretty sure the only reason I didn’t cause someone mortal f*ckin’ offense at your sister’s wedding is because everyone in Temeria’s still too f*cking terrified to be offended. Also if Aleksander can teach me, he can f*ckin’ well teach anyone,” Lambert adds smugly.

“Asshole,” Aiden says fondly.

“Yep,” Lambert confirms, grinning with all of his teeth.

“Also, takes one to know one,” Aiden adds. Lambert snorts and nods, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Kitten’s head, and then another to her lips when she tilts her head back. She sighs and melts against him, utterly comfortable in his arms, and Aiden watches with - not envy, really, but a sort of budding hope beneath his ribs. Maybe someday, maybe even someday soon, he’ll have Aleksander in his arms just the same way.

“Get a room,” he teases, and Lambert looks up and sticks out his tongue.

“We’ve got one, and you’re in it,” he points out, and Aiden claps a hand to his chest and staggers back like he’s been stabbed. Kitten giggles delightedly.

“I am taking my lover to bed,” Lambert says with great dignity, and scoops her up; she flings her arms around his neck and kisses him again, and he carries her into the bedroom, kicking the door most of the way shut behind him. Aiden chuckles and flops down on the couch, stretching out and staring into the glowing embers of the banked fire.

What is it about Aleksander that’s sunk its hooks so deep in Aiden’s heart? Besides the fact that he was willing to risk everything - his title, his honor, his life - for the chance to get a Witcher and four horribly tortured girls out of captivity. Besides the fact that he’s a Wolf as surely as Geralt is, as surely as Lambert is, with a golden heart and a steel spine behind his careful courtly smiles. Besides the fact that he’s a warm soft comfort tucked under Aiden’s arm, where Aiden can keep him safe and hold him close.

Gods, Aiden hopes Aleksander is willing to entertain the thought of being courted by a man. Sure, he smelled interested, under the sandalwood-and-grass of what Aiden suspects is either a soap or a perfume. But smelling interested doesn’t mean actually being willing to admit it. And Aiden’s not just a man, but a Witcher, and a Cat Witcher at that - there are any number of reasons Aleksander might not want to consider him as a partner.

But maybe he will. He seems comfortable with Aiden’s arm around his shoulders, at least - seems to take comfort in Aiden’s presence, too. So Aiden can hope.

Hope is enough to let him fall asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Lambert’s familiar heartbeat, with Kitten’s a quicker counterpoint, somehow just as soothing as the sound of rain.

*

“This is what you have inherited,” Grandfather hisses, and his hands are bruising-tight around Aleksander’s, holding Aleksander’s fingers tight around the knife. “You stand now in my place. You’ll do your duty to your king, little coward.”

“No,” Aleksander protests, but Grandfather drags him forward, far stronger than he ought to be, towards the limp form laid out on the stone table, chained at wrist and ankle.

“Sasha,” Milena whispers, looking up at him with huge pleading eyes. “Sasha, don’t.”

“Sasha, Sasha,” Grandfather mocks. “Aleksander of Velen, my weakling grandson, my little namesake. Blood will out. You’ll do as I bid you, boy.” He shoves Aleksander forward to stand beside the stone table, and his fingers are like iron around Aleksander’s wrist. “Cut her open, grandson,” Grandfather snarls. “We’ll see what color noble blood is when it’s tainted by a Witcher’s seed.”

“No,” Aleksander cries, thrashing against his grandfather’s grip, and his grandfather laughs a horrible, wheezing laugh and forces his hand down towards Milena’s helpless form -

Aleksander wakes with a hoarse cry that is eaten by the muffling curtains, dying away as if it had never been uttered.

It’s dark in the close, curtained confines of the bed - the fire has been banked down to glowing coals, and no light shows through the slight gaps in the curtains - and for a moment he cannot remember where he is. It’s cold and dark and smells of stone and furs and where is he - this is not Tretogor, this is not Velen -

Kaer Morhen. He’s in Kaer Morhen, in the keep of the Warlord of the North.

There are doubtless many dangers here, but his grandfather is not one of them.

His grandfather is dead. Aleksander saw him buried.

But he’s not going to be getting any more sleep tonight, not after that dream.

He gets slowly out of bed, hissing as his feet touch the cold stone of the floor - he’s missed the rug. He finds it after a moment, and kneels down atop it to grope for the fur slippers which some kind soul left for him while he was at supper. Thus equipped, he makes his way carefully out into the sitting room and pokes the fire there up until he can see the rest of the room.

There’s a small heap of bags and trunks against a wall that weren’t there when he went to supper; he was too tired when he came back to notice them, or possibly someone brought them in while he was sleeping.

They look vaguely familiar, and investigating is something to do, rather than sitting and staring blankly into the flames. Aleksander picks up the first bag and opens it, and blinks in shock at the contents:

His own clothing. His clothing, from Tretogor, that he and Patryk had packed up to be shipped along to Velen once he was settled there.

Mikolaj - Mikolaj must have asked the Witchers who remained in Tretogor to send Aleksander’s belongings to Kaer Morhen. And they agreed.

Aleksander sits down on the chilly floor and buries his face in a clean shirt and tries very hard to muffle his sobs. He isn’t even sad, he’s just - overwhelmed.

This whole year has been one shock after another. First his father’s death, and they may not have been particularly close, what with Father always in Tretogor and Aleksander in Rinde until Aleksander was old enough to keep his composure at court, and the thick walls of propriety dividing them even after Aleksander came to the capital, but Father was always there, sturdy as a century oak, utterly devoted to propriety and good sense, and his loss was like - like falling off a ship, leaving Aleksander floundering in deep water. And then his grandfather’s death, and its terrible consequences. And then Velen, and the prisoners, and the awful decision between betraying his country and betraying his soul.

And now this. Now his brother thinking of him even in the middle of becoming duke and swearing fealty to a very new king, and the Witchers somehow, inexplicably, being willing to act as pack mules for Aleksander’s belongings, is just the last little shock needed to ruin his composure entirely.

He gets himself under control after a few minutes, ears burning with mortification at the outburst. At least it was in private. He cannot bear thinking of what his reaction might have been had he been presented with his belongings in public. Perhaps the Witchers already consider all humans to be so much weaker that the absolute unmanly humiliation of weeping over baggage, of all things, would not faze them, but Aleksander doesn’t wish to find out.

He sets the tear-stained shirt aside and stands, dusting himself off, and thinks very intently about nothing at all except finding places to store his clothing. There is a wardrobe in the bedroom, and a chest at the foot of the bed; between that and the trunks, which will fit under the bed easily enough, he is able to put all of his clothing away almost as neatly as Patryk would have done. And folding and re-folding everything takes enough time that the grey light of dawn is visible through the shutters of the window in the sitting room by the time Aleksander has finished.

He’s miserably weary - a few hours of sleep were clearly not enough - but when someone raps gently on the door, he goes and opens it.

“Sasha,” Milena says, and Aleksander grips the doorjamb until his knuckles go white. She’s smiling, soft and happy, wrapped in a thick comfortable-looking dressing gown with a pair of fur slippers matching his own on her feet, and a bundle of clothing in her arms. She could not possibly be more different than she was in his nightmare. “Good morning. Would you like to come down and bathe with us?” She frowns a little, examining him more closely. “You look…tired.”

Aleksander bites back his immediate instinct, which is, of course, to lie and say he’s fine. There are no Witchers around right now, but he is sure he would be wisest to break that habit as comprehensively as possible. “I did not sleep as well as I might have wished,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “Perhaps it is only that I am in a new place.” Suggestions don’t count as lies, surely?

“Ah,” Milena says, and smiles again. “Gods know I slept terribly my first few nights here, though some of that was that Marta kicks like a mule in her sleep, and insisted we share the bed for warmth. I am sure you will adjust soon.”

“Doubtless,” Aleksander agrees.

“If nothing else, the hot springs are wonderfully soothing. Will you come and bathe, or would you prefer to do so at a different time?” Milena presses gently.

“Let me gather a change of clothing,” Aleksander says, and when she nods, turns hastily to do so.

How bad can bathing be, after all? Surely it will be fine. Surely bathing cannot be as overwhelming as everything else about this strange place.

*

The cavern which holds the hot springs is vast, its upper reaches full of steam, and smells faintly of minerals. It is also warmer than anywhere else Aleksander has been within the keep so far, and he almost wonders if he could take up residence here.

And then he looks down and sees the pool full of naked women and is abruptly and gut-wrenchingly certain that he cannot spend another minute in this room.

He backs up fast enough that he slips on a patch of damp stone, and only Milena’s sudden and astonishingly strong grip on his arm keeps him from toppling over. “Are you well, Sasha?”

“I - I can’t,” Aleksander says weakly, one hand clapped over his eyes. The princess is in that pool, and Livi, and the terrifying sorceress Lady Yennefer, and -

He can’t. He’s never been nude around anyone but his manservant, and his brother when they were both very young, and now to face the prospect of the absolute impropriety of being naked around half a dozen naked women -

He can’t. It’s too much, too soon, and maybe this is proper in Kaer Morhen but he has spent almost a decade in Tretogor, avoiding anything that even hinted at potential impropriety, and it is not so easy to set aside a lifetime’s worth of training. How Milena and Livi have managed it, he genuinely does not know.

“Sasha?” Milena says, and draws him gently back out of the cavern, into the corridor.

“I can’t,” Aleksander says again, hating his own weakness. “I - I am grateful for your kindness in offering me such hospitality -” the words fall from his tongue without real thought, the sort of empty pleasantries he would use in Tretogor.

“Well, that’s a lovely sentiment,” someone says, and Aleksander looks up to see Lady Yennefer standing in the doorway, a towel - thank the gods - wrapped around her body. She is very, very beautiful, and somehow still elegant despite her wet hair and bare feet. “We thought to make you feel welcome,” Lady Yennefer continues, and Aleksander flinches, feeling the blood drain from his face. Oh, gods, he has given offense to the chief mage of the Warlord himself, has rejected her hospitality in such a way as would make enemies in any other court -

“Oh, damn,” Lady Yennefer says, shockingly gently. “That’s not what I meant, Aleksander, lad. I meant only that we hoped to put you at ease, but if bathing with so many scandalously naked people is only going to distress you, then we shall find another way. Is it the nudity, or the women, or both?”

Aleksander takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to cudgel his sluggish brain into useful thought. If it were only men in the baths -

That would still be very distressing, but less so. At least with men, he could simply keep his eyes above their waists, rather than having to worry about…well, about breasts, and impropriety. And yes, if the men in question are Witchers, they will doubtless judge him for being - being far less fit than they are, but Aleksander is only human, after all; even were he as strong as the finest knights in Tretogor, he would still be weak as a child compared to the least of the Witchers.

“I think,” Aleksander says carefully, opening his eyes again, “that while I am…as yet unaccustomed to the nudity, I would be…less discomforted were my companions only male.”

“Well, I can’t promise that, since there are female Witchers and warriors, but there aren’t many of them,” Lady Yennefer says. “Here, then: for today, you can bathe apart from us, and then tomorrow, Aleksander, you are welcome to bathe whenever you please; the Witchers bathe before dinner and often again before supper, but mid-morning and mid-afternoon are usually quite sparsely populated, and at the very least you would have the option of a pool to yourself, and perhaps it will be easier to be naked around strangers than friends.”

Aleksander swallows hard. “That would…that would be very kind, my lady,” he says. “I am so sorry, Milena, I thought -”

“Shush, Sasha,” Milena says, patting his arm gently. “No one’s offended. It is a lot to adjust to. I don’t think anyone is using the private pool just now, so you can bathe there today, if that will be more comfortable for you?”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, and follows her back into the bathing room, keeping his eyes fixed on her dark hair until they reach a little cavern off to the side, with a single pool from which he cannot see - or be seen by - any of the others.

Milena pats his arm again and leaves him there, and Sasha takes off his sleeping clothes and slides into the water with a sigh of relief. It does feel amazing - almost but not quite too hot. He can feel all of his muscles relaxing, whether he means them to or not.

…He had better bathe and get out again quickly, or he may fall asleep and drown.

There are soaps on a shelf along one wall; he picks one mostly at random and is surprised and pleased by the faint scent of, of all things, apples which rises from it. It’s a very nice scent, and one he would not have expected to find in a keep full of Witchers.

He washes quickly but thoroughly; doubtless, if their noses are keen enough to smell emotions, Witchers find the scents of unwashed people to be both strong and deeply unpleasant, which Aleksander guesses is why they put such emphasis on frequent bathing. Which is very understandable, really, and Aleksander hasn’t any objection to being clean and warm on a regular basis.

It didn’t sound like the use of this private pool was regularly granted to anyone, though, so Aleksander will have to find a time when there are very few people in the hot springs. Mid-morning or mid-afternoon - hopefully it will not be too difficult to arrange his schedule to have a little space at one of those times.

Not that he even knows what his schedule is going to look like.

He dries and dresses and combs his hair into some semblance of tidiness, and takes a deep breath, and prepares to face the day…whatever it might bring.

The next thing it brings, thank the gods, is breakfast. The first meal is evidently a quiet and informal affair in Kaer Morhen, as all of the Witchers are apparently already on the training fields by the time Aleksander follows the ladies up into the hall. There are trays of food laid out on each table: palm-sized loaves of bread and small logs of goat cheese, platters of boiled eggs and cold sliced ham, big pots of porridge with bowls of toppings arranged around them, baskets of fruit; it’s a very generous spread. Milena tucks her hand into the crook of Aleksander’s elbow and leads him up to the high table; since the rest of their little group all join them there, Aleksander assumes the School divisions are not observed without the Witchers present. Which is just as well, since he would be very lonely by himself at the Manticore table, which is the only one he thinks he has any…any right to sit at.

Aleksander serves himself and keeps his mouth shut aside from eating, listening to the ladies banter and laugh. They all seem so marvelously at ease. Milena does introduce him to the ladies he doesn’t know: the sorceress with curly hair and a kind expression is Lady Triss, the brunette girl a few years older than the princess is called Mouse for some baffling reason, her very quiet and quite pretty companion is Nadia, and the princess’s name, which had completely slipped his mind, is Ciri.

Consort Jaskier appears about as everyone else is finishing their meal, presses a kiss to Princess Ciri’s head and another to Milena’s, takes an apple and a little bowl of honey, and settles next to Aleksander with a warm smile and a murmured greeting. “Have you any questions thus far?” he asks, under the laughter of the women jesting with each other.

“So many I do not quite know where to begin,” Aleksander admits. “How did you manage to adjust to such a different court?” He bites back the half-instinctive your imperial highness at the end of the question, as ought to be the courteous way to address someone who is an emperor’s consort, even if the emperor in question does not claim that title for himself. But everyone has been quite clear that it is politer to use names than honorifics, here.

Consort Jaskier hums, plucking a very sharp little pearl-handled knife from his belt and beginning to peel the apple. “Well, it helped that I had spent some years in Oxenfurt before being brought to Tretogor,” he says. “Bards are terrible licentious creatures with very little notion of propriety, as I’m sure you’re aware, so I was not nearly as shocked by the relationships among Witchers as I might have been.” He grins at Aleksander and tosses the peeled apple straight up in the air, well above his own head.

A brawny hand catches it. Aleksander startles violently, almost overturning his bowl: he hadn’t even heard a single scuff of boot on stone to indicate Lord Eskel’s approach. “Catmint,” the big Wolf rumbles.

Consort Jaskier tilts his head back, smiling up at the Witcher. “Sunshine! Not going out on the practice fields today after all?”

“Got a ‘vox about a minor emergency,” Lord Eskel says, shrugging, and leans down to press a soft kiss to Consort Jaskier’s lips. “Fixed now; I’m heading out to chase our Wolf around the field a couple of times.”

“Have fun,” Consort Jaskier says cheerfully, and Lord Eskel chuckles and wanders away down the hall, munching on the peeled apple. Consort Jaskier dips the peel into his bowl of honey and bites off the end. “Hm,” he says, looking off across the hall almost dreamily, and then, in a soft sing-song tone that Aleksander isn’t sure he’s supposed to hear, “The dark wolf and the white one, they chase each other’s tails…”

He glances over and catches Aleksander’s eye, and grins. “Songs just happen,” he explains cheerfully. “Especially around muses like my Wolves!”

“How does that work?” Aleksander blurts, and then claps a hand over his mouth in horror and mortification. Consort Jaskier bursts into laughter.

“Having two lovers, you mean?” he asks. Aleksander nods, face so hot he suspects he could bake the porridge into oatcakes on his cheeks. “Carefully,” Consort Jaskier says, which is not actually the response Aleksander was expecting. His confusion must show; Consort Jaskier chuckles softly and pats his arm.

“It helps, actually, that they’re both Witchers,” he says. “They can smell how much I love them both, and each other, too. But it took some discussion, and still does - some negotiation, as to what each of us needs, and what each can provide.” He chuckles again. “If it wouldn’t be dreadfully impolitic, I’d try to make a song of that, but I’m not supposed to make it public knowledge that the Warlord of the North and his Right Hand share the Consort.”

Aleksander tries to imagine the sort of absolute diplomatic chaos that would cause, and gives up at the realization that a fair number of people would just refuse to believe it. Or would immediately decide that the Consort was in fact sleeping with all the Witchers. Or - Aleksander doesn’t even know what rumors would arise, but they would be both many and vicious.

“Probably wise,” he says faintly.

“Depressingly sensible,” Consort Jaskier agrees. “I would love to be able to sing to the world the marvelous virtues of both of my Wolves in bed as well as out, but I shall have to settle for being subtler about Eskel’s magnificence.”

Aleksander decides that trying to understand Consort Jaskier’s relationship with the Warlord and Lord Eskel is perhaps best left for a time when he is less confused about everything else in Kaer Morhen, and nods. Consort Jaskier grins and goes back to eating his apple peel, and lets Aleksander finish his porridge in peace. It’s very good porridge, with dried fruits and honey and a hint of cloves.

“So,” Consort Jaskier says to him as Aleksander sets his spoon down, “have you plans for the day? Obviously it will take you more than a day or two to truly adjust to Kaer Morhen - it took me almost six months, actually, though I plead extenuating circ*mstances - but I did find that having something to do helped a great deal.”

“I find myself rather at loose ends,” Aleksander admits. He has a little idea about what those ‘extenuating circ*mstances’ were, from Consort Jaskier’s tale at that party in Tretogor, and he suspects it would be impolitic to ask about the details. “I should doubtless work on designing a curriculum for the etiquette lessons. I think it should be relatively straightforward, save that it does not seem anyone is quite sure what rank Witchers hold out in the world. Have you an opinion on that, ah - Jaskier?” He again only just barely catches himself before appending any honorifics. That is going to take some practice to grow accustomed to.

“Hm,” Consort Jaskier says, frowning a little, and looks around at the women to invite comment.

“I am very tempted to suggest they all outrank dukes, and ought to be knelt to by everyone,” Lady Yennefer smirks. “The reactions would be extremely entertaining.”

Milena presses a hand to her lips. “Lambert would combust.”

“Technically I suspect Eskel is of a rank with an archduke,” Consort Jaskier says, echoing Aleksander’s thoughts a little uncannily, “but I shan’t be telling him so; he’d be ever so uncomfortable with it. And don’t you go teasing him with it, cub.”

“I won’t,” Princess Ciri promises solemnly. “He’s only just gotten used to being Eskel Amber-Eyed; anything else would make him miserable.”

“Good cub,” Consort Jaskier says, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

Aleksander is fascinated and baffled by the idea that Lord Eskel would need to grow accustomed to the honorifics he is due, that he would find them not just useless but actively uncomfortable to wear. Certainly Aleksander has occasionally felt a little overwhelmed by the strictures of his own titles and duties, but to dislike them that much is rather unusual, in his experience.

“She gets her sweetness from her Papa,” Lady Yennefer observes. “Because I certainly never taught her that.”

“You’re very sweet,” Milena says, grinning when Lady Yennefer makes an offended noise. “You just show it by turning people’s enemies into slugs.”

“I haven’t actually slugged anyone yet,” Lady Yennefer grumbles. “Geralt would give me the disappointed look.”

Livi giggles. Aleksander can’t quite tell if Lady Yennefer’s words are meant to be a jest, or if she really is only kept from transforming people into slugs by the threat of the Warlord being…disappointed. Not angry, but only disappointed.

Yet it seems the Warlord’s potential disappointment does matter enough to his chief mage to keep her from such spells.

Aleksander rubs at his scarred finger. He is so very confused.

“Honestly,” Consort Jaskier says thoughtfully, “we might be wisest to simply establish ‘Witcher’ as its own rank, equal to, let us say a marquess? And then those Witchers who hold rank among their fellows may be accounted dukes, or archdukes, or whatever else seems most appropriate.”

Aleksander nods. “That makes good sense,” he says. Marquess seems about right, too, if the Witchers need to be able to give commands to both high and low among their people. And Aleksander is familiar enough with the manners appropriate to a marquess that he will be able to teach them, though he’s not sure how well Witchers will take to them.

There is, he thinks, a certain pattern to the informality of Kaer Morhen. He hasn’t even begun to truly learn it yet, but he is starting to see the shape of it: the way no one will enter his room without his invitation save the servants, the way the Witchers are so careful with their human companions and so casually violent with each other, the way they know the names of their servants and speak kindly to them, and yet insult each other and seem to take no offense of it. It isn’t the same as the formality of Tretogor, but it does have a pattern, and Aleksander intends to learn it as quickly as he can, and in exchange teach anyone who is willing to learn how to navigate the convoluted customs of the other courts across the continent.

“Lambert has an offer for you,” Milena says, interrupting his musings. “He’s willing to be your first student, if you like; he said that if you could teach him courtly manners, you could teach anyone.”

Aleksander swallows. Lambert is rather intimidating, honestly: he’s so blunt, and so rude, and somehow though he and Aiden have the same number of weapons visible, he seems more terrifyingly well-armed. Aiden slinks; Lambert bristles. And yet he is gentle with Milena, and was so obviously protective of Consort Jaskier during that astonishing night in Tretogor when everything Aleksander thought he knew about the court was thrown into disarray…

“I would be honored,” he says, as firmly as he can. Milena gives him a warmly approving smile.

“But that is for later,” she says. “For today, would you like me to give you a tour of the keep?”

“Oh, I’ll come too,” Livi says, grinning broadly.

That sounds like a way to spend the rest of the morning that isn’t likely to offend anyone, at least, and also might help Aleksander feel a little less lost in this great maze of a castle. “Thank you,” he says, “I would appreciate that.”

Milena smiles at him. “I promise not to actually run up any stairs,” she teases gently. “Unlike certain princesses of my acquaintance.”

Princess Ciri giggles, and looks utterly unrepentant.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Aiden is up well before Lambert and Kitten are, the morning after the conquest of Redania, and heads down to the training fields in the darkness before true dawn, jittering with energy. He runs the Cat-level obstacle course twice through, which helps a lot, and then gets in four good solid sparring matches, losing to Serrit and eking out a win against Bran and fighting Kiyan to a very satisfying tie before Cedric and Axel team up against him, which is frankly not fair but does help him work his jitters out very effectively.

He falls in beside Lambert on the way down to the hot springs, and ends up sharing a pool with Lambert and Cedric and Axel and Dragonfly. Dragonfly sniffs the air ostentatiously and smirks. “So, little brother, got something to tell the rest of us?”

“f*ck off,” Aiden suggests. “At the moment, all I’ve got is a vague hope.”

Dragonfly’s smirk turns to a rueful, understanding grimace. “f*ck, I’ve been there.”

“You sure you don’t have any idea how you did it?” Aiden asks.

Dragonfly snorts. “I got her a pair of breeches and a mule. Hell, I’m not even sure how I didn’t scare the absolute sh*t out of her - she saw me toxic.” She gestures at her face. “Black eyes and everything. All she did was ask if I was well.”

“Damn,” Cedric says, eyebrows rising. “What the f*ck do they feed their nobles in Redania? That’s four now with steel in their spines.”

“Yeah, four who left,” Lambert points out. “Five, if you count Marika.”

“Good point,” Dragonfly says. “And Marika definitely counts. Huh.” She shrugs. “Anyway, sorry, little brother, I have no f*cking idea how to court a human on purpose.”

Aiden sighs and sinks under the water, letting the sound of his own heartbeat become, for a moment, the loudest thing in the world. When he surfaces again, Cedric and Axel are arguing about the best ale in Aedirn, with Lambert interjecting utterly unhelpful comments and Dragonfly laughing at all of them, so Aiden leans against Lambert’s shoulder and enjoys the show until it ends with them all agreeing that it’s time to head up for dinner.

Aleksander shows up to dinner with Livi on his arm and dark circles under his eyes, though his expression is otherwise calm; he smells slightly distressed, but not too unhappy. Livi sits him down beside Aiden at the Cat table with a broad grin. “You can have supper with the Manticores, but we get you for dinner,” she declares, taking her own seat beside Dragonfly and turning her face up for a kiss. Aiden hesitates for a moment before draping an arm gently across Aleksander’s shoulders, ready to remove it at once should Aleksander flinch or pull away, but instead Aleksander freezes for a moment and then relaxes, leaning into Aiden slightly, and the distress fades from his scent to be replaced by tentative happiness and a tiny hint of lust. Oh, that’s both flattering and addictively good, knowing that Aleksander finds his presence comforting - finds him appealing, whether he admits it to himself or not.

Also, Aleksander smells like apples this morning, and Aiden has to firmly suppress the urge to just…lick. Or nibble. Just a little.

“So what has our extremely organized little Livi had you doing this morning?” Aiden asks instead of indulging his impulses.

“She and Milena have been showing me around the keep. I think it may actually be larger than the palace in Tretogor, but more vertical than horizontal.”

“There are such a lot of stairs,” Livi agrees, grinning. “And it takes ever so long to learn where everything is. It doesn’t help that there aren’t any tapestries or statues, and only a few of the doors are decorated - I used to use things like that to navigate in Tretogor. I still get lost regularly if I’m going somewhere outside my normal routes. Milena said it took her about six months to really be able to get around without any trouble.”

Aiden frowns. He’s never thought about the trouble humans might have in navigating the halls of Kaer Morhen. It’s easy enough for Witchers; every corridor smells different, depending on who uses it and when and for what, so it’s quite impossible for a Witcher to mistake, say, the Bear School’s halls for the route to the kitchens. And presumably the servants have come up with some strategy to find their ways around, too, though Aiden has no idea what that is, since it probably isn’t scent.

“The grey’s soothing,” he says thoughtfully. “We’d rather not put up tapestries - colors can get a bit distracting, sometimes.” That’s also why they don’t dye or paint their armor like human mercenaries do; the simplicity of the ichor-black leather is sort of restful, not startling or over-bright even in the sunlight.

“Oh,” Aleksander says. “That does make sense.”

“Huh,” Livi says, leaning her chin on one hand and frowning in thought. “Does it bother you when we wear colorful clothing, then?”

Aiden shakes his head. “No, that’s - we can look away from a single person. A few colors, in a few places, aren’t a problem at all. Though admittedly Jaskier can be a bit much sometimes. But putting brightly colored tapestries everywhere…” He shrugs.

“That would be hard to escape,” Aleksander nods. “Well, doubtless with practice I will learn my way around, and Milena has assured me that should I become lost, I can simply wait for a passing Witcher or servant and ask them for aid.”

“Definitely,” Aiden agrees, and lets go of Aleksander to take a platter from Cedric as it’s handed down the table: ooh, Marlene’s rosemary-roasted chicken. “So what are your plans for after dinner?”

“I’m not sure,” Aleksander admits. “Livi has her own duties, and Milena mentioned she would be helping Lady Yennefer with the Warlord’s correspondence, so I suppose I am at a bit of a loose end.”

Dragonfly grins at Aiden and wiggles her eyebrows. Aiden sticks out his tongue at her. “Well, I could show you anywhere Kitten and Livi didn’t get to,” he offers. “And then, if you like, we could go down later in the afternoon to join Lambert and Kitten in the salle.”

“...In the salle?” Aleksander asks, frowning in confusion.

“Milena’s been learning to fight with a dagger,” Livi puts in. “Didn’t she mention it in her letters?”

“She was serious about that?” Aleksander blurts, and then goes pink.

“She was,” Livi confirms, bouncing a little in her seat. “She’s gotten so good, too, it’s amazing!”

Aleksander blinks a few times. “If she does not mind an audience, then I would be honored to observe,” he says at last, and then he goes pinker and his scent sours a little with shame. “As long as I am not expected to join in. I have no skill at arms, I’m afraid.”

Aiden is honestly startled. He thought noblemen were required to learn to use swords, or at least the flimsy little dueling rapiers that pass for swords in fancy noble circles. Dragonfly beats him to saying anything, though, as blunt as she always is: “Don’t you lot have to learn to fight?”

The shame-scent gets stronger, and Aleksander looks down at his plate miserably. “I had a great many fencing lessons. I am quite unsuited to the practice.”

Aiden nudges his shoulder against Aleksander’s. “‘S alright, pup. We’ve got an overabundance of people who’re good at stabbing things around here.”

That earns him a tiny smile and a slight lessening in the scent of shame; it fades almost entirely when Dragonfly says, rather awkwardly, “Nobody’s good at everything, and f*ck knows none of us are any good at courtly sh*t. So it’s better for you to be good at that than stabbing things.”

“Much better,” Aiden agrees.

“They’re so bad at courtly manners,” Livi says in a stage-whisper, and Aleksander actually gives her a proper grin, straightening up and starting to smell happy again.

Happy and tired, and Aiden doesn’t like the dark circles under his eyes. He lets it go until they’ve all filled their plates and Aleksander has made some serious inroads on Marlene’s good cooking, looking very appreciative indeed, and the rest of the Cats at their end of the table have started debating whether fish or eggs are better for hiding under the beds of people they don’t like. Then he leans over and says very softly, “Did you sleep alright, then, pup?”

Aleksander startles and gives him a wide-eyed look. “I -” and then he visibly bites back a lie. “I did not,” he says, slowly and quietly, “but if it is allowed, I do not wish to speak of it.”

Aiden nods. “Then we won’t,” he says, which obviously startles Aleksander again. “You could go and nap between dinner and midafternoon, if you like.”

“Ah - no, I think it would be wiser for me to stay awake until dark, at least,” Aleksander says. “And then hopefully weariness will aid me in finding better rest tonight.”

Aiden nods again. “Sensible,” he agrees, and then Dragonfly snatches the last little jam-filled cake off the tray and he lets himself be distracted by arguing over who has a better right to it, since she’s had three and Aiden has had none. Thankfully, one of the serving maids, a gawky girl named Sonia who hasn’t quite grown into her knees and elbows yet, brings around another tray of cakes before the argument gets to the stabbing stage.

Julita’s cakes are worth a bit of stabbing, and Aiden will stand by that statement, thank you very much.

When dinner is over, Livi goes trotting off with Dragonfly on her heels, heading for Eskel’s office, and the rest of the Cats head off in all directions, including straight up - Kiyan leaps up to nap in the rafters. Aleksander stares up at him for a moment in obvious bafflement.

“So!” Aiden says, and Aleksander tears his eyes from Kiyan to look at him. “Is there anything the girls didn’t show you that you’d like to see? Or do you need anything from the supply rooms - clothes, or furniture, or anything like that?”

“I would be grateful for some writing supplies,” Aleksander says.

“Alright, I know where those are kept,” Aiden says. Aleksander falls in beside him as he leads the way out of the hall, and when Aiden tentatively raises his arm, Aleksander moves a little closer. Aiden grins and drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders, deeply pleased when Aleksander leans into the contact. f*ck, what is it about the pup that makes him so damnably appealing? He’s so f*cking sweet; Aiden wants to wrap him up in a blanket - or, better yet, in his arms - and cuddle him close, and kiss him senseless, and watch over him while he sleeps.

“So when you’re not being courtly, what d’you like to do?” Aiden asks. “Kitten’s got her embroidery, and Livi’s learning to whittle, and of course our bard is always composing.”

Aleksander’s ears go pink again. “It isn’t a very interesting or impressive pastime.”

“It doesn’t have to be impressive, and I’m interested anyhow.”

Aleksander looks down, shoulders pulling in, and Aiden wants to stab anyone who ever made him think he wasn’t interesting - wasn’t enough - just the way he is. “I draw birds,” Aleksander admits shyly. “I had a little birdfeeder outside of my apartments in Tretogor, and I would sketch the birds who came to eat from it.”

That’s…an absolutely f*cking adorable mental image, honestly, and also reinforces some of the ideas Milena’s advice had already suggested about possible gifts for Aleksander. “I bet we’ve got different birds here than down in Redania,” he offers. “And there’s places in the gardens you could set up a birdfeeder - or we could figure out how to hang one outside your window. And if there aren’t any drawing supplies in the storeroom, I can ask Serrit where she gets hers. Though there ought to be, given that we all have to at least be able to sketch.”

Aleksander gives him a look like he’s worried that Aiden is making fun of him, and Aiden does his best to look honest and trustworthy, because truly, he’s not mocking. He knows how to draw a little - all Witchers do, so they can keep their journals - but he’s not particularly good at it. Slowly, Aleksander smiles. “I would like that, thank you. Why do you all need to know how to sketch?”

“We keep journals,” Aiden explains. “Usually we try to draw the monsters we kill, or at least the unusual ones, so our siblings can learn from what we’ve seen.”

“Oh! That makes sense,” Aleksander says, smiling. “And - is Serrit one of the Cats?”

“Nah, she’s a Viper. Prickly as hell, but good people - just don’t tell her I said so, or she’ll stab me just to be contrary.”

Aleksander’s scent goes bitter with fear. “If - if I offend someone -”

“No one will stab you,” Aiden assures him hastily. “We all know humans don’t heal like Witchers do. For us, a light stabbing is like - like a punch, perhaps. Not even a particularly hard punch. But we know it would be much more serious for humans, so no, nobody will stab you. If you ever do manage to offend Serrit, she’ll probably just glare at you.”

“Oh,” Aleksander sighs, and relaxes. “I am sorry to be so…so twitchy. It’s terribly impolite of me.”

Aiden squeezes his shoulders gently. “Pup, yesterday we were the monsters you’d been taught to fear, and you watched us slaughter a pair of mages and a decent chunk of your king’s council. And your king, of course. I’d be more surprised if you weren’t a bit twitchy. Honestly, you’re doing shockingly well.”

“I am?” Gods, Aleksander’s eyes are enormous and full of a painful sort of hope.

“Wolf-hearted pup,” Aiden murmurs. “I shan’t ever lie to you.”

Aleksander offers him a tremulous, beautiful little smile.

Aiden feels his slow heart turn over, and resolves to do anything in his power to earn that smile again.

*

Aiden leads Aleksander down to a remarkably well-stocked storeroom, and Aleksander chooses parchment and quills and ink and a few little notebooks and a lap desk to keep it all in. To Aleksander’s surprise, Aiden takes all of it, tucking the desk under his arm and grinning down at Aleksander, sunshine-yellow eyes bright. Something about that grin gives Aleksander a sort of odd fluttery feeling in his stomach, and he doesn’t dare let himself think about why.

It isn’t…it isn’t scandalous here, what he thinks he’s feeling. Consort Jaskier is consort to both the Warlord and his Right Hand, and Livi and Dragonfly are openly courting, and if Aleksander is correct in his assumptions, the two Cats who were next to Aiden at dinner were a couple, and so are Leocadie and Master Merten. Aleksander could take a male lover, and no one here would think less of him for it.

But in Tretogor -

In Tretogor, such a thing would have been enough to get him disowned.

Not that he hasn’t pretty much disowned himself - but no, Mikolaj sent his baggage along - unless his brother merely wishes to make it seem that Aleksander never was, to erase all traces of him from Tretogor -

“Pup,” Aiden says gently, “what’s the matter?”

Witchers can smell emotions. Gods, how is Aleksander supposed to keep a proper courtly facade when everyone around him can tell it’s a lie?

But - Aiden did stop pressing when Aleksander said he didn’t wish to speak about having had trouble sleeping. “It is not something I wish to talk about,” Aleksander says carefully, praying that doing so won’t offend someone he is hoping to count as - as a friend, if nothing else. Someone who has thus far only been kind to him, and oddly comforting.

“Of course,” Aiden says at once. “Oh! Before we go up to drop this all off, let’s get you a proper coat, shall we?”

“A proper coat?” Aleksander asks, baffled, and Aiden loops his free arm around Aleksander’s shoulders - which should not be as comforting as it is, should be a dreadful breach of propriety, and instead Aleksander finds himself inexplicably yearning for the warm weight of the Witcher’s arm whenever it is not present - and leads him further down the corridor to another storeroom. This one, to Aleksander’s amazement, is full of furs: fur coats, fur slippers, fur-lined gloves and hats, a wealth of furs sufficient to pay a duke’s ransom, at least.

“Well, we eat a lot of meat,” Aiden says, grinning at whatever Aleksander’s expression (or possibly scent) is doing. “No point wasting the fur, right?”

“I suppose not,” Aleksander says, and Aiden steps back, looks him up and down speculatively, and heads for a rack of fur coats, plucking one down.

“Here, try that on,” the Witcher says, and beams when Aleksander does so and discovers it is perfectly sized, long enough to nearly reach his boots and wide enough to fasten up the front without trouble. “There now! That’ll keep you warm this winter, pup.” Aiden adds gloves and a hat to the writing supplies already tucked under one arm, and ushers Aleksander out again.

“Right, up to your rooms with us,” Aiden says, and leads the way, not seeming to need Aleksander to respond to his cheerful chatter. Most of it seems to be gossip about the other inhabitants of the keep, but here, again, is a way Kaer Morhen differs from Tretogor, because none of Aiden’s gossip appears to be harmful.

“...and then of course the little menace managed to turn all the geese green, which, frankly, is not a natural color for geese,” Aiden says as he pulls the door to Aleksander’s rooms open. “Oh! Did you get your baggage? I thought I heard someone say they’d brought it through last night.”

“I did,” Aleksander says, and notices that Aiden is waiting just outside the doorway. “You’re welcome in my rooms,” he says carefully.

“Thank you,” Aiden says, and steps in.

“Is that…a Witcher thing?” Aleksander ventures, taking his new writing supplies from Aiden and setting them down on the table beside the hearth. He’ll need to ask someone for a proper desk - perhaps the steward Milena mentioned. Kelner, he thinks the man’s name was. “The not entering a room without invitation?”

“I suppose,” Aiden says, shrugging as he drapes the gloves and hat over the back of a chair. “It’s more that Witchers tend to be rather territorial, and our rooms are our personal spaces. Some of us are more protective of them than others. A lot of the Bears won’t even let the servants come in.” He frowns a little in thought as Aleksander takes off the heavy coat - it’s lovely, but actually a bit too warm, especially when combined with climbing stairs. “We don’t have a lot of privacy here,” Aiden says slowly. “We can all smell everything, pretty much. So the privacy we do have - the soundproofing spells on our rooms, the assurance that no one will enter without asking, even the way we’ll all drop a subject if someone says they don’t want to talk about it - that’s valuable to us.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says, considering that carefully. “Thank you for explaining.” He hesitates. “Soundproofing spells?”

“Oh! Nobody told you? I should remind Livi to add it to her pamphlet. Every suite of rooms has a soundproofing spell: no noises that you don’t want to be heard go out into the corridor. We don’t have to listen to each other snoring, or f*cking, or what have you.” Aiden grins. “If the door’s open, people can hear you; if it’s closed, you’re fine to make all the noise you like, and you won’t bother anyone.”

Aleksander blinks. “That’s…very useful,” he says at last.

“Yeah, ‘s why we all think Yennefer’s one of the very few mages worth keeping around,” Aiden agrees. “I mean, there’s other reasons. But that one’s pretty big.”

Aleksander swallows, rubbing his thumb against his scarred finger. Mages are…mages are going to be fairly terrifying for a while, he suspects. Even apparently benevolent ones like Lady Yennefer. He can’t help remembering Master Gustavus’s smile as his knife drank Aleksander’s blood to bind his mouth to silence.

Lady Yennefer hasn’t done anything like that…but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t.

He realizes that he’s rubbing the scar again, and forces himself to stop, flattening his hand against his leg to keep it still and turning his attention firmly to the fact that a soundproofing spell is a fairly benevolent use of power, and useful, too. Gods know he can think of a dozen occasions in Tretogor that such a thing would have been immensely valuable. He never needed to know that much about Hannah’s preferences in bedsport!

“So, d’you want to go see Kitten being glorious with a dagger?” Aiden asks.

“I…would, yes,” Aleksander decides. Milena and daggers really do not seem to fit in the same image - she is, and always has been, such a proper lady, and so gentle, that Aleksander cannot imagine her wielding a weapon - but if she has gained such a skill, it will be fascinating to see.

Aiden drapes his arm around Aleksander’s shoulders again as they make their way back down some of the endless stairs of Kaer Morhen, and Aleksander wishes he knew why in the gods’ names he finds that so comforting.

Aiden pushes open one of a set of large double doors, and Aleksander steps through into a long hall with a few benches around the walls and no other furniture. A salle, he’s guessing.

There are only two people in the salle, and they are not fighting. They are kissing. Kissing ardently. Milena is seated in Lambert’s lap on a bench against the wall, her knees on either side of his hips, her skirts a puddle around both of them. One of Lambert’s hands is cradling the back of her head; his other is spread across her lower back, nearly spanning it; and she is leaning back into his hands as he devours her.

It’s both stunningly beautiful and horribly scandalous.

Aleksander puts both hands over his eyes and whirls, hoping he’s headed for the door. Aiden’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Hey,” the Witcher says cheerfully. “Thought you were doing dagger practice, not dagger practice! You’ve gone and scandalized our pup again.”

“Oh, f*ck off,” Lambert grumbles, as Milena makes a faint squeaking noise.

“Sorry, Sasha,” she says, sounding rather sheepish.

Aiden pats Aleksander’s shoulder. “It’s safe to look now.”

Aleksander lets his hands fall and turns warily, but sure enough, Milena is standing now, her cheeks pink, and Lambert is lounging back against the wall looking smug.

“Dreadful man,” Milena scolds Aiden gently. “Have you come to learn to use a dagger, Sasha?”

“I thought only to watch, if you would not mind an audience,” Aleksander says.

“I don’t mind in the slightest,” Milena assures him. “And if you like, after Lambert and I have had our practice, we can watch Lambert and Aiden spar. There is nothing quite like it.”

“Sure,” Lambert agrees. Aiden nods eagerly.

Aleksander realizes quite abruptly that he is going to see Witchers fighting, but - surely it will not be like watching the invasions of Velen and Tretogor. Lambert isn’t going to actually hurt Milena, surely, and Lambert and Aiden won’t - won’t be actually trying to kill each other.

It will be fine.

Lambert and Aiden are both frowning at him, though, and Lambert suddenly swears - at least, Aleksander suspects it’s a curse word, though it’s in a tongue he doesn’t know - and whacks his forehead with the heel of one hand. “We’re dumbasses,” he says. “Milena, he probably doesn’t want to see Witchers fighting. He saw enough of that yesterday.”

“Oh!” Milena says, covering her mouth with a hand. “Oh, Sasha, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think -”

Aleksander swallows hard. “If I am to remain in Kaer Morhen,” he says, voice wavering a little, “doubtless I shall see Witchers fighting often. Surely it is better for me to grow accustomed to it now, among - among friends?”

“Wolf-hearted pup,” Aiden marvels.

“Guess he is,” Lambert agrees.

Aleksander can feel himself blushing at the compliment. He doesn’t think he’s being very brave at all.

“C’mon, come sit and we can watch Kitten chase Lambert around the salle,” Aiden says. Milena giggles; Lambert snorts and rises to his feet, looking pleased rather than insulted at the implication that Milena might win their bout. Aleksander follows Aiden over to a bench and takes a seat, watching in amazement as Milena turns to smile up at Lambert and then produces a dagger from - somewhere.

She wasn’t wearing one a moment ago, Aleksander is quite certain of that.

“I still haven’t figured out how she does that,” Aiden murmurs in his ear. “My current theory is that Yennefer’s made her a little tiny portal somehow.”

Aleksander can’t come up with a better theory at the moment.

“Shall we, my love?” Milena asks, as Lambert also draws a dagger - one rather larger than hers. Live steel, both of them, Aleksander realizes, which he doesn’t think is quite the usual thing for practice, but perhaps it is for Witchers.

“f*ck yes,” Lambert says, and then grins wickedly and adds, “Better not disarm me today, though, less’n you want an audience.”

Milena goes bright pink. “Lambert!”

Aleksander leans over to Aiden. “Ought I ask?” he murmurs.

“Probably not,” Aiden replies softly. Aleksander nods and resolves not to even suggest that he’s curious, because this new Milena, who kisses her lover so openly and thinks nothing of bathing in company, might tell him, and that would probably be enough to make Aleksander spontaneously combust in mortification.

Thankfully, Lambert decides not to tease Milena any further, and they begin to move instead. It’s…beautiful, actually. They mirror each other perfectly, almost dancing back and forth across the salle. Milena is as graceful as a great hunting cat, feet silent in her soft slippers, skirt swishing gently as she turns. She and Lambert circle each other, feinting and retreating, and Aleksander knows just enough of fighting to be able to see how Lambert leaves deliberate openings for Milena to attack. Milena is flushed and smiling, looking very proud of herself, and Lambert is grinning, fierce and gleeful and wild, like he’s equally proud to see his lover display her skills.

It’s nothing Aleksander could ever have seen in Tretogor. No nobleman of Redania would take such pride in his wife having such skills, much less have gone out of his way to teach them to her. But seeing them together, seeing how Lambert dotes on her - well. Aleksander suspects this is a large part of why Milena is so happy to live here in Kaer Morhen.

He is glad to see her so contented, so…so fully grown into herself, as she could never have been in Redania.

They finish their bout in a glorious swirling clash which ends with Milena caught in Lambert’s arms. She laughs, a bright happy sound that rings from the walls, and tilts her head up for a kiss, which Lambert happily provides. Aleksander covers his eyes, his ears hot with embarrassment, but even as he looks away he’s smiling. She’s so happy. She was never this happy in Tretogor.

“My turn,” Aiden says brightly, hopping to his feet and drawing a dagger.

“Come on, then, kitty,” Lambert drawls, and Aleksander looks up again as Milena joins him on the bench to see the two Witchers grinning at each other, fierce and wild.

“I’ll give you kitty,” Aiden says, and pounces.

Watching Aiden and Lambert fight makes it very clear how much Lambert was holding back with Milena. They move like twin streaks of lightning, bouncing off the walls and even once the ceiling, using the benches to gain height and reach, daggers flashing in the light of the sconces on the walls as they dodge impossibly out of the way of blows which would slay any mortal man. Aleksander is entranced, half terrified and half enthralled - though he does notice, somewhere in the back of his mind, that both Witchers are very careful to leave a wide berth around the bench where Aleksander and Milena are sitting. The Witchers are unfathomably dangerous…but their human companions are in no danger at all.

The bout ends with Aiden pinning Lambert to a wall, knife to his throat. They both freeze, staring at each other, and then Lambert sighs and snarls. “Your win,” he concedes.

“Hah!” Aiden says, stepping back and sheathing his dagger. Milena starts to clap, and Aleksander hastily imitates her. It was a marvelous sight, well worthy of applause. Aleksander would watch such a thing again, honestly.

Especially if it’s Aiden fighting. Aiden in battle is…beautiful. He’s sleek and swift and viciously elegant, with his teeth bared in an almost feral grin and his yellow eyes bright as midday sunshine.

“That was astonishing,” Aleksander admits, as Lambert comes loping across the room to flop down at Milena’s feet and put his head in her lap. Milena doesn’t seem to find this at all unusual; she smiles down at him and begins running her fingers through his short-cropped hair. Lambert sighs deeply and closes his eyes in obvious contentment.

It’s sort of adorable, actually -

And then Aiden sits down at Aleksander’s feet and leans his head against Aleksander’s knee.

Aleksander freezes. He has no idea what to do. There’s no - he has never had any script for this, because it isn’t something that happens. Lambert leaning on Milena is at least the sort of thing one might hear in a courtly ballad, or read in a book of tales - the devoted knight at his lady’s feet is a romantic concept Aleksander has encountered before - but does Aiden sitting at Aleksander’s feet mean he considers Aleksander a woman? Or just that Witchers have no care for propriety? Or something else Aleksander can’t even imagine?

To his immense relief, Aiden slides down after a moment to sprawl out on the floor with his head on Lambert’s thigh. Maybe it is just that Witchers have little care for propriety, or that Aiden seems to like touching the people of whom he is fond.

“There really isn’t anything quite like seeing Witchers at play,” Milena says, leaning over to bump her shoulder against Aleksander’s, but thank the gods not mentioning his awkwardness.

“I had certainly rather see them at play than in battle,” Aleksander agrees. “You do not fight much like knights, I think. Your style is much more acrobatic.” He’s seen enough tourneys to be fairly confident in that assessment.

“f*ckin’ Cats,” Lambert grumbles, leaning into Milena’s hand. “Not all Witchers are that bouncy. Bears just stand there and hit things til they fall over.”

“Every School has a different specialty,” Aiden explains, smiling up at Aleksander. He doesn’t seem to have been offended by Aleksander’s lack of response to being leaned on, which is slightly reassuring. “Cats are bouncy, Bears are sturdy, Vipers are sneaky bastards.”

Lambert nods. “Manticores get creative with poisons, Cranes invent weird-ass explosive weaponry, Griffins are experts with Signs.”

“And Signs are the magic you can do,” Aleksander says, checking to make sure he has that right.

“Yeah - Quen and Igni and all,” Lambert says, gesturing lazily in the air to make a golden bubble form around him for just a moment. Aleksander twitches slightly, thumb pressing against his scar, and then forces himself to relax and listen to Lambert’s calm words. “Handy. Handier if you’ve got a Griffin around to do ‘em.”

“And Wolves?” Aleksander asks. This is fascinating: a different perspective on what the Manticores told him, yet one which seems to agree quite strongly, at least in the main points. And the golden shield isn’t any sort of threat.

“Little bit of everything,” Aiden says. “They’re not as sturdy as Bears, nor as agile as Cats, nor as Sign-focused as Griffins, but they’re pretty good at all of it. Wolves’re the oldest School, sort of; they’ve stayed closest to the old ways.”

“The old ways?” Aleksander says, startled. He didn’t know there were ‘old ways’ to adhere to.

“Used to be, there weren’t any Schools,” Lambert says, without opening his eyes. “Just one Order, based out of Morgraig Castle in the Kestrels.” He shrugs. “Old Barmin, who was around for the mess, says there were, and I quote, ‘irreconcilable philosophical differences’ between two of the first Witchers.”

“Erland and Arnaghad,” Aiden agrees. “They fought, and Arnaghad took his followers and left to become the Bears. Ivar and his Vipers split off from them. The first Cats left Morgraig a while later, and then I think the group that became the Cranes and the Manticores - they split because the Cranes wanted boats and the Manticores wanted deserts, not because they wanted to kill each other, so that’s something. And then Erland took his Griffins, and then Morgraig fell.”

“And the last few Witchers of the Order came to Kaer Morhen and called themselves Wolves,” Lambert finishes.

“And somehow you all came back together again?” Aleksander marvels.

Lambert snorts and opens his eyes to grin up at Aleksander. “Amazing what one f*cking insane bastard with a mad plan to kill a king can do, isn’t it?”

It takes Aleksander a moment to realize that Lambert is talking about the Warlord. Is referring to his liege lord, the most powerful man in the North, as a ‘f*cking insane bastard’. In public. As if it’s normal, and not the sort of insult that gets men killed. It’s far, far worse than ‘honorable fool’!

“What’s the matter?” Aiden asks, sitting up and frowning at Aleksander. “Your scent just went terrified.”

“I,” Aleksander says, and then, weakly, “is it not…unwise…to so insult the Wolf?”

“Oh!” Aiden says, and laughs.

Lambert snickers. “I’ve called him worse to his face,” he points out. “He is a f*cking insane bastard, and I’d follow him through hell if he asked.”

Milena pats Aleksander’s shoulder gently. “The Wolf is not like other kings,” she says. “They follow Geralt out of respect and personal loyalty, not because of his blood or his natal rank. And Witchers don’t think about insults the same way anyone else does. Think of it perhaps as being like affection between brothers or cousins, or the camaraderie between soldiers, not between a lord and his vassals.”

Aleksander’s fairly sure that if one of King Vizimir’s cousins had said that of him, they’d have been banished from court at the very least.

“That sounds about right,” Aiden agrees. “And Geralt’s an even-tempered sort, anyhow, as long as nobody’s being monstrous.”

Aleksander really, really does not understand this court at all.

Lambert sniffs and wrinkles his nose. “We should bathe before supper. Those of us who’ve been sparring, anyhow.”

“I have already bathed today,” Aleksander says, absolutely certain he’s not ready to undress in front of anyone just yet.

“Can you find your way back to your rooms from here?” Milena asks. “It’s just up a flight and two corridors down.”

Aleksander relaxes. “I thought I had remembered that correctly, and I thank you for the confirmation,” he says. “And if I do manage to get lost, I shall hope for a friendly passer-by.”

“You’ll do fine, pup,” Aiden says, rolling to his feet and offering Aleksander a hand up with a broad, cheerful smile. “We’ll see you at supper?”

“At supper,” Aleksander says, taking Aiden’s hand and letting the Witcher pull him effortlessly to his feet. He tries very hard not to think about how big and warm and comforting Aiden’s hand is, wrapped around his own.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

“So,” Kitten says, as they head down to the hot springs, “Jaskier dropped by Lady Yen’s office with the most marvelous bit of gossip. We are going to have to find some way to thank Geralt quite emphatically, my love.”

“...For?” Lambert asks, exchanging a wary look with Aiden, who shrugs in confusion.

“Talking the Redanian nobles out of crowning me queen…and you prince consort.”

There’s a long, horrified pause. The Witchers stumble to a halt and stare at each other over Kitten’s head, and Aiden suspects the exact same thought is running through both their minds: That would be an utter f*cking disaster. Lambert, prince consort? Gods be good!

“You’d be a good queen,” Lambert croaks after a moment.

“I would be a terrible queen,” Kitten corrects him. “I hate court politics, and unlike Geralt, I can’t smell lies, nor intimidate people into behaving themselves. I told Marika as much, months ago, when she asked me whether I’d be claiming Roggeven, and a kingdom is far more complicated to govern than a duchy. Dawid will do a far better job than I ever could, and be happier while he does it, too.” Thank f*ck, she smells perfectly honest. Aiden doesn’t want to contemplate the sort of spiral Lambert could get himself into if he thought he’d kept Kitten from a throne she’d truly wanted.

“Thank f*ck,” Lambert breathes, and Kitten turns to embrace him. Lambert buries his nose in her hair, clinging to her tightly.

“So,” Aiden says once they’ve separated, “should we get Geralt an elk?”

“Geralt can get his own f*cking elk,” Lambert says as they start moving again. Kitten giggles. “Ugh, prince consort.” He shudders theatrically.

“You’d have to start dressing like the bard,” Aiden teases. “Maybe learn to curtsey.”

“I could curtsey better’n you could,” Lambert grumbles. Kitten laughs harder.

“I am sure Sasha will demonstrate the proper courtly form, if asked.”

“Sure,” Aiden says, shrugging. “You never know when that sort of thing might come in handy.”

Lambert eyes Aiden thoughtfully. “You’d need a corset to get a dress to hang right.”

“So would you,” Aiden replies, frowning at Lambert’s stockier form. “We could probably commission a couple down in Wolvenburg.”

Kitten laughs so hard that Lambert has to pick her up so she won’t collapse in a heap. “Oh, I adore you, you ridiculous men,” she gasps through her giggles.

“Feeling’s mutual, Kitten,” Aiden says, tugging gently on the end of her braid where it’s fallen over Lambert’s arm.

Lambert grins at him, sharp and sweet. “You are ridiculous, though.”

Aiden grins back. “Takes one to know one, didn’t you say?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lambert knocks their shoulders together. “C’mon, kitty, bathtime. You reek.”

“I smell marvelous,” Aiden says, puffing himself up in mock indignation, and Kitten goes off in another peal of laughter, which was exactly what Aiden wanted. Lambert snorts and shakes his head.

“Marvelously f*cking nasty, maybe,” he teases, and Aiden sticks out his tongue in a very mature way indeed.

“Rude little Wolf.”

“Hey, Aleksander’s gonna teach me to be courtly,” Lambert retorts. “And if he can manage that, he can deal with anything.”

“You are so very sweet under your prickles,” Kitten says softly, and Lambert flushes. Aiden grins and knocks his shoulder gently against his friend’s.

“Very sweet,” he agrees. “But we’ll keep your secret.” Kitten nods.

Lambert sighs. “Pretty sure my reputation as an asshole went out the window about the time I fell in love with you,” he tells Kitten. “Worth it, though. Druther have you, any day.”

Kitten kisses him, which Aiden thinks is quite an appropriate response, all things considered.

*

Aleksander hesitates at the seat beside Master Merten, not sure if he should sit here or further down the table, or if last night was something of a fluke and he’s not meant to be at the Manticore table at all. Leocadie looks up and grins, nodding towards the seat. “Hey there, little cousin; you’ve not gone up mountain yet!”

“Up mountain?” Aleksander asks, sitting down carefully. Dilan claps him gently on the shoulder and shoves a blue-handled pitcher over within reach.

“When one of us gets overwhelmed, we go up the mountain for a while,” he explains. “There’s caves up there; it’s nice and quiet. Peaceful.”

“The Wolf started it,” Bricriu adds. “He went up mountain for a week after the first tribute wagons showed up and called him Warlord.”

Aleksander boggles. The Warlord did what? Why? And his people just tell such disrespectful tales without hesitation? Doesn’t the Warlord mind? Aleksander can’t even imagine the dignified, imposing Warlord retreating up the mountain in consternation, but no one seems to be jesting. This is all so very strange.

“Can’t blame him,” Master Merten says. “Lebioda knows if that’d been me I’d have never come down.”

“You wouldn’t have been crazy enough to start this whole Warlord thing,” Dilan points out.

“True,” Master Merten allows.

Aleksander glances up at the head table. The enormous double chair is no longer empty; the Warlord is seated in it, with Consort Jaskier beside him looking extremely contented. Aleksander can’t read the Warlord’s expression at all, but he does have an arm around Consort Jaskier’s waist, and is listening intently to the princess as she talks and gestures vigorously with a spoon. He doesn’t look like he’d retreat into the mountains at even the gravest provocation - he looks like he might be carved from the mountains, from white marble or alabaster, as grim and implacable as winter.

And then Consort Jaskier says something, and the Warlord smiles, and turns to press a kiss to Consort Jaskier’s cheek. It’s such a soft, affectionate gesture that Aleksander doesn’t even know how to react to it.

“They’re always like that,” Bricriu says, rolling his eyes. “Cuddly f*ckers.”

Aleksander tries to imagine anyone in Tretogor daring to call the king anything half so disrespectful as a ‘cuddly f*cker’ and cannot manage it. But the Manticores seem to have no qualms about speaking so casually of their king; clearly they have no fear that he will retaliate if he hears their words, any more than Lambert did.

And yet Aleksander cannot call the Manticores’ attitudes contemptuous, or cruel; only…fond, perhaps. As though they like the Warlord as a person, and feel welcome to tease him as one might a friend. Just as Milena had said earlier.

It is becoming very clear to Aleksander that the Witchers follow the Warlord for reasons quite unlike the expected fealty of human lords to their crowned kings.

His whirling thoughts are interrupted by Karolina appearing with a tray of food, which is honestly something of a relief. He thanks her carefully, earning himself approving nods from the Manticores and a wide friendly grin from the serving maid. Supper is as delicious as it was yesterday: a stew that Aleksander thinks is wild boar with parsnips, spiced to perfection, accompanied with little palm-sized loaves of hearty dark bread, and good rich salted butter, and deep cherry tarts to finish the meal.

Aleksander genuinely did not expect the fare in Kaer Morhen to be so good. But then, if Witchers have enhanced senses, presumably that includes the sense of taste, so it makes sense for them to value food which tastes good rather than fancy dishes which only look appealing.

There’s also the fact that Aleksander does not have to worry about making proper courteous conversation while they eat. Leocadie and Dilan get into a cheerful argument about the various merits of mead or ice wine, and Bricriu and Master Merten eat quietly, so all Aleksander needs to do is listen and savor the food, which is much less exhausting than a court dinner in Tretogor would be. Being silent, after all, requires no script whatsoever.

Dilan makes sure to put a cherry tart on Aleksander’s plate, and Master Merten leans over to top it with an enormous scoop of honey-sweetened whipped cream, which is…

Aleksander doesn’t know what he’s done to merit such kindness, really. Such unthinking care. He can feel tears pricking at the backs of his eyes as he finishes the treat - he’s too tired to really keep his emotions under control, which is humiliating.

“Little cousin,” Leocadie says, frowning worriedly at him. “Are you well?”

“I am only tired,” Aleksander says weakly.

“Ah,” Leocadie says, and looks up and past Aleksander. “Cat.”

Aleksander turns to find Aiden standing behind his shoulder. The Cat Witcher gives him a crooked little grin.

“Came to see if you wanted me to walk you up to your rooms again tonight, pup,” he says.

“Ah,” Aleksander says, completely unsure how best to respond to that. He does want to go to bed, but he does not wish to offend the Manticores -

“The poor lad’s going to fall over soon,” Leocadie chuckles. “Go on, little cousin; get some rest. And you, Cat - you be good to our kinsman, hey?”

“I’m not fool enough to anger the entire Manticore School, and Milena and Livi besides,” Aiden says, grinning even more broadly. “He’ll come to no harm with me.” He puts a hand on Aleksander’s shoulder, squeezes gently, and chuckles. “A wolf-hearted Manticore - who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Perhaps he is lion-hearted,” Leocadie replies easily. “Regardless, he is exhausted.”

“I am weary,” Aleksander agrees. “And I would appreciate the escort. Goodnight, kinsmen.”

“Goodnight, Aleksander!” chorus most of the Manticores within easy earshot, and Aleksander stands, delighted despite himself by Aiden immediately putting an arm around his shoulders.

He’s nearly memorized the turnings to reach his room, but Aiden’s presence is a comfort nonetheless. The Cat doesn’t talk, just hums a quiet tune and keeps Aleksander tucked under his arm.

“Thank you,” Aleksander says when they reach his door.

“It is my genuine pleasure, pup,” Aiden says softly. “Sleep well.”

Aleksander nods. “And you, as well.”

He wants -

He wants to lean up and press a kiss to Aiden’s cheek.

Which he is most definitely not going to do.

He retreats into his rooms instead, closing the door to the sight of Aiden’s gentle, cheerful smile.

*

Aleksander picks up the quill and puts it to the parchment, and the quill breaks between his fingers. He tries again, and again, but the ink spatters and blotches, and the quills break, and he cannot put a single clear word down. The inkstains spread from the tips of his fingers up to his hands, his wrists, and the ink turns red, as red as blood - is blood, thick and coppery and horribly still warm -

He turns to grope for another quill and sees Master Gustavus holding the box in his hands, the box that will send a letter to Milena. Master Gustavus laughs at Aleksander, laughs with his head thrown back like he’s heard a marvelous joke indeed, and tosses the box into the fireplace. The fire leaps up like a hungry wolf and devours the fragile wood, turning it all of a moment into fine grey ash. Aleksander lunges for it, as though he could snatch it from the fire, and the inkwell overturns and splashes out over his bare feet, a puddle of blood spreading and spreading, far more than the inkwell could have contained -

He looks down to see Livi lying on the floor with her throat slit open, the blood seeping out to stain everything crimson, and Master Gustavus is still laughing -

Aleksander sits up with a whooping cry of horror, clutching at the thick blankets. Holy gods. Holy gods.

A dream. It was only a dream.

It felt so real.

He fumbles his way out of bed, clumsy as he draws the curtains back, missing the rug again and hissing as his bare feet meet the cold stone of the floor. It’s actually reassuring: it feels nothing like the horrid warm stickiness of blood. He stumbles over to the banked fire, groping for a poker and nudging the coals into brightness.

His hands are clean. Shaking, and blotched with shadows from the flickering coals, but clean. And he’s in Kaer Morhen - the chilliness of the room proves that, even if he can’t see much past the fireplace - he’s in Kaer Morhen, he did write to Milena, the box did work, the White Wolf came to Velen and slew Master Gustavus and his minion. Livi is fine, is thriving, is guarded by a Witcher who dotes upon her.

Gods.

He’s not going to get any more sleep tonight either.

He manages to find the fur-lined slippers he tucked under the end of the bed, wraps himself in a thick fur-lined blanket, and goes padding cautiously out into the little sitting room of his suite. There’s a single window with a broad ledge, closely shuttered against the night breeze. Aleksander folds the shutters back and curls up on the ledge, tucking the blanket tightly around himself. The window faces north and east, into the Blue Mountains above Kaer Morhen; in the pre-dawn darkness, the bulk of the mountains is nothing but a black void blotting out the stars.

Somewhere out in the blackness, an owl calls.

Aleksander leans his head against the cold stone of the wall and concentrates on breathing, thumb pressed tightly to the little scar on his finger. Gods. It could all have so easily gone wrong. If he hadn’t had that box - if Master Gustavus had thought to extend the curse to writing as well as speaking -

He didn’t, though. And Aleksander did have the box, blessings on Milena for thinking of it and on Lady Yennefer for enchanting it. And everything has turned out - well, it can’t be called well, not with more than a hundred girls dead in that horrid abattoir - but as well as it possibly could have, given the absolute disaster he inherited. Aren and the four surviving girls are here in Kaer Morhen, among their kin, who are clearly glad to have them. Aleksander himself has not been executed for high treason, and has been given sanctuary here, and a duty which suits his skills, and the companionship of dear friends.

The owl calls again. He’s not sure what kind it is; it doesn’t sound like any of the ones he’s used to hearing in Redania. Perhaps Aiden would know what sorts of owls dwell here in the Blue Mountains.

A breeze curls in through the window, and Aleksander shivers and snuggles deeper into the blanket. It would be pleasant to have Aiden here, with his arm slung around Aleksander’s shoulders. He’s so warm, and his presence is comforting, if occasionally also overwhelming.

Far away, above the distant mountain peaks, the sky begins to glow. Dawn.

Aleksander takes a deep breath of briskly chilly mountain air and slides down from the window ledge. He doesn’t think he can bear to try to bathe with the ladies again this morning, but he needs to…to move.

He ventures down the stairs, gets thoroughly lost, and ends up opening a door at the end of a hall that turns out to lead outside, into a small garden.

It’s a garden of herbs, not flowers, but it’s laid out in a pretty decorative wheel shape, with the herbs planted between the paths that form the spokes. There are trees espaliered against the walls, and benches between them; at the center of the wheel is a small circular bed of purple flowers Aleksander doesn’t recognize.

The morning air is very cold. Aleksander should have brought his new coat. But the cold is better than the hot stickiness of blood - the cold means he’s awake, means he’s in Kaer Morhen and not in Velen, not still caught in a nightmare he can never escape.

It feels like he can breathe properly, out here surrounded by the scent of green growing things.

There are birds in the espaliered trees: chaffinches and sparrows, chirping back and forth to each other, and cooing doves, and some sort of thrush, all waking with the dawn. It’s very peaceful, and very unlike anywhere Aleksander has ever spent much time before.

Slowly, the terror of the night’s dream drains out of him, leaving room for rational thought once again.

He should write to Mikolaj, telling his brother that he is safe and has found a place for himself, and then he should ask Milena if she’ll let him use her sending-box to send the letter to the box he left with Mikolaj. He should start making notes for the curriculum he’ll need to design; should he begin with how one addresses a noble of unknown rank, or simply an overview of what the ranks are and what they mean? Perhaps that latter. And he’ll need to gird his loins for the idea of teaching whatever he decides is appropriate to Lambert, who is…

Aleksander has not quite forgotten seeing Lambert bristling with rage, that night in Tretogor, looking ready to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth. But he can place against that image the nearer memory of Lambert sitting at Milena’s feet, his head on her knee, looking contented as - as a wolf at rest. And even in his rage, Lambert didn’t actually do anything violent to the young nobles who had not earned his ire; and he quite obviously takes great care never to harm Milena. So presumably Aleksander can trust that Lambert won’t hurt him, either, or at least not without the sort of extreme provocation which Aleksander means never to provide.

So hopefully teaching Lambert to be courteous will only be difficult, not dangerous.

And once he’s written to Mikolaj and started work on the curriculum…what else is he going to do with his time in Kaer Morhen? He cannot spend every hour of the day in teaching or preparing to teach; he no longer has a duchy which he is expected to govern; and he certainly isn’t going to be spending hours in ensuring he is properly attired for court entertainments, nor in exhaustively discussing with his manservant and his friends who he is likely to encounter and what agendas they may be attempting to pursue, and analyzing any previous encounters in minute detail to wring out any drop of possible hidden meaning from each word and gesture.

He should write to Patryk, too. Patryk will doubtless be as worried about him as Mikolaj is, if not more so, and it would be a kindness to reassure him - and to reiterate that he will doubtless find serving Mikolaj a better option than coming to Kaer Morhen. If nothing else, Aleksander is fairly sure he doesn’t have any money with which to pay a manservant, and in any case, the only person in the keep who has a personal servant seems to be the lady called Mouse; even the Consort doesn’t have any household to speak of.

A pair of sparrows come flitting down and start pecking among the herbs. Aleksander’s fingers itch for his charcoal, for parchment to sketch them on. They’re very cute birds, and utterly fearless. One of them actually hops over onto his boot and pecks hopefully at his bootlace for a moment before bouncing away.

“Hey, you down there,” someone calls, and Aleksander looks up to see a young woman hanging out of a window on the third story of the keep. No, not a young woman - a young female Witcher, the fierce foul-mouthed girl who’d snarled insults at him in his grandfather’s dungeon.

“Good morning,” he calls up.

“Hah, it is you,” she says triumphantly, and vanishes from the window. Aleksander sits there wondering what that was about for perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then the door opens and she and another of the girls come trotting out, staring around themselves in obvious wonder. They’re both wearing tunics and trousers, with soft slippers on their feet, and the one who hailed him has a knife on her belt. They come to a halt near him, and the fierce one leans against the wall, breathing a little hard and glaring like she dares anyone to assume her momentary exhaustion is any sort of weakness. “This f*cking place is a maze,” she grumbles.

“My friends tell me it takes a while to learn one’s way around,” Aleksander agrees, “but the Witchers have much less trouble, so perhaps you will learn to navigate faster than I will.”

“‘Course I will,” the girl says, giving him a contemptuous look. Her eyes are extremely unsettling: the pupils are slitted like those of all the Witchers, but the irises are mottled in gold and grey. “I knew every f*cking rathole of a back alley in Tretogor afore those sh*tstains grabbed me; I’ll learn this stupid castle soon enough.” She shoves herself away from the wall and crosses her arms over her chest, glowering. Aleksander stays seated. It seems the wisest choice.

The other girl, a tiny redhead, edges a little closer to him, though she doesn’t get out of arm’s reach of her companion. “We wanted to thank you, my lord,” she says, dipping a tiny curtsey.

“You got us out of that sh*thole,” the fierce girl agrees. “Guess we owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Aleksander says firmly. “I did only what was right. And I am no lord anymore; please call me -” he hesitates for just a moment. “Call me Sasha.”

It seems only right, somehow, to give these girls, who his grandfather hurt so terribly, permission to use his nickname.

“I’m Zia,” the fierce one says. “She’s Elena.”

“It is an honor to meet you both,” Aleksander says, bowing as best he can without rising. “Especially under such improved circ*mstances.”

Zia snorts. “‘Improved,’ yeah, y’ could sure as hell say that. What’re you doing moping around out here?”

Aleksander flinches. “I…slept badly,” he admits. “I hoped the garden would be distracting.”

“Oh,” Elena says, sounding like she sympathizes a bit. “If - if you want distraction, would you be willing to come up and speak to Aren, then, my lord Sasha?” she asks diffidently. “He’d like to talk to you.”

Aleksander bows again and rises. “It would be my honor.”

*

Aiden goes looking for Aleksander when the pup doesn’t show up in the great hall for dinner. It’s unlikely that Aleksander has gotten into any real trouble - no one in Kaer Morhen would do him harm - but he might easily have gotten lost, especially as Livi admits no one saw him at breakfast, either. He’s not in his rooms, or at least if he is, he’s not responding to Aiden’s knocking, and his scent leads away, down the hall and through several different stairs and corridors until it goes out into one of the herb gardens, and then, oddly, in again and up to the Manticore hall. Which, sure, Aleksander’s been adopted by the Manticores, but they were all out on the training fields this morning with everyone else; they’d hardly have had the opportunity to kidnap him.

Aleksander’s scent leads Aiden to the last door on the hallway, the one to the big suite that was meant for the Head of the School and ended up staying empty when Merten decided he preferred to share Leocadie’s room, which is nearer the privies. Aiden frowns at the door in confusion for a moment before he knocks.

One of the Mantikittens opens the door - the fierce one who was so pleased to learn Igni from Eskel. She glares up at him suspiciously, free hand on the hilt of the knife at her belt. Aiden offers open hands and a closed-mouth smile. “Hey there. I’m looking for Aleksander?”

The girl glowers at him for a moment, then calls over her shoulder, “Aren?”

Someone - presumably Aren - whistles an affirmative. The girl steps back, giving Aiden a warning glare. “I guess you can come in.”

“Thank you,” Aiden says, suppressing the urge to ruffle her short-cropped brown hair - she’d probably bite him - and steps into the room to find an absolutely adorable tableau.

Aren of the Manticores, still looking gaunt and with far more scars than even a Witcher ought to have, but with a much healthier cast to his dark skin and far less pain in his scent, is sitting in a well-padded wooden chair near the hearth. On the floor in front of him, Aleksander is sitting crosslegged in front of a low table, with the other three Mantikittens crowded around him, all of them watching eagerly as he draws something on a bit of parchment.

“Oh!” the smallest girl says, eyes wide. “It is a nuthatch!”

Aiden pads over and peers down at the parchment, eyebrows rising in astonishment. Aleksander has only a quill and black ink to work with, no colors or charcoal, but he has sketched an utterly unmistakable little nuthatch clinging to a tree, with a berry in its beak and a jaunty set to its tail. It looks like it ought to hop right off the page.

Aleksander sets the quill back in the inkpot and looks up at Aiden with a slightly rueful smile. “I am sorry to have missed dinner, but -”

“But you’d been kidnapped by ferocious Mantikittens,” Aiden fills in for him, and the three girls crowded around Aleksander giggle; Aren lets out a hoarse chuckle. “Did they at least feed you?”

Because Aleksander looks dreadful. The dark circles under his eyes are worse than they were yesterday, and there’s something bitter and unpleasant in his scent, beneath the sweet happiness.

“Oh yes, they shared their meal with me,” Aleksander assures him.

“Well, that’s alright then,” Aiden says. “Do you mind if I stick around and watch you draw?” He directs the question to Aren and the Mantikittens, too; this is their territory now, and Aiden is a stranger to them.

“I would like that, if my cousins agree,” Aleksander says, which makes Aiden want to purr. Aleksander wants him around! Which might not matter if the Mantikittens don’t, but - still. It’s a warm joy deep in Aiden’s chest.

All four Mantikittens give him wary glares as the fiercest one settles beside her sisters. At last the oldest one, a far-too-gaunt dark-haired girl, says reluctantly, “He can stay, ‘less Aren wants him gone.”

“Stay,” Aren rasps, and gods but that sounds painful. Aiden can’t imagine why someone hasn’t poured a healing potion down his throat yet, unless perhaps he’s too wary of Triss to let her near - which would be fair, given what he’s been through. The girls all nod.

Aleksander smiles at them. “Thank you,” he says. “Aiden has been very kind to me, and is a great comfort in the newness of Kaer Morhen.” Aiden swallows hard, heart clenching in his chest with joy: he’s helping! He’s bringing Aleksander comfort! “Aiden, these are my newest little cousins, Maja and Zia and Elena and Ada of the Manticores. Cousins, this is Aiden of the Cats.” He sounds slightly bewildered to be giving the introductions, which is fair; it must be rather odd to go from having only one brother to having an entire School of cousins.

“Hullo, Mantikittens,” Aiden says, sitting down beside Aleksander and pressing his shoulder against the other man’s. He’s careful not to move too quickly, and to keep his attention obviously on Aleksander and not the girls. They’ve got a lot of reasons to be wary of strange men.

The littlest girl, Ada, giggles. “Mantikittens,” she repeats delightedly. Aren chuckles again, and whistles an affirmative note.

“Have you a favorite bird, Aiden?” Aleksander asks. “I’ve drawn one for each of the girls.” He hands the nuthatch to Ada, who takes the parchment very carefully, eyes wide.

“What did you pick?” Aiden asks the other girls, and is shown three more scraps of parchment, depicting a chaffinch on a thorn, a heron among reeds, and a kestrel perched on a fragment of stone wall.

“Those are gorgeous,” Aiden says, carefully not touching any of them, lest the girls think he’s trying to take them. “How about a pheasant for me, Aleksander?” He likes pheasants - though, admittedly, more to eat than to look at.

“Oh, yes, those are delightful!” Aleksander agrees, and starts sketching, all four girls bending in close to watch his quill. Aiden firmly suppresses the urge to bat at it as it moves. The bird takes shape almost like magic, going from a few scattered lines to an unmistakable pheasant, puffed out and cheerful, so swiftly that Aiden can’t pinpoint the moment it truly takes form.

“sh*t, you’re good at that,” the fiercest Mantikitten - Zia, Aiden thinks - says. “Never seen nothin’ like it before.”

“I have been practicing since I was very young,” Aleksander says. “When I started, I was quite terrible at it. And I still haven’t mastered anything but birds.” He makes one last little line, and sets the quill back in the inkwell. “There we go, one pheasant.”

“It looks like I ought to be able to pounce on it and bring it home for supper,” Aiden says, to a chorus of giggles from the Mantikittens.

“I can do better with paints,” Aleksander says with a little shrug. “Aren? Is there a bird you would like me to draw?”

Aren makes a soft, thoughtful noise. “Eagle,” he rasps after a moment. “Flying.”

“I can do that,” Aleksander agrees, and takes a fresh scrap of parchment to sketch out a broad-winged eagle soaring, so beautifully rendered that Aiden almost thinks he can feel the wind lifting the bird’s wings. Aleksander hands it up to Aren when it’s done, and Aren whistles approval, eyebrows rising in astonishment.

“Please tell me someone’s offered you Swallow,” Aiden says. “We can’t all have been too f*cking stupid to think of it.”

“Too weak,” Aren rasps.

“Master Merten said it’d take at least a week of food an’ rest before Aren’ll be strong enough for potions,” the eldest Mantikitten, Maja, explains. She has a broad Redanian peasant accent, in stark contrast to fierce little Zia’s street-taught sharper tones.

“The food here is amazing,” tiny Ada adds.

“Mistress Marlene and the undercooks do a wonderful job,” Aiden agrees. “We all know how lucky we are to have them.”

“Not spicy,” Aren sighs.

Aiden laughs. “No, that’s true. It’s just your School and a few of us Cats who like spicy food - you’ve never seen anything quite as sad as a Griffin trying to be polite about a properly hot stew. I know there’s some good hot pepper in the Manticore cellar, though; I can get you some if you like.”

“There is a cellar specifically for the Manticores?” redheaded Elena asks, in an accent that actually sounds a lot like a Redanian noble’s. “Is there one for each School?”

“No, just yours,” Aiden says. “Because your Schoolmates are the only ones daft enough to lace White Gull with arsenic and belladonna, and the rest of us don’t usually want to drink that, and we definitely don’t want any humans drinking it by accident, so it’s kept in a separate cellar.”

“Wi’ belladonna?” Maja blurts. “Why?”

“Because they like the taste,” Aiden shrugs. “White Gull is technically a poison anyway, or at least a lot stronger than any alcohol humans ought to drink. We can bear it - Witchers, I mean. But we don’t let the humans try it.”

“I have been very firmly cautioned against ever trying Witcher-strength alcohol,” Aleksander confirms. “And given how it smells, I shan’t ever want to!”

“I want some,” Zia says, odd mottled eyes alight with interest.

“Too young,” Aren rasps firmly. Zia scowls.

“We don’t let any of the trainees have White Gull until they’re eighteen,” Aiden says, backing Aren up. “It’s not good for growing lads, so I can’t imagine it would be good for growing lasses, either. Even the other young Manticores won’t get any White Gull until they’re nearly old enough for their final Trials.”

Zia’s scowl fades. “Fine,” she grumbles. “I guess if the boys don’ get to either, it’s fair.”

Maja wrinkles her nose. “I don’ want any. That don’ sound tasty.”

“It’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Aiden agrees. “But you’ve at least a few years before it becomes relevant anyhow.”

“Prolly three or so, for me,” Maja says. “Though we’re none of us sure how long we were in them cages, so we don’ know how old we are.”

Aiden shrugs. “A lot of Witchers don’t know our birthdates. We’re mostly orphans or surprise children. After the first couple of decades on the Path it stops mattering very much; a lot of us just count midwinters or midsummers to estimate how old we are.”

“Do you know yours?” Aleksander asks, smelling rather sad.

“Nah,” Aiden says. “I count midsummers. I was four when Cedric and Axel brought me to Stygga, so I’ve no idea what my birthdate is; midsummer is close enough.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says. “Ah - how old are you?”

“Early eighties, somewhere in there.” Aiden shrugs. “About Lambert’s age. He keeps count, but he was nine when he got taken by the Wolves, so he actually knows his birthdate.”

“Aren looks older than you do,” Elena observes.

Aren gives a harsh little chuckle. “Younger, by half,” he says.

“sh*t, you’re still a kitten yourself!” Aiden says, eyes wide. A Witcher in his forties is still accounted very young. The Griffins don’t even let anyone take a squire until they’re in their sixties at least, and here’s Aren with four kittens! And then, doing some quick mental arithmetic, since Aren was caught before the whole Warlord thing started - “Holy f*ck, how long were you even on the Path?”

“First year,” Aren says sadly.

Aiden uses several words he only knows because of Lambert. “We should’ve killed that f*cking mage slower,” he finishes, and Zia lights up, pointing at him in triumph.

“That’s what I said!”

Aren sighs, sounding very weary and a little amused. “Witchers don’t torture,” he rasps, and Maja and Elena and Ada say it with him in perfect unison.

Aiden grimaces ruefully. “Witchers don’t torture,” he agrees. “We might wish to, sometimes, but we don’t. Not under the Wolf. Even monsters die clean. That’s the Wolflaw. And I’ll grant it’s the smart choice, too, much as I might like to string some human monsters up and kill them slow. Or at least to fantasize about it.”

Zia crosses her arms and scowls. Aleksander swallows, smelling rather nervous but looking determined..

“Little cousin,” he says softly. “If Witchers did allow torture - if they were that vicious - I might not have had the courage to tell the White Wolf of your plight. I might have been as afraid of the Witchers as of the monsters who hurt you. I would like to think I would have been brave enough to do the right thing regardless, but I cannot deny that part of what gave me strength was knowing that even if the Warlord chose to execute me, it would be swift.”

Aiden winces. Oh, his poor Wolf-hearted pup, so brave and yet so unsure of his own courage. And yeah, that’s a damn good reason for Witchers to have a reputation for killing clean, right there.

“Oh,” Zia says, and frowns, clearly thinking hard about that. Everyone else stays silent, letting her work through it. At last she says, “Huh. I think I’ve got it. Most assholes wi’ power, they gotta threaten all sorts of nasty sh*t so people’re scared enough to do as they’re told an’ not step out of line. But Witchers’re f*ckin’ scary enough anyhow, so they’ve - we’ve - gotta be good enough that people don’t do stupid sh*t outta fear.”

“Yes,” Aleksander says solemnly. “You have the right of it, I think.”

“Huh,” Zia says again. “I gotta think about that.”

“Meditate,” Aren rasps firmly.

“We should all meditate,” Maja says.

“Then we will take our leave,” Aleksander says. Aiden rises and offers him a hand up. Aleksander takes it, and even lets Aiden drape an arm over his shoulders once they’re both standing. “I will come back tomorrow, if you like, little cousins?”

“Yeah,” Zia says, and Aren nods.

“We could meet in that garden,” Elena says, a little wistfully. “It’s very pretty.”

“I should be most pleased to meet you there after dinner tomorrow,” Aleksander says, with a polite little bow of his head, and they take their leave.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Aleksander has no idea where he ought to go, once the door to the Mantikittens’ suite has closed behind him. (Mantikittens - trust Aiden to come up with a term like that!)

He should probably go and bathe, actually. He hasn’t done so yet today.

“Pup,” Aiden says softly, squeezing Aleksander’s shoulders gently. “You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep at all.”

“I…” Aleksander swallows. “I did not sleep well, no.”

“And you don’t want to talk about it,” Aiden says, and sighs. “I won’t pry, pup. But if you keep having trouble sleeping, you should ask Triss for a draught of some sort.”

Aleksander flinches, curling his fingers into a fist without really meaning to. Go to a mage? No - no, he understands completely why Aren and the girls are so very reluctant to let any mages near them. He wasn’t treated even a fraction as cruelly as they were, and he still doesn’t think he’ll be able to face any magic with equanimity for…well, for a very long time.

“Ah,” Aiden breathes, and Aleksander looks up to see that the Cat is observing him with an oddly sympathetic expression. “Ah, pup. We’ve all been there.”

“What?” Aleksander says in confusion.

“Mages,” Aiden says. “We none of us trusted any of them until Triss and Yennefer, and even then it took us a while.”

“You didn’t?” Aleksander asks. “But - ah - is it permitted to ask why?”

Aiden snorts. “Because mages made us, pup. Strapped us down to tables just like the one they had Aren on, and pumped poison through our veins, and we screamed our way to death or being monsters.”

Aleksander flinches at the stark words, but - “You aren’t monsters,” he whispers. “I - I am named for a monster; I have his blood in my veins. You are not one.”

Aiden blinks at him and then sort of…curls around him, resting his forehead against Aleksander’s and wrapping his arms around him, heavy and warm. “Oh, wolf-hearted pup,” he murmurs. “Wolf-hearted and sweet as honey. Who cares about your blood? Witchers judge you by your deeds.”

Aleksander doesn’t quite know how to react to that, but Aiden’s embrace is very comforting. Very tentatively, he rests his own hands on Aiden’s waist, feeling the more-than-human heat of him even through Aiden’s thick tunic.

“Right,” Aiden says after a long moment, and straightens. Aleksander lets go of him at once, but Aiden keeps one arm draped around his shoulders. “So. Where to, pup?”

Aleksander takes a deep breath. “I should probably go and bathe, so as not to be…ah…offensive to my gracious hosts’ noses.”

Aiden snickers. “Springs’re probably pretty empty this time of afternoon, aye. Mind if I join you?”

Aleksander swallows. Aiden would probably be less…overwhelming…than a whole pool full of women. And Aleksander will need to get used to communal bathing at some point; he may as well start now, with only one companion, and that one who seems to be fond of him. “Certainly,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t shake and his scent doesn’t do anything unfortunate.

Aleksander manages to keep his composure all the way back to his rooms to collect fresh clothing and then all the way down to the hot springs, which are, thank the gods, entirely empty save for one very old Witcher dozing at the far end, in one of the pools too hot for humans. And then as Aiden strips without any hesitation whatsoever, Aleksander takes a look at the Cat’s broad shoulders, his lean bare back laced with silver scars, the muscle working as Aiden tosses his tunic aside, and realizes how utterly and humiliatingly weak he is in comparison. Weak, and soft, and -

Gods, what is he doing? How can he dare to look at a Witcher with desire? Aiden has been kind, but it is only kindness, only the sort of generosity of spirit which seems to be the hallmark of the Witchers. Only pity, for a weak little mortal man who fears his own damn shadow.

“Aleksander?” Aiden says, turning and frowning at him. “Are you alright?”

Aleksander flinches and looks away. “I - I’m fine.”

Aiden is silent for a moment, and Aleksander glances up to see the Witcher watching him with an unreadable expression. “You aren’t,” Aiden says gently. “But I won’t press. Should I leave you be?”

Aleksander refuses to be cowardly enough to insist on bathing alone again. He needs to be stronger than this. Milena and Livi have managed to adjust, and surely it was harder for them, with the modesty which is expected of good Redanian noblewomen. “No, indeed, I shall be glad of your company,” he says, and turns away to take off his own clothing.

He doesn’t want to see Aiden’s disgust at his soft stomach, his weak limbs.

He slips into the water without looking at Aiden, and only once he’s submerged does he dare to glance over to see the Witcher lounging back against the edge of the pool, muscular chest gleaming with water-droplets, hair damp and eyes bright, looking like some of Aleksander’s more pleasant dreams come to life.

To Aleksander’s blank surprise, he is looking back at Aleksander with…approval?

“Pretty sure the hot springs were what convinced at least a third of us to hear Geralt’s mad plan out,” Aiden says, grinning. “Worth coming up to the ass end of Kaedwen for.”

“They are nice,” Aleksander agrees. The warm water is incredibly relaxing, and with only one person sharing the pool, it isn’t too terribly overwhelming. “I can see how they would be a…a pleasant inducement.”

Aiden chuckles. “A pleasant inducement. I like that.” He sinks down a little lower into the water. “Quieter this time of day. Couple of hundred Witchers can get loud.”

Aleksander swallows. “I can only imagine.” A couple of hundred Witchers, all of them as strong and handsome as Aiden is - Aleksander will definitely need to avoid being in the baths when they are. He would probably die of humiliation.

“Pup,” Aiden says, “I don’t want to press, really, but you keep smelling really… worryingly distressed. I promise I mean you no harm.”

“Oh gods,” Aleksander blurts, “no, no, that was - I do not think you would! You have been the soul of kindness!”

Aiden relaxes. “Well, alright then.” He eyes Aleksander for a moment. “Do you need me to leave?”

Aleksander sighs and resigns himself to mortification. “No, please. It is only that - that I cannot quite keep from comparing our relative…physiques, and finding myself wanting.”

“Oh pup,” Aiden says, and Aleksander waits for Aiden to say something very kind that will nonetheless be utterly humiliating. But what Aiden says is, “If I wanted to be looking at a man like a mountain crag, I have plenty of options, you know. I quite like looking at you.”

Aleksander blinks at him, utterly at a loss for words. “You…do?”

“Very much,” Aiden says, and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Kitten said to go slow and easy, and I swear to you I shan’t press at all, nor do anything you do not desire, but Aleksander, pup, you are…you are mouthwateringly attractive.”

Aleksander sits there wondering if he has fallen and cracked his head on the slick stones, because there is no way that Aiden actually said that. Actually means that. But Witchers don’t lie, and Aiden doesn’t lie, and -

“Me?” Aleksander squeaks.

“You,” Aiden says. “I know it’s not the done thing in Redania, and I swear to you, on my swords and my medallion, I shan’t say anything more unless you want me to, but yes. You’re very, very attractive.” He smiles, crooked and sweet. “And though it may well be ruining my own chances - I am not the only Witcher who thinks so.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says, so utterly baffled that he cannot even manage to thank Aiden for the compliment.

“No one’ll do anything unless you’re interested,” Aiden adds. “And by ‘interested’ I mean you say something, not just…y’know. Smell lusty. Lust isn’t consent, and we’re all very clear on that.”

Aleksander turns that over in his mind a few times, marveling. “Wait. Is that - is that why Milena said she had to trip Lambert into bed?”

“Precisely,” Aiden says, sounding very approving. “I mean, I wasn’t there for it, but I know my Lambert: he wouldn’t have believed she really wanted him until she made it very clear.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s still worried she’s settling for him. As if she doesn’t love him to distraction. Daft Wolf. They put something in their mutagens to mess with their self-esteem, I swear.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says weakly.

“Although admittedly little Livi had to actually sit on Dragonfly and demand kisses,” Aiden says thoughtfully. “So maybe it’s just a Witcher thing.”

“That is very different from the way it works in Tretogor,” Aleksander says slowly. In Tretogor, seduction is just another weapon, and taking someone as a lover is often a matter of cold calculation rather than actual attraction. And that’s without even getting into the fact that most nobles take any servants to bed that they care to, without any care for the servants’ desires.

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees. “Kitten’s talked about Tretogor a bit. It sounds like a f*cking pit of vipers - the kind that aren’t nearly as pleasant as the School. She’s shown me her court mask a couple times, and I saw Marika’s while she was here, which is even better, and whoo damn that’d be f*cking awful, being surrounded by people who are just…lying and plotting and lying some more, all behind those horrid meaningless smiles. And Marika likes that sort of thing. Bleh. I don’t know how you and Kitten and Livi bore it, pup, I really don’t.”

Aleksander blinks. “I bore it because I must,” he says. “And…well…much of court conversation is…it’s scripts. Someone says something, and there is an appropriate response, or a…a choice of appropriate responses, and once you have learned the scripts, it takes very little thought. You learn what the appropriate topics of conversation are, and which ones to avoid - or only to speak of with certain people - and as long as you aren’t trying to be ambitious, you can get by.” He shrugs. “And I was a ducal heir, so I mostly didn’t need to attempt any social climbing.”

“That sounds simultaneously incredibly boring and incredibly stressful,” Aiden says, shaking his head a little. “Ick. I’d stab someone inside a week.”

Aleksander laughs rather despite himself. “It was occasionally tempting, despite my lack of such skills,” he admits.

Aiden grins at him. “Well, if you ever have to go back to visit, take me along, and I can stab anyone you think needs stabbing.”

Aleksander covers his mouth to muffle an undignified guffaw. “I thank you for the offer, good sir,” he says once he’s got himself under control, as formally as he can while naked in a hot spring.

Aiden wiggles his eyebrows and smirks. “Anytime, pup. Just point me in the right direction.”

After that, somehow, sharing a bath seems much less fraught, and Aleksander even manages to enjoy it instead of enduring it.

Which is progress, right?

*

Aiden goes down to the salle once he’s dropped Aleksander off at his rooms - the pup looks exhausted, but says he’s going to try to work on the curriculum for teaching the trainees courtly etiquette rather than napping like a sensible creature - and collapses onto a bench, watching Kitten and Lambert spar. They’re beautiful together; they always are. Kitten moves so beautifully, graceful as any cat, and Lambert matches her perfectly, step for step, shining with pride in his lady’s skill and courage.

Aiden very much wishes he had been here when she first showed up. He wants to know how Lambert managed to convince her that she was safe here, how he helped her find her feet. How she went from being a noble lady of Redania, courtly and composed and demure, to being a Witcher’s lover, fierce and graceful and utterly at ease among the rough manners of Kaer Morhen’s folk.

“Aiden,” Lambert says, as the bout swirls to a stop. “What’s eating you?”

“I think I might’ve f*cked up,” Aiden sighs.

Lambert and Kitten come over at once, settling on either side of him. “What happened?” Kitten asks worriedly.

“I told Aleksander I find him attractive,” Aiden admits.

“What, already?” Lambert says. “I thought you were waiting until Milena talked to him.”

“Which I have not had a chance to do yet,” Kitten says, frowning slightly. “How did he react?”

“Actually he took it very well,” Aiden admits. “Surprised, and a little disbelieving, but…pleased. Definitely pleased.”

Kitten relaxes. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“And he stayed in the springs afterwards,” Aiden adds.

“That is definitely a good sign,” Kitten says. “Because he did not find it…bearable to share his bath with us yesterday morning. I have rarely seen him so distressed.”

“Oh?” Aiden asks.

“Evidently a half-dozen nude women were a bit overwhelming,” Kitten says dryly. “Which is fair.”

“Sounds like a good time to me,” Lambert says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Kitten rolls her eyes.

“I won’t be telling Lady Yen you said that.”

“...Thanks,” Lambert says, a bit sheepishly. Aiden snickers at him.

“Why did you tell Sasha you find him attractive?” Kitten asks.

Aiden sighs. “Because - well, I wasn’t going to say anything until you gave me the go ahead, I swear, but he said he wouldn’t mind bathing with me and then we were getting undressed and he was tying himself in awful knots worrying that I’d think he was…I don’t even know. Weak, maybe, or - well. Not a Witcher.”

“Oh, poor Sasha,” Kitten sighs.

“The f*ck’s he need to be a Witcher for?” Lambert asks. “We’ve got plenty of those.”

Aiden shrugs. “No clue,” he admits. “But he was - f*ck, he was so embarrassed. It was awful.” He shakes his head. “At least he got over that, a bit. And he didn’t seem too horrified by me saying he’s attractive.” He runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers briefly in the curls and teasing out a knot or two. “What do they teach about men preferring men, in the Redanian court?”

“That it’s horrifically unmanly and humiliating, especially for the partner being penetrated,” Kitten says promptly. “Since allowing such a thing makes one…womanly, I suppose. Feminine. Weak.”

Aiden raises an eyebrow at her. “Alright, that’s f*cking hilarious.”

Kitten blinks at him. “Why so?”

“First, because apparently none of them have ever met a woman. And second, because I would take great pleasure in giving some of the idiots complete conniptions.” He leans back against the wall and smirks. “How d’you think they’d cope with a Witcher who liked being f*cked?”

Kitten’s eyes go enormous. “Badly,” she says after a moment. “Very, very badly.”

“Good to know. I’ll save that for the next time I want to provoke some idiot into insulting me so I can stab him, then.”

Kitten sighs and puts a hand over her eyes. “Cats.”

“Made of pure chaos, every f*ckin’ one of ‘em,” Lambert agrees.

“And you’ve got one as your best friend and an adoptive one as your lover,” Aiden teases. “What does that make you?”

“The luckiest f*ckin’ asshole in Kaer Morhen,” Lambert says promptly. Kitten coos and leans over Aiden to kiss his cheek. Aiden grins.

“Sap,” he says fondly, nudging his shoulder against Lambert’s. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Not usually,” Kitten murmurs, so softly Aiden almost doesn’t catch it, and then blushes crimson when Aiden gives her a startled look. She also looks delightfully smug despite the blush.

“You are a terrible influence on our Kitten,” Aiden informs Lambert.

“He is not!” Kitten says at once, whacking Aiden’s shoulder gently. “You take that back, you cad.” She’s grinning, though, and her scent is all mischief and joy.

“Or what?” Aiden asks, smirking at her. “Going to duel me for your lover’s honor?”

“Maybe I should,” Milena says thoughtfully. Lambert is making little garbled noises and smelling delighted and very, very in love. “It’s been a while since we’ve sparred.”

Aiden laughs and stands, offering her a hand up. “Well, far be it from me to deny the lady a dance!”

Kitten grins up at him and produces a dagger. Aiden squints at it. “I know for a fact you weren’t wearing that a second ago.”

“Wasn’t I?” Milena asks, the very picture of innocence. Lambert’s garbled noises turn into snickering, and Aiden shoots him a dirty look. The bastard is far too smug about this.

“I will figure that out sooner or later,” Aiden says, and draws one of his own knives, beckoning Kitten into motion.

Sparring with Kitten is a lot slower than fighting Lambert, but it’s pleasant in its own way; she learns fast and she’s gloriously graceful, and also it’s far too much fun to draw her into elegant, deadly moves that show off her skill and make Lambert’s scent go positively thick with lust.

Aiden calls an end to the match when Kitten is starting to look a little tired, and snickers to himself when Lambert only just barely waits long enough for her to make her knife vanish before swooping her up in his arms and kissing her. Kitten giggles and loops her arms around his neck and kisses back happily, clearly unconcerned by the fact that her feet aren’t even touching the ground.

She turns to Aiden when Lambert puts her down, and says, “I will talk to Sasha after supper tonight. Clearly putting off difficult conversations just means they happen at inconvenient times!”

Aiden nods. “Alright,” he agrees. “Thanks, Kitten.”

Kitten grins and goes up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You are very welcome, my friend.”

*

Aleksander isn’t expecting both Aiden and Milena to come over to the Manticore table to collect him after supper is over, but he’s not going to object to either - Aiden because the Cat’s presence is really quite unreasonably comforting, and Milena because it is always a pleasure to spend time with her. Aiden walks them up to Aleksander’s room and leaves with a cheerful wink, and Milena says softly, “May I come in? There are several things I think we ought to discuss. None of them bad!” she adds hastily. “Just…important.”

“Of course,” Aleksander says, bowing her in. “You are always welcome in my rooms.”

“Thank you,” Milena says, smiling warmly at him. “And you in mine, should you wish to visit them.” Her smile gains some distinctly mischievous notes. “There’s often a Cat in them.”

Aleksander can feel his ears going hot. Milena pats his arm gently and settles into one of the chairs by his hearth, spreading her skirts out gracefully. Aleksander takes the other chair.

“That is actually one of the things I wished to address,” Milena says. “Aiden told me that he has already told you that he is interested in courting you. It is not scandalous here, for two men to be lovers - nor two women, though that is rarer, simply because there are fewer women.”

Aleksander nods, cheeks burning. This is a conversation which simply wouldn’t happen in Tretogor, and he’s not quite sure what he should say. Thankfully, Milena keeps talking without waiting for a response.

“What I wanted to say is that you are very much allowed to not be interested, or not be interested yet. I adore Aiden like a brother, but that doesn’t mean he gets to pressure you into anything you’re not ready for, or don’t want at all. You don’t have to accept his courting. It won’t offend anyone if you don’t, and it won’t affect your welcome here.”

Aleksander swallows and tries to figure out what to say. Admitting to returning Aiden’s interest would be…utterly scandalous in Tretogor. Worse than scandalous. Admitting to that sort of perversion would get him disowned.

But he’s already very nearly disowned, and here in Kaer Morhen it isn’t scandalous at all, and -

“I don’t know,” he says plaintively. “Truly, I don’t. I -” he hesitates, then remembers his determination to be less cowardly and plunges ahead. “I do find Aiden very handsome, and I like his company, but I don’t - I can’t - not yet.”

And that yet would be enough to make him the disgrace of Tretogor’s court, but Milena only nods, gently, and smiles, and says, “Then I will tell him so. He will not press.”

Aleksander feels some of the tension drain from his shoulders. “Thank you. I - would you tell him, please, that I - that I do enjoy his company, and even his…his tactile nature, but I am…adjusting, still, to the customs of this new court.”

“I’ll tell him,” Milena says, nodding again. “I am sure he will not mind at all.” She tilts her head. “I had never guessed you might favor men; I must commend your court facade.”

Aleksander shrugs awkwardly. “I…favor both, I think. But it was much safer, in Tretogor, to admire women only. To not even contemplate any other options.”

“Ah.” Milena nods. “Very understandable.” She gives him a very reassuring smile. “I will tell Aiden to let you find your feet, and not attempt to court you unless and until you let it be known you are amenable.” She nods, as though crossing something off of a mental list, and continues, “The second matter I wished to bring up is the lessons in etiquette you have agreed to teach. I do not expect you to have a syllabus yet! But I did wish to say that Livi and I and Jaskier would all be delighted to assist as we may, and Lambert of course has volunteered to be your first student. I do not say teaching him will be easy, but he is very clever and he learns fast.” She grins. “Possibly faster if you emphasize how much of courtly etiquette is truly about insulting people very politely.”

Aleksander is startled into a laugh. “Is that how I ought to present it to all my students?”

“Quite possibly!” Milena says, giggling brightly. “Jaskier told me it was how he first got Ciri interested in learning courtly manners, as it happens.”

Aleksander laughs. “Well, that is quite encouraging.” He’s rather relieved, actually, to be given an angle at which to begin. He has been scribbling down ideas for a syllabus, but knowing as little as he does of Witchers, figuring out how to begin teaching them courtesy has been a baffling conundrum. Approaching courtesy as the many ways one can be rude, however - and how not to be, if one chooses - well, he can work with that. He can already think of several ways to present the necessary lessons which emphasize the potential for being very politely rude.

“Lovely,” Milena says. “And please, please ask us for help if you need it; you do not have to do everything alone.”

“I will try,” Aleksander says. Perhaps once he has a draft of a syllabus, he will ask Milena and Livi to look it over and see what he is missing, before he attempts to teach Lambert anything at all. That would only be asking for advice, after all, not admitting to any sort of disgraceful weakness.

“Very good,” Milena says. “One last thing, and then I shall leave you to get some rest.” She draws a small flat box from her pocket - a very familiar box. The twin to one that Aleksander left with Mikolaj.

“This is my half of the set I gave you,” Milena says. “Your brother wrote you a letter, and I thought it would be better if you had the matching box, rather than all your correspondence going through me.” She sets the box and a folded parchment down on the table beside her chair. “I haven’t read it.”

Aleksander stares at her. “Is there not - will Lord Eskel not wish my correspondence read, lest I reveal the court’s secrets?”

“Sasha,” Milena says, very gently, “you gave up everything you had to save Aren and his pride. We trust you. If you are worried about it, you can ask me or Livi to ensure you haven’t given away anything you oughtn’t, but…aside from the fact that Jaskier has both the Wolf and his Right Hand as lovers, there aren’t any secrets that you know that oughtn’t be spread about, I don’t think.”

Which implies that there are other secrets, but Aleksander expected as much. Every court has them. Somehow, he doesn’t think Kaer Morhen’s will be anything like as terrible as his grandfather’s.

“I am honored by the court’s trust,” he says carefully. “And I will do my best not to reveal anything…untoward.”

“I know you will,” Milena says, and stands. “Marika sends her regards, by the way, and says she is impressed by your courage.”

Aleksander feels himself color. “My compliments to Her Majesty, and my thanks for her kind words.” He remembers Marika as being a very composed woman, but kind, insofar as court allowed kindness, and by what little gossip he has heard, she is doing very well for herself as queen of Temeria.

“I’ll pass them along. Do say hello to Mikolaj for me, if you don’t mind.”

“I will,” Aleksander says, and rises to bow her out of the room, then turns and looks at the innocuous little folded parchment in rising apprehension.

What has his brother chosen to say to him? What does Mikolaj think of him - the man who caused Redania to be conquered at last?

He is trying not to be a coward.

Aleksander swallows hard and steps forward to pick up the letter.

*

There are two pieces of parchment, one wrapped around the other. The first has Mikolaj’s tidy handwriting on the outside:

Lady Milena, of your courtesy, will you give the enclosed letter to my brother Aleksander? I would be immensely grateful. -Mikolaj of Velen

Aleksander sets that aside, and unfolds the second parchment. Above the first fold, where someone flipping it casually open would see, is the date and then, in Mikolaj’s most formal hand,

To Lord Aleksander of Velen, from his brother Mikolaj, Duke of Velen, greetings -

And then, beneath the fold,

Sasha, this is the first time in two days I have had an hour of peace to write to you; please forgive me for not doing so sooner! The court is an almighty mess, as I’m sure you can imagine. King Dawid has made me one of his council, in the theory that I am now a duke and had nothing to do with Grandfather’s vicious folly, and we have spent nearly every waking moment trying to unravel the mess of Vizimir’s records. Queen Lady Adelina has been an immense help in that regard; she knows where all the important paperwork is. It’s going to be months before we get all the taxes straightened out - evidently Vizimir would forgive the taxes for anyone who was currently in his good graces, and then levy them again when they fell out of favor, among many other nasty little habits. Thank the gods His Majesty doesn’t want me to do any of the bookkeeping for that mess!

I have gotten three marriage proposals already, and I think you have severely downplayed the extent to which this court is an absolute pit of vipers, even after the worst ones have been so permanently removed! When I was younger I used to be jealous that you got to spend time in the capital, but I regret every scrap of envy I have ever felt in that regard. The court in Rinde is far less vicious. I am almost glad to be leaving Tretogor, save, of course, that I am leaving it for Velen.

I do not know what I will find there. Patryk’s account of the duchy’s people, and how Grandfather misused them, has filled me with anticipatory horror. And, of course, I will need to find a new ducal seat, as Grandfather’s manor is by all accounts a pile of ashes. And good riddance, too, given what horrors it concealed!

I must thank you for leaving Patryk with me. He has already proven invaluable - his knowledge of the court is priceless.

He and I and Mother are all very worried about you. Please write back as soon as you may, and reassure us that you are not being mistreated in Kaer Morhen. His Majesty has assured me that Lady Milena says the rumors of Witchers’ cruelty and rapacious appetites are only rumors, and you will be made welcome and treated kindly, but I cannot help but worry.

Though I’ll admit that the Witchers who have remained here to help King Dawid sort everything out have been very polite. There will be a pair of them accompanying me back to Velen - Marius and Wilek are their names. I appreciate the help but must admit they’re rather intimidating.

I would send you the gossip from Rinde, but it is all very much out of date by now, and quite eclipsed by the Warlord’s arrival.

Please write soon.

-Miki

A hasty postscript - I keep asking myself what in the gods’ name Father would have done in either of our shoes, and I can’t for the life of me imagine the answer. But I think perhaps it’s a blessing from the gods that you, not he, ended up our grandfather’s heir.

Aleksander sits down gracelessly in the nearest chair, biting his lip hard to keep from weeping.

Mikolaj doesn’t hate him.

A weight he didn’t even know he was carrying lifts from his shoulders.

He and Mikolaj have been allies as well as brothers for so long, even after Aleksander went to Tretogor and left Mikolaj behind in Rinde. They wrote to each other every week, sending gifts and gossip and reassurances back and forth; Mikolaj liked to joke that there was probably a dedicated courier between Tretogor and Rinde who did nothing but carry their mail. Aleksander used to spend as much time in Rinde as he could, stealing entire weeks in the spring and fall when the court in Tretogor was nearly empty and the king was at one of his other homes, and those weeks were always the best times of the year - the times Aleksander could just be himself, without the constant fretting over courtly manners and politics, and revel in his brother’s company and his mother’s gentle care. Mikolaj is bright and kind and good with people, as Aleksander himself is not, and reading his letters, knowing that Mikolaj was safe and happy in Rinde, was a balm to Aleksander’s soul during his years in the cesspit of Vizimir’s court.

If freeing Aren and the Mantikittens had cost him Mikolaj…well, Aleksander hopes he would not regret doing so, even at that price, but it would have broken him.

But Mikolaj has not even reproved him.

Thank the gods.

He finds a quill and ink and parchment as quickly as he can.

Miki,

I am well, I swear it on our father’s grave. The Witchers have been the very soul of kindness. Lady Milena’s lover Lambert and his friend Aiden have taken me under their wings, and the Head of the School of the Manticore has declared me kinsman to the entire School for my services thereto. (The captive Witcher was a Manticore.) I have been given a very comfortable set of rooms and such clothing as is necessary to endure the chill of the mountains. No one has offered me even the slightest discourtesy, by Witcher standards.

Please reassure Mother on all of these points, as I am sure she is fretting. Tell her I am settling in as well as may be anticipated, given the upheaval.

I will freely admit that Kaer Morhen is very strange, but that is only to be expected.

Thus far I have learned that Witchers do not lie, nor do they appreciate being lied to; that they can smell both lies and emotions; that their habitual drink is an alcohol so strong even the smell might render a human drunk; and that they are very open about taking lovers, and it is no shame to anyone to do so. Lady Milena and Lady Oliwia both have Witcher lovers, and no one so much as bats an eye at even very public expressions of affection between them.

He’s not going to mention the communal bathing, nor the brawls - not that he has seen one of those yet. He won’t bring up the fact that Livi’s lover is female. And he’s certainly not going to mention Consort Jaskier’s unusual relationship with the Warlord and his Right Hand.

I have been asked to instruct the young Witchers on courtly manners, he writes instead. They do not think of themselves as lords or knights, and mislike being given the honors due to them as the Warlord’s chosen warriors. Be honest with Marius and Wilek, and call them ‘Master Witcher’ if you cannot use their names; they will find that more to their taste than ‘sir’ or ‘my lord’.

Heed Patryk’s advice about Velen. It is…terrible. Worse than we imagined. The people are one and all terrified, and I cannot blame them, not after finding that abattoir in the basem*nt and hearing the testimony of the four survivors of our grandfather’s terrible experiments, and the Witcher he held captive for so long.

I know you are a good man, Miki, and far better with people than I have ever been. I am sure you will be able to charm the people of Velen. I do not think you truly need this warning, but I would be remiss if I did not give it: do not, under any circ*mstances, flirt with any woman of the duchy. They wear their scars in the hopes of warding off our grandfather’s hungry gaze; I fear that any sign of attention from any lord would only cause them further agonies of terror.

Perhaps you might ask Mother to join you in the duchy; her kindness - and indeed even her simple presence - may well reassure the common folk as nothing else could.

Beyond that, I have no advice for you on the governance of Velen. I was scarcely there long enough to learn aught but that our grandfather was more of a monster than we had dreamed. I do know the Witchers removed much of the paperwork from our grandfather’s study before burning the manor; I am sure you have been given that already, as I believe they left it all with King Dawid.

Lady Milena has given me the box which is mated to the one I left with you; you may write to me freely, and without worrying that your letters will be read by other eyes. Lady Milena also asks that I send you her greetings.

Let me know if there is ever aught I can do to aid you, in any way.

With all my love,

Sasha

(I also do not know what Father would have done about any of this, even were he not magically bound to silence as I was. I do not want to think he would have continued our grandfather’s experiments, but he was not Lady Milena’s friend, and may well not have been able to imagine any way to end the experiments without betraying Redania into the Warlord’s hands. Which, of course, I have done. I do not think I regret it.)

He folds the letter, writes Mikolaj’s name on the outside, and sets it aside before taking up another sheet of parchment.

Dear Patryk, he writes slowly.

I am glad to hear you and Mikolaj find each other amenable company, and he is heeding your wise advice in matters of court and duchy. I must thank you for my baggage, which was brought to me directly; having my own clothing is a great comfort in this strange place.

Please do not fear for me; I am being treated with great kindness by all the Witchers, and made most welcome by the Consort and the ladies of the court. I have been adopted as a cousin by the School of the Manticore, and taken under the protection of Milena’s lover Lambert and his bosom friend Aiden.

Truly it is as well that you remained in Redania, however, for here I am not expected to dress for dinner, or to spend hours in courtly conversation, or to dance attendance upon anyone, nor navigate others’ sycophancy. You would be wasted here, my friend.

I pray you serve my brother as faithfully and skilfully as you have served me, and write to me, if it pleases you, to assure me of your good health and apprise me of any news.

With greatest affection,

Aleksander

He folds them both, jotting a quick note to ask Mikolaj to give the second letter to Patryk, and tucks the whole thing into the box, which obligingly lets out a soft chime to let him know it has transferred to Mikolaj’s box. Aleksander isn’t sure how the mages of Kaer Morhen came up with these clever little boxes, but they’re quite marvelous.

They mean he’ll actually be able to stay in touch with Mikolaj.

Who hasn’t disowned him. Hasn’t turned his back entirely on the brother who got their kingdom conquered. Doesn’t hate him for the choice he made.

Thank the gods. Aleksander has lost so much - that he has not lost his brother seems like a gift from the heavens.

He puts Mikolaj’s letter away carefully on a shelf in his wardrobe, and gets ready for bed, feeling very drained indeed.

Kaer Morhen is so very different from Tretogor. Many of the differences are good, he cannot deny that, but he doesn’t know the scripts, doesn’t understand the patterns, doesn’t know where he fits. If he even fits anywhere at all.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Aiden hurries through his post-training bath, giving Lambert a grin and tousling his hair as he gets out of the pool, and heads up not to the dining hall but to the cellars, one floor above the hot springs. The Manticore cellar is very neatly laid out, and everything is labeled very clearly; he grabs a jar of the hot pepper sauce which has not had anything added to it and goes trotting up towards the residential halls.

He runs into Esra in the Manticore hall, which is a little odd, given that the Bear is most distinctly not a Manticore, nor does he have a Manticore lover as far as Aiden knows. Esra gives him a thoughtful look-over and frowns a little.

“Here to see the kittens?” he rumbles.

“I am, yes,” Aiden says. “Aren mentioned he missed the hot spices the Manticores use; I thought I’d bring up a jar. It’s the stuff without poison in it, since we don’t know what sort of tolerances the girls have.”

“Mm,” Esra says, frowning harder. “And what are they to you?”

Aiden squares his shoulders and raises his chin. “They are Aleksander’s cousins, by Merten’s word. And I am Aleksander’s - friend.” He can’t claim more than that, not now.

“Mm,” Esra says again, and then, to Aiden’s surprise, he looms. Usually Esra is a good-natured sort, and does not use his height and bulk so deliberately. “Those girls,” he says, soft rumbling voice full of banked menace, “have lost everything. Worse than we ever did. Do not act as their ally unless you mean it, and will hold to it whether or not Aleksander chooses to be your lover. And if you cannot promise that, give me that jar and go away.”

Aiden swallows hard. He didn’t expect to be called out quite so thoroughly - nor, for that matter, by a Bear. But - even if Aleksander never is more than a friend to him, Aiden’s not going to stop being delighted by the fierce little Mantikittens. They’re not his little sisters, but cousins he can easily call them, and they’ve been through hell. If he can help them recover from that, even a little, he’ll do it gladly.

“Whatever Aleksander chooses, I shall be an ally to the Mantikittens,” he pledges solemnly. “Their strength and courage humbles me. I am not fickle, son of the Bears. Who claims my loyalty shall hold it always.”

Slowly, Esra nods. “That’s true,” he says. “All know it. Those who you claim are yours for life. Very well.” He steps back and stops looming quite so dramatically.

“And what are they to you?” Aiden asks, because Esra is a Bear, not a Manticore, nor a half-besotted Cat.

Esra glances at the door to the little pride’s rooms. “Just now? Fierce little Mantikittens who need a friend.” He shrugs. “Someday, perhaps? My lover’s children.”

Aiden’s eyebrows go up. “Oho!”

Esra shrugs again. “‘Someday’, I said. It will be months or years before Aren is well enough to even make that choice. But today he calls me a friend, and that is a treasure in itself.”

Aiden nods. “Truth,” he agrees. “Well then. Let’s see if they’re awake.”

Esra chuckles and strides over to knock on the door; after a moment it’s pulled open just a crack, and then almost immediately wider. “Esra!” little Ada chirps.

“Hey, little one,” Esra says, reaching out to ruffle her hair. Ada giggles and leans into the touch. “Brought a friend.”

Aiden leans around Esra’s bulk, holding out the jar. “I just stopped by to bring Aren a treat,” he says cheerfully. “And to see how you’re doing.”

Aren whistles Come in, and Ada stands aside for both of them to enter. The other three Mantikittens are dispersed around the room: Zia looking out the window, Maja fussing over Aren in his chair, Elena with her nose buried in a book that Aiden recognizes as a bestiary.

“Brought you some hot sauce,” Aiden says cheerfully, sauntering across the room to put the jar down on the table next to Aren. “Careful with it, though - go easy til your throat’s healed, or I expect Triss’ll string me up on the battlements for giving it to you.”

Aren huffs a quiet laugh and reaches out to uncork the jar, dipping the tip of one finger in and licking it. His eyes close, and tears gather at their corners.

“Aren?” Maja asks worriedly. “Are you alright?” She gives Aiden a fierce, furious glare, shifting her weight like she’s considering shoving herself between him and Aren.

“Good,” Aren croaks, opening his eyes and smiling at her. “It’s…home.” Thank you, he adds in a whistle.

Ah. Yeah. Aren can’t have tasted proper Manticore hot sauce since…well, since he left for his first year on the Path, twenty years ago. The taste of a home so long lost to him would be enough to bring tears to anyone’s eyes.

“Oh,” Maja says, subsiding a little. She dips her own finger in the jar and licks it warily, then rears back, staring at the paste in dismay. “f*ckin’ hell!”

“It’s that bad?” Zia asks, and comes scampering over to try it. Moments later her odd particolored eyes are wide and watering. “sh*t! That’s like eatin’ fire! Why do you like this stuff?”

Aren is laughing soundlessly; the smell of his joy fills the room.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Esra chuckles. “I don’t have it.”

“Me either,” Aiden admits. “I can take a little of it, if there’s a lot of milk available, but not like the Manticores do.”

“Huh,” Zia says, and wipes her finger off on her tunic. Aiden frowns in thought.

“Has anyone shown you all the hot springs?” he asks.

“No,” Zia says, scowling at him in deep suspicion. “And we’re not getting naked around you, neither.”

Aiden holds his hands up in surrender. “I don’t expect you to,” he says. “But if I sent a - a friend, a female friend? She’s human, too, not a Witcher.” He hopes Kitten won’t mind being volunteered, but he suspects she’ll be charmed by the Mantikittens.

“What sort of friend?” Elena asks warily.

“Her name’s Milena,” Aiden says. “She’s the lover of my best friend, and the lady-in-waiting to the cub, Ciri. She’s the sweetest person I know.”

“A noble,” Zia scowls. “Nobles aren’t sweet.”

Elena nods unhappily. “Nobles are really not sweet. Except Sasha.”

“Milena is,” Aiden promises. “She’s Sasha’s friend, too.”

“He’s right,” Esra says, somewhat to Aiden’s surprise. “Sweet as honey.”

Esra’s words seem to carry a lot of weight. The Mantikittens glance at each other, communicating in tiny twitches of their eyebrows and lips.

Finally, Maja frowns. “We could…meet her,” she offers. “Just meet her.”

“I’ll ask her if she’d like to come and see you,” Aiden says, grinning. “Truly, I think you’ll like her. She’s very nice.”

“An’ I s’pose her lover is nice, too?” Zia snipes.

Aiden laughs. “No, he’s an asshole. He’s got the foulest mouth I ever did hear - worse than yours, darling Mantikitten - and a temper shorter’n Aren’s hair. But he’s a good man.”

“Why is Lady Milena his lover, if she is sweet and he is not?” Elena asks curiously.

Aiden grins. “She likes him because he’s a hot-tempered asshole who wears his heart on his sleeve. Because she never has to fear he’ll lie to her, you see. And because he taught her to use a dagger, so she can defend herself, even though he’d kill for her without a second thought.”

“Huh,” Zia says thoughtfully.

“Anyway,” Aiden says, “I really did just come up to bring you the hot sauce, Aren. I’ll talk to Kitten - Milena - and see if she’ll show you girls the hot springs. And I’ll come up with Aleksander, if I’m welcome, the next time he visits.”

Maja nods. “Alright,” she says. “Thank you.”

Aiden bows and makes his escape, grinning at Esra, who has sunk down to sit at Aren’s feet and is quietly and carefully pressing his thumbs into the tight muscles of Aren’s bad leg. Esra smiles back. He looks and smells utterly contented. It’s rather sweet, really, not that Aiden plans to say as much. If nothing else, he’s not going to do anything that might make Aren and the Mantikittens uncomfortable.

They’ve been through quite enough already.

*

Master Gustavus sneers. “This one will make a dreadful replacement for his grandfather, sire.”

“Under your bindings, he will do well enough,” King Vizimir replies, and Master Gustavus waves his hand, and Aleksander’s body is not his own. It moves without his will, bowing deeply to the king, and King Vizimir and Master Gustavus laugh.

The world blurs, and they’re in the dungeons of the Velen manor, not the antechamber in Tretogor. There is a girl strapped to the stone table - little Zia, fierce little Zia, particolored eyes flashing in rage - and Master Gustavus says lazily, “Well, go on then, your grandfather always enjoyed them.”

Aleksander’s body moves towards the table, but his mouth is his own, and he says, “No,” and, “No,” and “Let her go, let her go, this is wrong, I won’t, I can’t, stop -”

He stops moving. Master Gustavus sighs. “I told you so,” he says.

“Useless,” King Vizimir says.

“Not wholly,” Master Gustavus purrs, and then the world blurs again and Aleksander is on the stone slab, strapped down like Zia was, and Master Gustavus is standing over him grinning cruelly. “We’ve never seen what the Witcher’s blood will do to a grown man,” he says, and lowers a needle towards Aleksander’s arm -

Aleksander wakes with a yell, curling in on himself and shaking with terror. It takes him several minutes to stop panting for breath, and several more to convince himself to uncurl.

So much for sleeping through the night.

He gets up, because lying in bed not sleeping seems foolish, and finds his slippers on the first try this time. It feels like a much larger victory than it really ought. He pads out into the main room and sits down on the hearthrug to poke the fire up into a proper blaze; the light flickers and flares, the shadows of the chairs and couch making the shapes of giants and monsters on the walls.

Aleksander wants - he wants this all to not have happened. Wants his grandfather and King Vizimir to have not been monsters. Wants quite desperately for this not to have become his burden to bear.

Wants someone to hold him close, like his mother would when he was very young, and shield him from the terrors of the night.

Aiden probably would, if he asked.

Aleksander shies away from that thought like a startled horse. Aiden is…is very handsome, and very charming, and very kind, and apparently here it doesn’t matter that they’re both men, but it isn’t quite that easy to set aside two decades of knowing that any hint of impropriety could ruin him.

Well. That’s not entirely true. Some sorts of impropriety would probably have benefitted him a little. He never did go along with the other young nobles of court to the bathhouses or the brothels; his reputation has always been that he is exquisitely polite and very proper, and a little too stuffy for his youth, uninterested in the sorts of wilder amusem*nts his fellows preferred. He’s always felt that was better than any hint that he might share in his grandfather’s appetites. And in any case, gaining a reputation for desiring men would, indeed, have been catastrophic.

Whereas in Kaer Morhen, evidently, it’s approximately as gossip-worthy as, oh, having brown hair.

Well, he’s effectively distracted himself from worrying about the nightmare, anyway. Now he has something else to worry about.

And worrying really won’t help anything at all.

Aleksander sighs and goes to get his lap desk. If he’s going to be awake and miserable, he may as well go over the draft of his lesson plan for teaching Lambert courtly graces.

He works on that until he starts to hear the birds calling outside his window, though he’s not sure anything he writes actually makes sense, and then he wraps himself in the lovely fur coat Aiden gave him from the storeroom and takes his lap desk and ink and parchment down to the herb garden to draw the birds.

The little finches and sparrows are initially wary of him, but when he only sits still and watches them from the bench, they grow bold, and hop closer and closer in search of seeds and insects. One of them even perches on his boot to preen itself. Aleksander sketches it as quietly as he can, grinning when it fluffs up all its feathers to make itself look almost completely spherical and then shakes them all into place again.

He really should see about getting a birdfeeder somehow. Milena or Livi or Aiden might be able to tell him who to speak to.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been sitting there until someone says softly, “Here now, pup, are you going to skip dinner?”

Aleksander startles, scaring the birds into fluttering flight, and looks up to find Aiden lounging against the keep’s wall, grinning at him with what certainly looks like great fondness.

“Is it midday already?” Aleksander asks.

Aiden nods. “I’ve been watching you for the better part of a quarter-hour,” he admits. “May I see what you’ve been drawing?”

Aleksander can feel his face heating, but he holds out a sheet of parchment. Aiden comes slinking over - he really does move like his School’s namesake - and takes it with an almost reverent air.

“Oh, look at them,” he breathes. “The little one with its feathers all puffed! These are adorable, pup.”

Aleksander ducks his head. “They’re just sketches.”

“They’re very good sketches,” Aiden says, tracing the line of a feather with a single finger. “They look like they should be able to hop off the page.”

Aleksander takes a deep breath and hopes he’s not being an utter fool. “Would you like to keep that page?”

Aiden looks up, sunshine-yellow eyes as wide as saucers. “May I?” he breathes.

“Yes,” Aleksander says, blushing harder at the look of delight on Aiden’s handsome face.

Aiden beams. “Thank you,” he says, tucking the page into the breast of his tunic carefully. “Are you planning to skip dinner?”

“Oh! No,” Aleksander says hastily, and starts packing his drawing supplies back into the lap desk. “I really did just lose track of time.”

“Happens to all of us,” Aiden says cheerfully, and waits for Aleksander to rise, falling into step with him as they head back to the keep. “You look…tired, pup,” he adds gently.

Aleksander swallows. “I did not sleep well,” he admits.

“And you don’t want to talk about it,” Aiden guesses.

Aleksander nods.

“Alright,” Aiden sighs. “I won’t press. But this is three nights, pup - and I know humans need more sleep than Witchers do. Will you at least think about asking Triss for a sleeping draught?”

Aleksander shudders. Ask a mage for anything? “No,” he croaks, “no, I - I cannot -”

“Shh, shh.” Aiden drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders and squeezes gently. “Nevermind, forget I suggested it. I’m sorry. I won’t push. But if I can help, pup, please tell me, alright?”

Aleksander takes a deep breath and nods. Aiden smiles down at him.

“Wolf-hearted pup,” he says softly. Aleksander doesn’t know why. He doesn’t feel brave at all.

*

Aleksander spends dinner tucked against Aiden’s side, keeping his head down and hoping no one will ask him why he looks - and, presumably, smells - tired and unhappy. No one does, although Livi gives him a worried look and Cedric loads extra greens onto his plate and frowns at him in obvious concern.

Once the meal is over - and meals in Kaer Morhen are much quicker than meals in Tretogor ever were, mostly because everything is brought out at once instead of in courses, and no one has to wait on the king’s pleasure to begin - Aleksander takes a deep breath and gets up to make his way to the Wolf table, where Lambert and Lord Eskel are deep in conversation.

Lord Eskel glances up and gives him what Aleksander thinks is probably a friendly smile, though the scars which turn all his expressions into snarls make reading his moods much more complicated. “Aleksander. What can we do for you?”

Which is not how a king’s chief minister usually greets people, but that’s Kaer Morhen, Aleksander supposes.

He bows a little, and then realizes he probably shouldn’t have, and bites back the ridiculous urge to apologize for being polite. “Actually, sir -” surely sir is not too much, even if my lord would be offensive? - “I came to ask if Lambert would be available to assist me in designing the curriculum for the courtly graces lessons.”

“Oh!” Lambert says, and grins at him, sharp and a little wicked but not, Aleksander thinks, actually cruel. “Yeah, you get to try to teach me, so the brats will look easy by comparison.” He rises, clapping Eskel on the shoulder. “I’ve got time now, actually.”

Aleksander swallows. He wasn’t necessarily expecting that. But he’s…well, he’s as ready as he’s going to be for this, at least, and whatever he learns from working with Lambert can only improve his plans to teach the Witcher trainees.

And it’s something to do, instead of thinking about…everything.

Lambert looks him up and down, sniffs, and frowns. “You sure you want t’ teach right now, though? You smell done in.”

“It will make a very effective distraction,” Aleksander says, praying Lambert will accept that answer. Lambert raises an eyebrow at him, frowns, and finally shrugs and nods.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Ah - my rooms, perhaps?” Aleksander offers.

“Sure,” Lambert agrees, and gestures for Aleksander to lead the way.

After three days, Aleksander can in fact make it from the great hall to his rooms, mostly by counting the turnings. Which is…rather reassuring to discover, actually. He’s been following Aiden’s lead, mostly, and learning that he has been starting to make a mental map of the keep is unexpectedly pleasant.

Lambert flops down on the couch, flicking that strange hand-sign at the fireplace to poke the fire into a proper blaze, and gives Aleksander a crooked smile. “Alright then. So why should I learn to be f*ckin’ polite? I’ve gotten this far without bothering with fancy manners.”

The words are harsh, but the tone is strangely gentle. Almost like he’s…playing, like a wolf with its pup. Or giving Aleksander a chance to try out the arguments he will be using to convince the trainees to pay heed to him.

Aleksander sits down in a chair and takes a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts. “Milena has mentioned you are a talented alchemist,” he says. Lambert nods. “I am not. Were someone to set me in an alchemy workroom and bid me make some potion or medicinal brew, without any instructions or aid, how much damage could I cause?”

Lambert frowns thoughtfully and glances up at the ceiling, fingers twitching like he’s counting something in his mind. “Well, depending on what you grabbed, you could do anything from just making somethin’ useless, to filling the room with really f*ckin’ nasty poisonous gas, to blowing the whole place up and turning yourself into a little red smear. It’d be a spectacularly f*cking bad idea regardless.”

Aleksander winces and nods. “So I had imagined.” He takes another deep breath. “Walking into any human court without knowing courtly graces is just as dangerous, although less obviously so.”

Lambert’s eyebrows go up. “Alright, go on.”

“An alchemy mistake could kill the alchemist, and possibly anyone within range of the blast or the gas,” Aleksander continues carefully. “But if someone offends a lord, that could have repercussions which injure or kill many people. A terrible enough insult may even result in a war. Lords are not so immediately or obviously deadly as alchemical concoctions, but they have power over many people. When you and your companions were only wandering monster-hunters, that power was most frequently a danger only to you, if you angered them, and I am beginning to understand that Witchers are often quite careless of danger to themselves. But now that you are the hands and voices of the Warlord, what you say and do will have consequences for those who dwell within his lands.”

Lambert blinks. “Uh.” He raises a hand to ask for a moment to think. Aleksander folds his hands in his lap and tries to keep his breathing slow and calm. It’s his best argument, and if Lambert doesn’t think it’s a good one -

“Well, sh*t,” Lambert says at last, letting his hand fall. “That’s actually a pretty f*ckin’ good reason. Damn.” He grimaces. “Does that mean I’ve gotta start being polite as a f*ckin’ Griffin?”

“Well, no,” Aleksander admits. “As you have such high rank, being one of the Warlord’s own chosen brothers, you have a great deal of leeway - most people will be more worried about causing you offense than being offended. But it would be wise, I think, to be able to - to judge how rude you are being, and vary it depending on how much offense you wish to cause.”

“Huh,” Lambert says, starting to grin again. “Like a knife fight - sometimes you just wanna nick someone, sometimes you wanna make ‘em know you hit ‘em, and sometimes you just want ‘em f*cking dead.”

“Very like,” Aleksander agrees, immensely relieved that his arguments have been so effective.

“Alright,” Lambert says. “But - what the f*ck was that about me being high ranking?”

Aleksander shrugs. “I am learning that it is not how you think of things here, but out in the world, all Witchers are assumed to be lords, with the Wolves, as the Warlord’s chosen, being of particularly high rank; and as your name is known, and you are acknowledged to be one of the Warlord’s chosen lieutenants, the assumption is that you are of extremely high rank indeed.”

“How high?” Lambert asks, narrowing his eyes and giving Aleksander a wary look.

Aleksander swallows. “Milena is a duke’s daughter,” he says carefully. “You are assumed to be of…appropriate rank to match her.”

There’s a long silence, and then Lambert says, “f*ck.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and barks a laugh. “Well, could be worse. Apparently if Geralt hadn’t talked ‘em out of it, I coulda ended up f*cking Prince Consort.”

Aleksander blinks. “What?”

“Some of the idiots in Redania wanted to make Milena queen,” Lambert explains, waving a hand as if to brush the idea away. “Thank f*ck Geralt said no.”

Aleksander tries to imagine the court of Redania dealing with Lambert as Prince Consort, and his imagination fails him. “She’d be a good queen,” he says weakly.

“She says she’d be miserable,” Lambert replies, shrugging, and rubs the back of his neck, looking somehow small for a moment. “I’m glad. I’d try, for her. To be proper, I mean. But I’d be so f*ckin’ bad at it, and it would make her life harder, and I know it.”

Aleksander swallows. “Courtly graces are just…just another weapon,” he says quietly. “I think you can learn to master them as surely as you have your swords.”

Lambert gives him a long, thoughtful look, and then he smiles. “Damn, you’re as sweet as Milena said,” he says. “Alright then. Courtly graces as weapons. Let’s make me look f*ckin’ elegant.”

Aleksander smiles back, feeling oddly warmed by the compliment. “The first part,” he says, “is knowing who you are speaking with, and what their ranks are.”

“Like figuring out what sort of monster it is,” Lambert says, nodding. “Makes sense. So what’s the noble equivalent of fewmets, then?”

Aleksander smothers a laugh. “I think the proper metaphor might actually be plumage,” he says. “The first things you will wish to examine are the jewelry and the quality of their clothes…”

*

Aleksander comes down to supper feeling tentatively pleased with how the first lesson has gone. Lambert is very, very smart, and has a memory like a steel trap; now that he’s decided that he’s going to master courtly graces, Aleksander suspects he will be perfectly capable of handling himself at court within a few months at most.

Lambert claps him on the shoulder and heads up to the Wolf table, and Aleksander makes his own way to the Manticore table. Leocadie smiles at him as he sits down.

“Hey, little cousin,” they say cheerfully. “You smell pleased.”

“I have been teaching Lambert courtly graces,” Aleksander says. “He learns very quickly.”

“Lambert,” Master Merten says flatly. “Courtly.”

“Yes,” Aleksander says, suppressing a smile. “The theory, I believe, is that if I can teach him, I can teach anyone.”

“Hah!” Dilan barks. “Yeah, that makes sense!”

Bricriu grins. “If Lambert starts being polite, it’s going to confuse a whole lot of people.”

“I don’t think he is planning to change his usual manners,” Aleksander says. “Only to have the option of courtly manners, should the occasion demand it.”

Leocadie chuckles. “And what have you learned from this first foray into teaching, little cousin?”

Aleksander gives them a rueful smile. “That alchemy metaphors and appeals to a Witcher’s desire to protect people are both extremely effective.”

“Oh?” Leocadie asks, looking intrigued. “What alchemy metaphor proved so useful?”

Aleksander shrugs, flushing a little in embarrassment. “Only that engaging with lords without knowing how to avoid giving unintentional offense can be as dangerous as letting a complete novice loose in an alchemical laboratory.”

Leocadie hums. “I am definitely going to want you to expand on that, little cousin,” they say, and glance up as the servants start to bring the food into the hall. “But not just now.”

Aleksander nods, hoping he doesn’t smell as relieved as he feels. He thinks the first lesson went well, but he’s not quite comfortable rehashing it for the entire Manticore table to hear.

Thankfully, everyone is more interested in eating than in questioning him, and once their plates are full, Dilan grins and says, “So, what’s the funniest mistake anyone’s made in one of your classes, Leocadie?”

Leocadie snickers. “Oh, but there are so many to choose from,” they muse. “I could pick the time you turned yourself green, for instance.”

Dilan barks a laugh. “Oh, yeah, that was f*ckin’ hilarious.” To Aleksander he adds, “I was bright green - like grass, seriously - and it lasted most of a month. Wouldn’t come off no matter how hard I scrubbed.”

“Was it harmful?” Aleksander asks dubiously.

“Nah - or, well, not for a Witcher.”

“It would likely have had some unpleasant consequences for an unmutated human,” Leocadie agrees. “Nothing permanent or serious, but mild illness of some sort.”

“We called him Dill for months afterwards,” Bricriu puts in. “Like the herb, you know.”

“Yeah, up until I got good enough to thrash you for it,” Dilan says cheerfully. “But surely that’s not the funniest mishap you’ve ever seen.”

“It is not,” Leocadie says, grinning. “That honor goes to the immensely clever young lads who decided to distill the essence of catnip, in the hopes of adding the result to their White Gull. Which wasn’t actually a bad idea! Unfortunately, they did not pay heed to any of my lectures on proper ventilation, and so when I found them, they were all entirely dazed from the fumes, and could do little but sit and giggle until the effect wore off.”

Aleksander covers his mouth to hide a smile. “How long did it take?”

“Six hours,” Leocadie says. “They had done a very good job of filling the room with the fumes.”

“I remember that,” Master Merten chuckles. “A very useful object lesson in the importance of ventilation.”

“That it was,” Leocadie agrees. “And when they got it right, it made for a very nice new additive to our White Gull. I think we have a batch in the cellar right now, actually.”

“Mm, I should see about tapping that keg,” Dilan says. “Been a while since I had that variant.” He grins at Aleksander. “Don’t you try it, little cousin. No idea what it would do to you.”

“I shall not,” Aleksander promises solemnly. “If your usual drink is White Gull, then even the smell is quite enough to warn me away.”

Dilan laughs and takes a swig from his mug. “Yeah, that’s fair. It’s an acquired taste.”

“It’s something of a rite of passage for the trainees to sneak into the cellar and drink White Gull before they’re allowed to,” Leocadie tells Aleksander with a broad smile. “And then it is a tradition for their trainers to be exceedingly loud and cheerful the next morning.”

Aleksander winces. He’s been hung over a few times, and having someone be loud and cheerful at him would have made an unpleasant experience much worse. He would doubtless have been a complete failure as a Witcher trainee.

The Manticores trade cheerful stories of past hangovers - Aleksander gathers that the aftereffects of overindulging in White Gull with arsenic are particularly unpleasant - until the end of supper. Aleksander keeps his head down and eats quietly, just as glad to not be required to make conversation. He doesn’t have any particularly entertaining stories to share anyway. His father was always very clear that drunken folly would reflect badly on the family, so even when Aleksander did overindulge, it was always in private, and he never ended up singing in a fountain or chasing ducks or flirting with chambermaids the way some of the other young nobles at court did.

Nobody bothers him about his silence, though, and Dilan takes care to put a slice of elderflower cheesecake on his plate before Bricriu can eat the whole thing, so Aleksander is feeling tentatively pleased with the evening -

And then someone from the Viper table, a big man with his dark hair in a topknot, goes striding out into the clear space between the Wolves and the other Schools and calls, “Oi! Anyone for a brawl?”

“f*ck yes!” one of the Wolves replies, and in less than a moment, the clear space in front of the high table holds at least two dozen Witchers, all of them roaring and bellowing as they throw punches and kicks that would slay lesser men. One of them is Dilan.

Aleksander is far, far too close to the scrum. He flinches, hard, as a smaller Witcher is flung entirely out of the brawl, landing in a beautiful roll and bouncing to his feet with a feral yowl right behind Aleksander, then flinging himself back into the battle.

It’s so loud, and it’s right there, and Aleksander doesn’t even dare get up, because what if he mistimes it and someone is flung right into him - he’s not a Witcher, he’s not even a particularly strong man, he isn’t meant to be part of this, he isn’t meant to be here, he doesn’t fit -

“Here now, little cousin,” Leocadie says, frowning across the table at him. “Are you well?”

“I am quite well,” Aleksander says, because that is the polite thing to say, and only realizes it was a lie when Leocadie’s eyes narrow. Oh gods, he can’t do anything right, he won’t ever fit in properly in this strange place where all his instincts and scripts are wrong, and now he’s offended one of the people who has been sincerely kind to him -

“Please excuse me,” Aleksander gasps, and gets up, hastening out of the hall at a pace just barely short of a run.

He makes what he thinks is the right turning, but when he counts three and goes left to find the stairs, there aren’t any stairs there, and he stands there panting for a moment, staring at the plain featureless grey stone wall and wishing desperately that he were somewhere, anywhere else.

“Hey now, pup,” a soft voice purrs behind him, and Aleksander turns to see Aiden looking at him with an oddly gentle expression.

Aleksander’s done nothing to earn such a look. “Aiden,” he says weakly, praying to any god who might be listening that he won’t start weeping and make this evening an even worse disaster than it already is.

He’s sure the Witcher can smell his distress, but all Aiden says, very gently, is, “Need a little help finding your rooms?”

“Yes, please,” Aleksander admits in a miserable whisper. Aiden smiles and beckons Aleksander to follow him. He even drapes an arm around Aleksander’s shoulders. Aleksander doesn’t deserve the comfort of it, but he leans into it nonetheless.

Aiden leads him up to Aleksander’s rooms and squeezes his shoulders gently. “Goodnight, pup,” he says gently. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, but he doesn’t think Aiden’s kind wish will come true.

Sure enough, it does not.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Aiden is getting very worried about Aleksander. It’s been two weeks now since the young nobleman came to Kaer Morhen, and it seems like every day the dark circles under Aleksander’s eyes get darker, and he’s losing weight, even with Marlene’s wonderful cooking. He still smells of misery almost constantly, too, though at least he’s not usually scared anymore. And he doesn’t want to talk about it.

He’s not isolating himself, at least. That’s something. He spends many of his mornings with the Mantikittens, either in their rooms or in the feainnewedd herb garden or going on small expeditions to explore parts of Kaer Morhen, and he spends his afternoons with Lambert, teaching courtly graces, or with Livi, helping with the mess of Eskel’s office, or even with Aiden himself. Aiden takes him on walks through the keep and its grounds, or sits quietly in Aleksander’s rooms while Aleksander draws or reads or works on planning lessons, and Aleksander does always smell happier in Aiden’s company, but…

But he’s still not comfortable bathing around anyone but sometimes Aiden, he flinches when people move too quickly, he smells miserable, and he is very clearly not sleeping well - and refuses to go to Triss for a tonic. And he won’t talk about it to anyone.

Aiden is worried. Kitten and Livi are worried. Lambert is worried. The Manticores are worried. Even the Mantikittens are worried. Hell, Aiden suspects that if he went and asked Geralt for an opinion, the resulting Hm would be a worried one.

Aiden is really hoping Aleksander won’t turn out to be one of the people who just…can’t cope with Kaer Morhen. Like Kitten’s sister Marika, for instance, who is a lovely woman but finds the lack of courtly graces and the general informality of the keep to be entirely discomforting. Or the Cintran lady Kitten recalls from the whole husband-hunter debacle, who left the day after she arrived, having decided that she couldn’t handle having so many Witchers around.

If Aleksander needs to leave, Aiden knows a place will be found for him somewhere. Maybe in Wolvenburg, maybe in Ard Carraigh or Hengfors, Aiden isn’t sure, but Livi and Eskel will figure something out so Aleksander isn’t left out in the cold. But Aiden, selfishly, doesn’t want Aleksander to leave. He wants his sweet pup to stay - to be happy in Kaer Morhen. To maybe, someday, be comfortable enough to indicate a willingness to be courted.

Unfortunately, that’s looking less likely by the day. Sooner or later, the lack of sleep is going to catch up with Aleksander, and he’s going to keel over, and then whoever is nearest will take him to Triss, and then - well, Aiden won’t exactly blame Aleksander if he panics and flees the keep, but he won’t be happy about it either.

But without pushing - without breaking one of the greatest taboos the Witchers have, the one that keeps them all from each other’s throats when their senses mean that privacy is a scarce and cherished thing within the keep’s walls - Aiden can’t figure out what to do about Aleksander’s clear unhappiness. If Aleksander doesn’t want to talk - not to Aiden, not to Kitten or Livi, not to any of the Manticores - there’s nothing Aiden can do.

It makes Aiden jittery and unhappy, and he’s not alone in that. Kitten and Livi both give Aleksander worried looks every time his back is turned; Leocadie and Dilan fuss over him like a pair of mother hens with one chick. Maja saves bits of the Mantikittens’ meals and coaxes Aleksander into eating; Zia glares at anyone who dares get close to him on their exploratory trips around the keep. But none of it seems like enough.

Early in the third week of Aleksander’s stay in Kaer Morhen, Aiden finishes bathing after practice and heads up to Aren’s suite, planning to escort Aleksander down to dinner. To his surprise, Aleksander isn’t there.

“He’s down in the herb garden,” Maja says when she opens the door. “He was givin’ Elena and Ada a sketching lesson, but Ada got spooked an’ they came back up.”

“Thank you,” Aiden says, and heads down to the herb garden.

Aleksander is sitting on one of the benches tucked into a corner, leaning back against the wall, fast asleep. His quill has fallen from his fingers, and his desk is in danger of slipping off his lap. Aiden steps forward, silent as a shadow, and lifts it away, setting it carefully aside and corking the ink bottle before it can spill. It’s frankly a miracle it hasn’t done so already.

Aleksander looks very small and somehow frail, wrapped in the thick fur coat Aiden gave him, face far too pale, dark circles stark beneath his eyes. Aiden wants to bundle him up and tuck him into a bed and curl up around him, holding him tight so he knows he’s safe.

He’s loath to interrupt Aleksander’s nap, but that can’t be a comfortable position. He’s standing there dithering when Aleksander starts to whimper in his sleep, the misery-scent growing stronger and starting to be tinged with fear. Aiden steps forward, raising a hand to shake Aleksander awake -

And Aleksander’s eyes shoot open. He sees Aiden and cringes back, raising his arms to shield himself, scent going sour and awful with terror. Aiden flinches. Gods, Aleksander fearing him -

“Pup,” he says plaintively, and something in Aleksander’s eyes clears a little, and he recognizes Aiden - and the fear-scent drains away entirely.

“Aiden,” Aleksander croaks. Aiden opens his arms.

“Come here, pup, it’s alright,” he says, and Aleksander throws himself forward into Aiden’s embrace, clinging to him with surprising strength, tears soaking the shoulder of Aiden’s tunic as he bursts into wracking, dreadful sobs.

Aiden sinks down to sit right there on the path, cradling his sweet pup in his arms and humming one of Jaskier’s lullabies as he rocks them both gently back and forth.

*

Aleksander gets his wits back after far too long for the last shreds of his dignity, and sits up a little, scrubbing at his face with clumsy hands. “Oh, gods, I’m so sorry -”

“Shh, pup, none of that,” Aiden says, giving Aleksander such a soft smile that it makes Aleksander’s heart hurt. “No apologies for tears. I think you needed that.” He brushes his fingers against Aleksander’s cheek. “Do you want to talk about it? I swear I won’t think less of you, or be angry, or whatever you’re worried about.”

Aleksander sniffs hard and rubs a hand across his eyes. Oh, to hell with it - he’s already made such a fool of himself that surely the only reason Aiden wouldn’t think less of him is that he already thinks Aleksander such a weakling that his estimation cannot fall any lower.

“I have been having terrible dreams,” he admits, staring down at his hands in his lap instead of looking at whatever Aiden’s expression might be. “That I - that I take my grandfather’s place, or the kittens’, or that I am made to watch the experiments, or that I cannot write the letter - the ink turns to blood, it stains everything -”

“Damn,” Aiden says, voice low and sympathetic. “Yeah, that sounds like a bad time. No wonder you aren’t sleeping.”

Aleksander nods miserably. “And I - I am trying to learn how to fit in here, but I don’t, I’m not strong or bold or clever-tongued -”

“Ah, sweet Wolf-hearted pup,” Aiden interrupts him gently. “I might disagree with you on some of those points, but Aleksander - look at me?”

Aleksander looks up to find Aiden watching him solemnly, sunshine-yellow eyes bright as midday. “Aleksander,” Aiden murmurs, “you don’t have to make yourself be anything you’re not. You don’t have to force yourself to fit into some shape you think we want. We’re not the court of Tretogor. We have plenty of Witchers to be strong and warlike, we have Jaskier and the Griffins to be clever-tongued. We don’t need you to imitate any of them. We just want Aleksander. Honorable Aleksander, who could not let children suffer. Kind Aleksander, who has adopted those same children as his cousins and gives them his friendship without hesitation. Patient Aleksander, who has been teaching Lambert of all people to be courtly, without either of you losing your tempers. Just you, Wolf-hearted Aleksander. That’s all.”

Aleksander can feel himself tearing up again. Those aren’t anything like the qualities he was expected to have and cultivate as a ducal heir - except honorable, maybe, and even then not to such an extent as to place innocent lives over his own patrimony.

“Really?” he whispers, knowing it’s childish and unable to stop himself.

“Really,” Aiden pledges. “You can ask any of us, and we will all say the same, I swear it. Hell, ask Lambert - you know he won’t lie to make you feel better.”

Aleksander chuckles wetly. That’s true enough. Lambert does not mince words, and he does not lie. And - he does seem to think Aleksander is doing a good job of teaching him courtly graces. He doesn’t use them outside of their lessons, but he clearly remembers everything they’ve gone over, and can already make credible polite conversation when they practice.

And Aiden - Aiden has promised that he will never lie to Aleksander.

“I feel so foolish,” Aleksander admits. “The kittens have been through so much worse than I have, and here I am being so weak -”

“Shush,” Aiden says softly. “Yes, the Mantikittens went through hell. And if you were expecting them to comfort you, then that would be entirely selfish of you. But you aren’t. You’re giving them comfort, instead - quite a lot of it, in fact. They trust you and admire you. And just because they went through hell doesn’t mean you didn’t suffer. You weren’t tortured, but you were bespelled, and forced to make a dreadful choice, without any guarantee that any option was the correct one. Hell, you thought Geralt might kill you. You went through some sh*t too, pup. And I’m glad you made the choices you did, but I’m not going to pretend they were easy.” He pats Aleksander’s shoulder. “Even Witchers have nightmares about how things could have gone.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says. He’s never thought about that - never imagined that anyone as confident and wholly competent as the Witchers around him might have bad dreams like his.

“Now,” Aiden says briskly, “I know everything always looks worse when you haven’t gotten enough sleep, and you clearly haven’t. So I tell you what. Do you trust me, pup?”

“Yes, of course,” Aleksander says blankly. He does. Aiden has been so kind, and so protective, and so gentle with him - how could Aleksander do anything but trust him utterly?

“You are the sweetest thing, I swear. Right. So what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna go up to your rooms so you don’t get a crick in your back from sleeping on a bench, and you’re going to sack out, and I am going to stay right there to guard you from everything. Do you think that will help?”

“I,” Aleksander says, blushing hotly as he remembers how often he has wished for Aiden to be there after his nightmares. “I do, yes.”

“Lovely,” Aiden says, and stands, pulling Aleksander to his feet. “Then we’ll do that. Come along, pup. Let’s get you some sleep.” He bends to collect Aleksander’s desk and then drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders and leads him inside. Aleksander huddles close to him, feeling oddly fragile, as if any wrong move will send him into another fit of weeping.

*

Aiden hesitates a bit when they reach Aleksander’s rooms. It’s one thing to say he’s going to guard his sweet pup’s sleep, and another entirely to figure out the logistics.

“Where d’you want me, pup?” he asks gently.

Aleksander bites his lip, blushing hotly, and doesn’t respond. Aiden squeezes his shoulders. “No wrong answers,” he assures the lad. “I can stay out here by the fire, I can meditate on the floor in your bedroom, I can join you in bed and cuddle you. Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

Aleksander looks down at the floor, and his scent spikes with anxiety, but after a painfully long moment he whispers, “The bed? Please?”

Gods, this Wolf-hearted pup. Aiden can’t even imagine how difficult that must have been to ask for.

“Of course,” Aiden says, and sits on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots.

It takes a little finagling to get them both comfortable in the bed, but eventually Aiden is sitting propped up against the headboard in a heap of pillows, and Aleksander is lying with his head in Aiden’s lap. Aiden strokes his sweet pup’s soft brown hair and hums one of Jaskier’s lullabies, and despite Aleksander’s obvious anxiety about - well, everything - it only takes a few minutes before the lad’s eyes droop shut and his breathing goes soft and even with sleep.

(Not his. Not yet. But maybe someday. Maybe even someday soon, if Aleksander trusts him this much already.)

Aiden keeps petting his hair and humming, since it seems to help, and lets himself drift into a sort of half-meditation, surrounded by warmth and the smell of his darling pup.

At some point, he’s sure someone will come looking for them - if nothing else, Lambert has a courtly graces lesson this afternoon - but if Lambert smells that Aiden is in here with Aleksander, he’ll probably just leave them to it. And tease Aiden mercilessly, of course, but that’s for future Aiden to worry about.

It’s been at least two hours when someone does rap on the door. Aiden tenses, glancing down at Aleksander worriedly, but the lad doesn’t even twitch. There’s a pause, and then another knock, and Lambert calls, “Oi! You can’t still be f*cking.”

The loophole in Yennefer’s marvelous silencing spell mostly has to do with intent - which does occasionally make things a little awkward with the few Witchers who like being overheard in bed - so Aiden calls softly, “Come in, asshole.”

The door opens, and Aiden adds, softly but viciously, “And be quiet. He’s asleep.”

Lambert’s steps go quiet, and he tiptoes into view in the doorway. His eyes go wide.

“Also I’m going to beat your ass at training tomorrow,” Aiden continues, keeping his voice very soft and his hand moving gently over Aleksander’s hair. “You know I’m not even bringing that up until he does.”

Lambert winces a little. “Sorry,” he mutters. “You weren’t at dinner. We were worried.”

“We?” Aiden asks.

Lambert shrugs. “Me, Milena, Buttercup, Livi, the Manticores, the Cats, the Wolves, Aren’s Bear…hell, even Geralt said something.”

Aiden laughs quietly. “Ah, my sweet pup. I don’t think he realizes how many people care about him.”

Lambert grimaces and shakes his head. “No. Lad’s almost as bad at believing anyone could as a Witcher.” He eyes Aleksander thoughtfully for a moment. “Need me to bring up a meal for you?”

Aiden shakes his head. “He should sleep til he’s done. I’m not waking him before supper, if he’ll sleep that long.”

Lambert nods. “I’ll let everyone know he’s fine, then.” He hesitates. “Did he tell you what’s wrong?”

Aiden nods. He doesn’t want to air Aleksander’s anxieties to the world, but this is Lambert. He and Aiden have no secrets from each other. “He thinks he’s not worthy enough just as he is.”

“Course he does,” Lambert sighs. “Got a Wolf’s heart and all a Wolf’s f*cking insecurities too. You’ll set him straight?”

“I’ll sure as hell try,” Aiden promises. Lambert nods.

“Good,” he says gruffly, and pads silently into the room to tug a blanket a little higher up the bed, tucking it in around Aleksander’s shoulders before clapping Aiden gently on the arm. “Look after him,” he orders, and hastens out again. The door to the corridor closes so softly it doesn’t even click.

Aiden loves his darling Wolf so, the prickly soft-hearted bastard.

No one else bothers them, thank the gods; Aiden sinks back into the quiet, basking in the smell of sheer contentment coming from the young nobleman in his lap. Usually, after an hour or so of sitting still, Aiden needs to get up and move - most Cats do, in fact, and Cat training intersperses lectures with runs around the obstacle course or wind sprints for a reason - but with Aleksander sleeping on him, Aiden has no desire to get up whatsoever.

Finally, near sunset, Aleksander sighs, and his heartbeat starts to pick up again. Aiden rests a hand on his shoulder and starts humming that lullaby again, hoping Aleksander won’t wake having forgotten that he invited Aiden to join him in the bed. Tired as he was, the moments before falling asleep might well have slipped his mind.

Aleksander’s eyes flutter open, and he goes very still, and then, very slowly, he turns his head to look up at Aiden.

“Good evening, sweet pup,” Aiden purrs. “Are you feeling a little better?”

Aleksander sits up awkwardly, his hair a little mussed, a crease on his cheek from Aiden’s trousers. He’s the sweetest damn thing Aiden has ever seen. “Much,” he says shyly. “I - thank you, Aiden.”

“It was my pleasure,” Aiden says, unable to keep from smiling besottedly at the lad.

“How long -?”

“It’s about half a glass to supper,” Aiden supplies. “And it didn’t seem like you had any nightmares?”

“No,” Aleksander says, starting to smile. “No, I didn’t. That’s the first time I’ve slept without nightmares since - since Tretogor.”

“Gods damn,” Aiden says fervently. “That’s obscene, pup - how are you still sane?”

Aleksander gives him a crooked little smile. “Am I? Most everyone in Redania would think sleeping best in a Witcher’s lap is a sign of complete madness.”

“Yes, well,” Aiden says, shrugging. “I think it’s quite sane, but I’m a Cat, and we’re not known for our mastery of rational thought.”

Aleksander actually laughs a little, which Aiden takes as a glorious triumph. He looks and smells so much happier after just this single afternoon of rest.

Maybe if he starts sleeping well every night, he will become again more like the cheerful young man Kitten and Livi have described knowing in Tretogor - careful of his speech, yes, and shy in his nature, but happier than he has been thus far in Kaer Morhen.

*

Aleksander is glad none of the Manticores says anything about the fact that he doubtless smells less miserable than he has been feeling lately - and a lot more like Aiden, too. Leocadie gives him a warm smile, and Dilan claps him gently on the shoulder, but they don’t make any fuss beyond that.

It’s astonishing how much better he feels. Not completely recovered, no, but a good solid six hours of sleep with no nightmares, lulled into deep unconsciousness by Aiden’s gentle fingers in his hair and the solid warmth of Aiden’s presence, has definitely made a difference. He feels much less like the world is about to collapse about his ears.

He even manages to stay for the music after supper: Consort Jaskier calls several of the Witchers up to join him, including Lord Eskel, and they sing a round of an old cradle song that brings tears to many eyes, Aleksander’s definitely included. Sleep without fear, precious child, I am here your rest to guard, the many overlapping voices echoing from the vaulted ceiling - it is beautiful indeed.

Aleksander is rather astonished to find himself yawning once the performance is done - surely after sleeping for a whole afternoon he should be able to stay up a while - but after the third time he nearly strains his jaw trying to keep from being rude enough to yawn in the middle of one of Bricriu’s stories, he excuses himself and makes his way back to his rooms. The bed is colder without Aiden’s presence.

It is ridiculous to miss something Aleksander has had once. And in any case it is unseemly to want to share his bed with anyone, much less a Witcher who doubtless has far better things to do than sit about acting as a sort of comfort object for a grown man.

Aleksander curls up under the blankets and tells himself very firmly that now that he has had one good solid nap without any nightmares, he has doubtless taught his foolish mind that sleeping in Kaer Morhen is entirely safe.

“He is the prize of our little project,” Master Gustavus purrs, gesturing to the cage, and the Witcher within the cage snarls at them, hands wrapped around the bars white-knuckled, as if by squeezing hard enough he could strangle the mage and Aleksander both.

“Let me out,” the Witcher snarls. “Aleksander, let me out.”

Master Gustavus laughs, pulling Aleksander away, and Aleksander stares helplessly as he is dragged away from the cell that holds not Aren and his girls but Aiden -

Aleksander wakes with a strangled sob.

“Gods,” he whispers, and buries his face in his hands. His cheeks are wet.

He can’t keep doing this.

He’s so tired.

He gets up, fumbling for his slippers, and draws the heavy coat around himself; his mind is all fuzzy, like it’s been wrapped in quilt-batting, and all he can think of is that he slept well with Aiden there. Aiden kept the nightmares away.

He has no idea where Aiden’s bedroom is, he realizes as he reaches the end of the corridor. It’s presumably not anywhere near Aren’s rooms, since those are on the Manticore hall, which implies there must be a Cat hall, but Aleksander doesn’t know where that might be.

“Hey,” someone says, and Aleksander turns, blinking blearily, to find someone looking down at him.

No. Not ‘someone’. The Warlord himself, golden eyes unreadable.

“You alright there?” the Warlord rumbles. “You smell unhappy.”

“I…I need to find Aiden,” Aleksander says weakly.

“Alright,” the Warlord says, and puts a big, warm hand on Aleksander’s back, guiding him gently through the halls. Aleksander loses track of the route almost immediately, and isn’t entirely sure of how much time it takes, either, before the Warlord halts him with a hum and raps gently on a door. It swings open a few moments later, and Aiden blinks at them in obvious surprise.

He’s wearing sleeping trousers and nothing else. Aleksander feels himself blushing. He’s seen Aiden unclothed before, but the shock of it - at this time of night, when Aiden has clearly just come from his bed, and in front of the Warlord himself - is almost completely overwhelming.

“Aleksander?” Aiden says, holding out his arms. “Oh, pup, you smell miserable - come here, lad.”

Aleksander stumbles forward into those open arms, hiding his face against Aiden’s shoulder. Aiden embraces him, stroking his back gently.

“Thanks, Geralt.”

“Hm,” the Warlord says. “Look after him.”

“I will,” Aiden promises. “Thanks for bringing him to me.”

“Hm,” the Warlord says again. “G’night.”

Aiden draws Aleksander into his rooms, closing the door softly behind them. “Hey now, sweet pup. Another nightmare?”

Aleksander nods mutely. He’s exhausted and mortified and Aiden’s arms are so warm and his skin is so smooth under Aleksander’s cheek.

“Oh, my poor Aleksander,” Aiden sighs. “I should have offered to come up with you. Do you want to come sack out in my bed, then?”

Aleksander nods. He shouldn’t - shouldn’t want that, shouldn’t be this weak, but he is so tired and Aiden is so warm and so safe -

“Come on, then,” Aiden murmurs, and draws Aleksander gently through another doorway, into a very dimly lit room. Aleksander steps out of his slippers and lets Aiden take his coat, and follows Aiden’s careful urging to climb into the bed. Aiden slides under the blankets beside him and pulls Aleksander close, shifting them around until Aleksander’s head is pillowed on his shoulder and Aiden’s arms are wrapped securely around him.

Aleksander falls asleep before he can quite articulate his gratitude.

He wakes up warm and comfortable, suffused with a feeling of such immense well-being that for a little while he just lies there with his eyes closed, basking in feeling good for once. His pillow is warm and solid, and there’s a comfortingly heavy weight across his shoulders and waist, and he can’t even remember having any nightmares.

…No, wait, he did have a nightmare.

And then he -

Oh, gods.

Aleksander goes very still as he realizes that the pillow is Aiden’s chest, the warm weights Aiden’s arms. That he is in Aiden’s bed, because the Warlord himself found Aleksander wandering the halls like a fool and brought him here.

He can feel himself flushing with mortification.

“Hey,” Aiden says softly. “Hey, pup, whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.”

Aleksander sits up; Aiden lets him, arms falling away. He looks particularly handsome, lying there with his hair mussed, shirtless and sleepy, with a soft smile on his face. He was very comfortable to sleep beside. To sleep on top of.

“I am so very sorry for intruding on you,” Aleksander says weakly.

Aiden sits up and reaches out, slowly, giving Aleksander every chance to move away, to cup Aleksander’s cheek in his palm. “Aleksander, pup,” he says quietly, “please don’t apologize for that. You came to me for comfort - for safety. You slept well in my arms, my rooms, my bed. Do you know how f*cking intoxicating that is?”

Aleksander blinks. “What?” Whatever word he was expecting to describe his behavior, that wasn’t it.

Aiden gives him a rather rueful smile and lets his hand fall into his lap. Aleksander immediately and foolishly misses the warmth of it against his cheek. “You’ve heard every nasty rumor there is to hear about Witchers, I’d wager,” Aiden says.

Aleksander nods. He’s certainly heard a lot of them. Most of them are quite foul.

“Before the whole Warlord…thing, that was pretty much what everyone thought of us,” Aiden says. “There were some who would tolerate us, and some very few who genuinely enjoyed our company, but generally speaking, people hated us. Even those we paid for company didn’t want to spend the night with us. Get it done and get out, Witcher, and don’t you damage our girls.” His voice is wry and resigned.

“You wouldn’t,” Aleksander blurts. He can’t imagine Aiden ever hurting someone who didn’t somehow deserve it. Nor Lambert, nor Leocadie and Dilan and Bricriu, nor Aren or Esra or - well - any of the Witchers he’s met so far. Yes, they’re trained for violence, and skilled at it, but they turn all that vicious competence on monsters - or on each other. Never on the humans who mingle with them so fearlessly.

Aiden laughs softly. “Oh, pup, you’re a damn sweetheart. Would that more people had thought like you back then. But - it’s been barely two decades since that started to change. Since anyone started to trust us. I don’t think I’ve ever had a human be so comfortable around me as to sleep better in my arms. Having you here, smelling you being happy because of me and knowing you know yourself safe and protected in my company…gods, it’s so sweet I could drown in it.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says weakly.

“Your comfort in my presence - that you sought me out, of all the people in this castle, to keep you safe - f*ck, that’s a gift worth more than a king’s ransom,” Aiden says gently.

Aleksander blinks. He hasn’t - he’s been assuming his constant neediness, his weakness and unmanly hesitance, is a burden on Aiden. Not - not something Aiden finds valuable. Or - it is not his weakness, perhaps, but his…vulnerability. That he has let Aiden see his weakness, and…and let him help.

If Aiden by some strange chance had come to Tretogor, and had been relying on Aleksander for aid in that strange environment, Aleksander would not think him weak. Aleksander would be honored and delighted by the chance to aid him and by the trust placed in him.

How much more delighted would he be if he could smell how happy and grateful Aiden was in such a circ*mstance?

The thought puts these last few weeks into a very different perspective.

“I am sorry for intruding upon you,” he says. “I should have asked before invading your rooms.”

Aiden smiles. “If I had not wanted you here, I would have said as much, I assure you.”

Aleksander takes a deep breath. Witchers don’t lie. Aiden doesn’t lie. “Then I thank you.”

“It was my genuine pleasure,” Aiden says, and offers a crooked grin. “Would you believe I slept better with you here, too? I sleep on the couch in Lambert’s room so I can hear him and Kitten breathing, often enough that he’s made jokes about looking for a set of rooms with two bedrooms. Having you here was just as soothing.”

“Oh,” Aleksander says, too shocked to come up with anything more coherent. He…helped?

Aiden licks his lips, looking almost hesitant. “I don’t mean to pressure you at all, and please don’t hesitate to refuse, but if you slept better like this…I’d be very happy to do this again. In my bed or yours.”

“Truly?” Aleksander asks incredulously.

“Truly,” Aiden says. “I liked this, pup. You’re a damn sweet armful.”

Aleksander has no idea how to feel about that, and carefully puts the tentative baffled pleasure aside to consider another time. “Then, ah, if you’re sure - if you’re sure, then yes. I would…I would like that.” He slept far better in Aiden’s arms than he has since Tretogor. Apparently even his sleeping mind knows that the specter of Master Gustavus could never triumph over Aiden. That while Aleksander is with Aiden, he is utterly, irrevocably, unquestionably safe.

He finds himself smiling. “If we’re sleeping together,” he says shyly, “you should probably call me Sasha.”

“Sasha,” Aiden breathes, looking as thrilled as if Aleksander has just handed him a priceless jewel.

*

Sasha. He’s allowed to call him Sasha.

Aiden just about floats through training, unable to stop grinning even when he ends up fighting Ivar, who is almost as nasty an opponent as Geralt is. Hell with the bruises, Aiden doesn’t care. He gets to call Aleksander Sasha, and spend another night with Sasha in his arms!

“You have a really f*cking stupid look on your face,” Lambert observes as he and Aiden and Cedric and Axel sink into a hot spring together.

“f*ck you,” Aiden says cheerfully, making an obscene gesture and lolling back against the wall.

“Has it got anything to do with the fact that you showed up late, smelling like Aleksander?” Cedric teases.

Aiden flicks water at his older brother. “He sleeps better with me,” he says. “Don’t give him any sh*t about it, yeah?”

“I wouldn’t,” Cedric says at once. “He’s too sweet to hassle. Unlike certain little brothers I could name.”

Aiden laughs.

“He doing any better?” Axel asks. “He’s been looking more like a wrung-out dishcloth every damn day, seems like.”

“A little,” Aiden says. “It’s gonna take more than a good night’s sleep to make up for - sh*t, a month of nightmares, sounds like.”

There’s a quiet splash as Geralt slides into the pool with them. “He slept, then?”

“Like a very cute log,” Aiden confirms.

“Hm,” Geralt says, nodding. “Jaskier sleeps better with us, too.”

“I think it’s something about Witchers running warmer than humans,” Lambert puts in. “Like having a hot brick in bed, only better.”

Aiden snickers. “Ah, the glory and honor of being one of the Warlord’s men, reduced to being a hot brick!” He frowns. “Actually, come to think of it, I don’t really mind that. Nicer to be a hot brick than a monster, anyhow.”

His companions all nod.

“It’s good to be…trusted,” Geralt says slowly. “To guard their sleep.”

“Yeah,” Lambert says quietly. “It really is.”

Aiden nods. It’s - they all know they’re monsters. They’re raised and trained and mutated to be more dangerous than the Conjunction creatures which stalk the night. And so the humans of Kaer Morhen, who do not fear them, are marvels; and the few rare humans who choose a Witcher for a lover, who come willing and clear-eyed and fearless to their beds, walking into a monster’s clutches in perfect trust that the monster’s claws will not close, its teeth will not draw blood -

They are priceless.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Aleksander sits down in the window of his rooms as the door closes behind Aiden, leans his head against the stone, and sighs deeply. He feels far more recovered than he could have guessed a single night’s sleep could provide, and there’s a warmth deep in his chest, as though sleeping beside Aiden has left a little of the Witcher’s heat curled up in the curve of Aleksander’s ribs. He feels lighter than he has, less like his feet are stone, less like his own body is dragging him downward. His mind feels clearer, too.

His head, unfortunately, aches faintly, and he sniffles and sighs. Maybe a hot bath will help.

He gathers his things and heads down to the hot springs, realizing only when he steps through the big arched entrance to the cavern that it’s earlier than he usually comes down. Consort Jaskier and the ladies are all still bathing. It’s a smaller group than usual: just Consort Jaskier and Milena and Livi and Lady Liliana and her maid Nadia. Aleksander hastily averts his eyes, feeling his whole face go hot.

“Sasha!” Milena calls. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Aleksander says. It would be rude to keep staring away, so he turns, keeping his eyes carefully on the wall above the bathers’ heads.

“Do you want to join us?” Livi asks.

Aleksander bites his lip. He’s been bathing with Aiden - and, occasionally, one or two other Witchers - for the last few weeks. He’s gotten quite good at keeping his eyes on his companions’ faces rather than anything below the neck. And it would be…pleasant to be more thoroughly part of the court, such as it is.

When in Nilfgaard, do as the Nilfgaardians do. Surely the corollary is When in Kaer Morhen?

“I would be honored,” he says carefully - it’s not a lie, he is honored by their welcome - and turns his back to take off his sleeping clothes.

To his immense relief, no one is looking at him as he slides into the water. Milena is teasing Consort Jaskier about something, the two of them volleying cheerful taunts and ripostes back and forth while the other ladies laugh and applaud particularly good phrases. It’s a lot like the games Aleksander can remember their friends playing in Tretogor, Hanna and Natalia giggling helplessly as they failed to pretend at being offended. The familiarity of it puts him a little more at ease.

And the heat is helping the stuffiness in his sinuses, too.

Aleksander washes, carefully not looking at anything but his companions’ faces, and closes his eyes when the women all start moving to get out. Consort Jaskier does not leave the pool with the others, but stretches out with a long sigh.

“Aleksander, my friend, may I ask you a dreadfully impertinent question?” he inquires as the ladies move into the dressing room and Aleksander dares to open his eyes again.

“You may of course ask me anything,” Aleksander says awkwardly.

“Mm. It isn’t ‘of course,’ not here,” Consort Jaskier says gently. His blue eyes are very kind when Aleksander meets them. “And if I ask something you do not want to answer, you may tell me so. I shan’t be offended in the slightest, and not merely because privacy is one of the few things held sacrosanct among Witchers.” The corner of his mouth curls up. “I am rather hard to offend, unless you insult my singing.”

“I would never,” Aleksander says hastily. “You sing beautifully.”

“There, see, you’re on my good side forever,” Consort Jaskier laughs.

Aleksander smiles shakily. “What was your question, then?”

“Well,” Consort Jaskier says, “Tretogor may not be quite as licentious and easy-going a city as Oxenfurt, but I know for a fact that young noblemen get into all sorts of entertaining trouble. How in the world did you manage to avoid the bathhouses and the brothels?”

“Oh,” Aleksander says, and rubs the tiny scar on his finger while he tries to figure out how to answer. At last he sighs. “My father impressed upon me and my brother the wisdom - the necessity - of avoiding even the slightest appearance of scandal. People watch ducal heirs very closely.”

Consort Jaskier nods. “That’s true. Being only a count’s son - and a third son, at that - gave me a lot of leeway that you wouldn’t have had.”

Aleksander nods, swallows, and says quietly, “And added to that - I wished to avoid any possibility that I might appear to have my grandfather’s…appetites. I am named for him. I wanted to make it clear his blood had not run true.”

“It has not,” Consort Jaskier says firmly. “You are nothing like your monstrous grandfather, Aleksander.” He offers a rather wry smile. “And as it happens, I don’t think any of us here in Kaer Morhen actually knew your grandfather’s given name. As far as we’re concerned, he was just Duke Velen. You are not named for him here.”

Aleksander’s jaw drops, and he stares at Consort Jaskier for a long, long moment before he can re-gather his scattered wits. “Thank you,” he says weakly. It doesn’t encompass everything he’s feeling, not by a long shot, but they are the only words he has.

Consort Jaskier smiles warmly. “You’re welcome.” He gets out of the water, whistling a cheerful tune.

Aleksander is beginning to feel like he really is welcome here. He’s just survived an entire bath with the Consort and four women, and not had to flee in a panic!

He heads back to his rooms with a little smile he can’t quite suppress - and a growing need for a handkerchief, as the hot springs have done exactly as he hoped they would, and his logy head is swiftly becoming a badly running nose.

*

Sasha joins the Cats for dinner; Aiden is pleased to see that the dark circles under his eyes look better, though his nose is rather red and his scent is slightly sour. “How’re you feeling?”

Sasha hesitates, sighs, and says, “I think I may have acquired a head cold.”

“Ew,” Aiden says, tugging Sasha close and draping an arm around his shoulders. “That sounds miserable. What does one do for head colds?”

Livi chuckles. “Rest and tea and chicken soup,” she says. “I suppose Witchers don’t get them, do you?”

“Nope,” Dragonfly confirms. “One of the best bits of being a Witcher, not getting sick.” She wrinkles her nose. “I can just barely remember being sick when I was a child, before the Grasses. It was miserable.”

“I think our humans don’t get sick so much,” Cedric puts in.

“Milena says Zofia says that any of us with Witcher lovers will stop getting sick at all,” Livi says cheerfully.

“Handy, that,” Aiden muses.

Sasha glances from Livi to Dragonfly and back again. “May I ask why?”

“Oh! It’s not to leave Kaer Morhen -” Sasha nods firmly before Livi continues - “but something about being…ah…intimate with a Witcher means that a little of their immunity to everything sort of rubs off. Witchers’ lovers don’t get sick, they heal faster, and they age much slower.”

Sasha’s scent is bright with astonishment for a moment before it goes sour and all the blood drains from his face, leaving him a pasty sort of pale. “It is,” he says slowly as all the Cats nearby turn to look at him in alarm, “a very good thing my grandfather didn’t know that.”

There’s a pause while everyone winces. “f*ck,” Axel says fervently. Aiden squeezes Sasha’s shoulders gently, and Sasha leans against him and sighs, relaxing a little and regaining some of his proper color.

Dragonfly actually pulls Livi into her lap, nuzzling at her hair. “I am so glad you ran,” she murmurs. “Thank f*ck that old monster never got his hands on you.”

Livi turns her face up and kisses Dragonfly’s cheek. Aiden coos softly, both because it’s adorable and because teasing Dragonfly is one of his great joys in life. Dragonfly wrinkles her nose at him but doesn’t attempt to stab him, probably due to having Livi in her arms.

Sasha chuckles softly. “I’m glad Livi found you,” he tells Dragonfly, whose eyes widen a little with surprise. “She’s so much happier than she ever was in Tretogor, and you are responsible for much of that.”

Livi covers her face with her hands but doesn’t disagree. Dragonfly blinks at Sasha for a long moment. “Uh. Thanks.”

Sasha gives her a shy smile. “It’s really quite remarkable. You and Lambert and Master Auckes - even Lord Eskel and the White Wolf - you all so obviously cherish your human lovers. It is quite unlike any of the relationships I saw in Tretogor, or even in Rinde, when I was too young to be at court.”

Dragonfly strokes a hand over Livi’s hair as Livi curls into her, hiding her face against Dragonfly’s throat. “Yeah. We do.”

“I’ve got a theory about that, actually,” Cedric says. Axel hums and puts a slice of venison on Cedric’s plate, arching an eyebrow curiously at his lover.

“I would be very interested to hear it,” Sasha says. Aiden nods agreement.

“I think it’s because most Witchers don’t ever expect to have lovers,” Cedric says, gesturing to himself and Axel. “The two of us, we’ve been together longer’n Aiden’s been alive, but that’s f*ckin’ rare. There’s us, Merten and Leocadie, maybe you could argue Gweld and Serrit but Serrit’s only admitted she’s got actual feelings for her Wolf in the last few months even if Gweld was gone on her for ages. A couple other pairs. But it’s rare as hell, and I know we got a lot of sh*t for it when we were young, even from Treyse and Guxart for a while before they came around.”

Axel nods. “The rule used to be that Witchers walk the Path alone. Some of us bent it - I know Aiden traveled with Lambert half the time, and of course we ignored that from the start - but it was the rule.”

“Right,” Aiden says thoughtfully. “So what we all expected, what we were all taught to expect, was to walk our Paths alone until we died. Maybe we’d have a winter fling with a brother, maybe there’d be a friendly barmaid or a daring widow, maybe we’d pay thrice the going rate for a working girl who could take our coin without smelling like fear or disgust too strongly, but never anything permanent. Anything real.”

Sasha and Livi make twin wounded sounds, quiet and sad. Aiden squeezes Sasha’s shoulders again. “It’s not like that anymore.”

“No, it’s not.” Cedric smiles. “We don’t walk our Paths alone. We’re all being taught to rely on our brothers and our cousins. And people like Dragonfly, or Lambert, or Auckes - hell, maybe Aiden if he’s lucky -” Cedric wiggles his eyebrows, and Sasha goes very pink but doesn’t actually object - “are finding lovers.” Cedric shrugs. “Humans, specially noble humans, you kinda take having a partner for granted, yeah? A thing that’s gonna happen whether you want it to or not?”

Sasha grimaces, scent souring a little. Livi nods. “Yes, that’s true. Often we don’t even have much choice in who that partner is. Which can work quite well when those making the decisions care for their children’s happiness, but…” she trails off and shrugs eloquently.

Dragonfly growls. Cedric grimaces.

“Yeah. But Witchers, we can’t take having a lover for granted. Those of us who had lovers before this whole Warlord thing, we fought for that. Literally, sometimes. And even now, it’s still rare. Special. Precious.”

Axel leans over to kiss Cedric’s temple, a soft press of lips that speaks silent volumes about the century-old affection between them.

Sasha is silent for a moment, head a little to one side as he considers everything Cedric has said. f*ck, he’s so cute. Aiden wants to tug him into his lap, but that’s definitely a step too far just now. “That makes a great deal of sense, now that you have laid it out like that,” Sasha finally decides. “Rare things are always considered more valuable, and rare things which must be fought for are more precious still.”

Dragonfly nods. “Yeah, that tracks.” She looks down at Livi with so besotted an expression that Aiden has to glance away - it’s far too intimate, more so even than seeing her and Livi kissing, more naked somehow than seeing Dragonfly in the baths where she’s actually nude. “I never expected anyone like Livi in my life. Still not sure how I got so damn lucky.”

Livi smiles up at her and kisses her cheek. Dragonfly curls around her protectively, looking almost overwhelmed with possessive joy.

“Lambert’s still not sure how he got Kitten to choose him, either,” Aiden puts in. “Hell, I don’t think even Auckes knows how he got Zofia to pick him, and they’ve been lovers nearly twenty years now.”

“I suppose,” Sasha says thoughtfully, and flinches a little when they all turn to give him interested looks, “that the…the corollary to the fact that humans - nobles especially - expect to be married, is that we do not expect to be valued for…for anything except our marriageable assets. Had I been wed before my father’s death, for instance, it would have been to someone of appropriate rank, and my value to her and her kin would doubtless have been that I was a ducal heir, second in the line of succession; I could have been as foul as my grandfather, and still been accounted a very fine match for any woman.”

Livi nods solemnly. Sasha gives her a rueful look.

“And for Livi, or Milena - their marriages would have been for political alliance, or trade agreements, or even simply to curry favor with a more powerful noble, as Livi’s betrothal was,” he continues. “Their value was their bloodline and their dowry, their beauty, and the possibility of heirs. Perhaps a little weight would be placed on their cleverness, as a clever wife is a blessing to any fief, but as for Milena’s courage and kindness, or Livi’s determination and fearless heart - those would have been detriments in many eyes; at best afterthoughts. Extras, as when a cloth merchant throws in the end of a bolt or a handful of ribbons for free when one has bought a great deal of cloth all at once.”

Cedric snorts. “Can’t say as I’ve ever bought enough cloth in one go for a merchant to add extra, but sure, I get the idea. Who you are sounds like it was a lot less important than what you are.”

“Exactly,” Sasha agrees. “But here in Kaer Morhen, none of you seem to care that we are of noble blood, as far as I can tell. And we have left behind our noble titles to come here. We cannot bring you wealth, or power, or heirs, but none of you seem to care about that. The White Wolf and Lord Eskel value Jaskier for his wits and skill as a bard; Lambert loves Milena for her courage and sweetness.”

“And I love Livi for her brilliance and her boldness,” Dragonfly agrees, nodding. Livi giggles in mild embarrassment.

“So,” Sasha finishes, spreading his hands, “it is a very heady thing for us, to be valued for who we are, honestly and without pretense.” And then he tucks his nose into his elbow to muffle a sneeze.

Aiden fishes a handkerchief out and offers it to him. Sasha takes it with a sheepish little smile.

“Huh,” Cedric says thoughtfully. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“It does, yeah,” Axel agrees.

Aiden tries not to look too besotted. f*ck, his Wolf-hearted pup is as insightful as he is adorable; it’s absurdly compelling.

“Thank you,” Dragonfly says. Sasha blinks at her in obvious confusion. “For letting me know I can give my lovely Livi something as precious as she gives me.”

Livi squeaks and covers her face again, but she leans back against Dragonfly, tucking herself more thoroughly into the curve of the Witcher’s body. Dragonfly looks and smells as pleased as a cat with a whole damn pitcher of cream.

Aiden grins down at Sasha. “I’ll tell Lambert, too,” he says. “Thanks. I think he’ll appreciate knowing he is giving Kitten as much joy as she brings him.”

Sasha smiles shyly up at him. “I’m glad to have helped,” he says, and leans against Aiden, sighing softly in obvious comfort.

Aiden dares to rest his cheek against Sasha’s hair, and revels in the scent of happiness that rises around them.

He’s less pleased when Sasha sniffs hard and sneezes again, and the sour edge to his scent grows a little sharper. That can’t be good.

*

Aleksander makes it most of the way through an afternoon exploring the keep with the Mantikittens before whatever illness he has picked up catches up with him. He’s suddenly shivering despite his marvelous coat, and his knees feel weak.

Maja catches him as he staggers, standing steady despite his weight. “Are you alright?”

Zia peers up at his face. “He’s all red,” she says, scowling in worry. “sh*t, ‘re you sick, Sasha?”

“It is only a head cold,” Aleksander says weakly.

Maja puts the back of her hand to his forehead. “No it ain’t,” she says. “You’re burning up.” She exchanges a worried look with her sisters. “Elena, Ada, run down t’ the kitchen an’ ask Mistress Marlene for soup an’ tisane. Zia an’ I will get him back to Aren.”

“Y’ can’t be sick,” Zia says, tucking herself under Aleksander’s arm. “Sick is f*ckin’ dangerous!”

“I’ll be fine,” Aleksander insists, but Zia and Maja both make unhappy noises as they half-carry him towards the pride’s rooms. They are much stronger than girls their age ought to be, Aleksander thinks muzzily. Gods, his head is full of fuzz.

Aren rises from the window seat where he and Esra have been relaxing as Maja pushes the door open, and Aleksander winces at the frown on the Manticore’s face. “I don’t mean to intrude, I can go back to my own rooms -”

“No,” Aren says, crossing the room in a few limping strides. He’s moving much better with a few weeks’ good food giving him strength, and he’s recently been judged recovered enough to drink Swallow, which is slowly but surely mending at least a little of the horrible rasp of his voice. He presses the backs of his fingers to Aleksander’s forehead, and his scowl deepens. “You are ill.”

“It’s just a head cold,” Aleksander protests, but Aren and the girls herd him across the room to the chair by the hearth where Aren usually sits and pile blankets atop him.

“I sent the little ones for soup an’ tisane,” Maja says, peering down at Aleksander worriedly. “My Ma’d say rest an’ soup’ll cure most ills.”

“But not all,” Zia cries, pacing frantically on the hearth. “Half my crew got th’ damn shakes an’ croaked! We just got ‘im, he can’t go an’ die!”

“I won’t die,” Aleksander tries to reassure her.

“You might!” Zia wails, looking absolutely furious with worry.

The door opens, and Ada and Elena hurry in, Elena carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a heavy mug of something that smells strongly of herbs. She sets it down on the little table next to the chair. Aleksander smiles at her. “Thank you, little cousin.”

“Mistress Marlene says the tisane is good for all manner of illness,” Elena says, and under the worried gaze of all the Mantikittens, Aleksander picks up the mug and takes a long sip. It’s got a bitter aftertaste, but there’s enough honey in it to make it drinkable.

Esra says quietly, “If you are feeling truly miserable, you could ask Triss for a medicinal draught.”

Aleksander’s grip tightens on the mug. The Mantikittens and Aren glance at each other, faces grim and unhappy.

“Could she fix ‘im?” Zia asks at last, scowling.

“I don’t need to see a mage,” Aleksander protests. “Truly I don’t.”

“Drink the soup and tisane,” Aren says firmly. “And rest. No mages. Not yet.”

Aleksander nods and takes another big gulp of tisane to show willingness. The Mantikittens sit down in a heap on the hearth, Ada in Maja’s lap, and watch him worriedly, like he’s going to keel over right in front of them.

Aleksander finishes the tisane and the soup - which is as rich and delicious as everything else he’s eaten in Kaer Morhen thus far - and leans back with a sigh. He feels either too hot or too cold, and can’t quite tell which, and his whole head seems to be stuffed with quilt batting, and he’s so very tired.

“Sleep,” Aren murmurs, tucking one of the blankets more snugly around him.

“I’ll have nightmares,” Aleksander mumbles, not quite knowing what he’s saying. “Unless Aiden’s here.”

“Then I’ll get him,” Zia says, looking entirely willing to drag Aiden bodily through the halls, and goes darting out of the room.

Aren hums and pats Aleksander’s shoulder. “Sleep, cousin. We will guard you.”

Aleksander can’t keep his eyelids from drooping. “Thank you,” he says, or thinks he says, and then exhaustion rises up and drags him under.

*

The door to the salle slams open, and a small Manticore comes streaking across the room and tackles Aiden to the ground. He manages to recognize her before she hits, and has his knife well out of the way so she won’t get hurt, but they hit the floor fairly hard.

“Oof,” Aiden says, as Lambert peers down at them. “What the hell?”

“Sasha’s sick,” Zia says. “You’ve gotta come.” She scrambles to her feet and grabs Aiden’s arm, trying to haul him upright and managing surprisingly well for a scrawny little thing. Aiden rolls with the pull and gets to his feet.

“Sick how?” he asks, putting his knife away and frowning worriedly down at her.

“He’s got a fever an’ he’s all wobbly an’ -” Zia takes a deep breath, eyes too bright. “He says he don’t sleep well without you, so you’re comin’.”

“Of course,” Aiden says. “Lambert, can you tell the Manticores where Sasha is at supper?”

“Sure,” Lambert says, clapping Aiden on the shoulder.

“I’ll tell Livi,” Kitten puts in. Aiden gives her a grateful smile and nods to Zia.

“Let’s go,” he says, and follows her out of the salle at a jog.

Sasha looks…small, curled in Aren’s chair with blankets piled atop him. There’s an unpleasant bitter edge to his scent, and he’s flushed a blotchy sort of red. Aiden puts his hand to Sasha’s forehead and grimaces - he’s almost Witcher-hot. That can’t be good.

“I don’t know much about human illnesses,” he admits quietly. It’s not the sort of thing a Witcher is often called upon to fight.

Zia glowers at him. Maja says, “Rest an’ fluids should be enough. I hope.”

“If he gets any worse,” Aren says, slowly and unhappily, “we will call for the mage.”

“An’ I’ll gut her if she hurts him,” Zia adds.

“She won’t,” Aiden says. “Merigold’s good people, I promise.”

“Listen to the kitty,” Esra rumbles from the window seat. Aiden makes a rude gesture at him, and Esra chuckles.

“I don’t want Sasha to get a crick in his neck,” Aiden says. “I can carry him to his rooms -”

“He stays here,” Zia snaps.

“The bed is big enough for all of us,” Elena agrees. “We would be happier if Sasha stays with us while he is ill.”

“Alright,” Aiden says, and picks Sasha up. Ada scampers ahead to open the bedroom door; the room is dim and a little cool, and the bed is indeed large enough for Aren and all the Mantikittens and Sasha and Aiden, as long as they’re all reasonably friendly about it.

Aiden puts Sasha down gently, propping him up against the pillows, and pulls the pup’s boots off, then kicks off his own boots and settles against the headboard. Sasha sighs in his sleep and rolls closer, nestling his head against Aiden’s hip. Aiden puts a hand on his shoulder, grimacing at the heat of it.

“I’ll keep watch,” he tells the Mantikittens crowded into the doorway. “Maybe go and get some more tisane from Marlene for when he wakes?”

“Aye,” Zia says, and darts off, clearly glad to have something to do. Maja brings a basket in and sits on the end of the bed, pulling a drop spindle and a hank of wool out of the basket and starting to spin between quick darted glances at Sasha’s huddled curl.

“He can’t get us sick,” Aiden says quietly. “At least, I assume the false Grasses will have the same effect. You got the strength and the healing, at least.”

“The mages tried t’ give me th’ smallpox,” Maja says bluntly. Aiden winces. Damn, the bastards who had them were just as nasty as the Schools’ mages - maybe worse. “It didn’ take.”

“Then you should be fine,” Aiden says.

“I know.” Maja bites her lip. “But he isn’t.” She looks down at her spinning for a moment. “‘Tisn’t fair. He saved us. He doesn’ deserve th’ nightmares an’ this.”

“He really doesn’t,” Aiden agrees ruefully. “Poor pup. If the world was fair, his grandfather would have been the one with screaming nightmares.”

“An’ he woulda died slow,” Maja agrees, and grins a little at Aiden’s surprise. “I’m just quieter’n Zia.”

“Fierce little Mantikitten,” Aiden says approvingly.

Sasha shifts a little, breathing out a quiet snuffly sort of whimper, and Aiden strokes a soothing hand over his hair. Sasha settles again with a soft sigh.

“He trusts you,” Maja observes.

“Yes,” Aiden says. “It’s…astonishing.”

Maja gives him a long, thoughtful look. “Don’t you hurt him,” she says at last. “We like you, but he got us out.”

Aiden smiles. Being gently threatened by a Mantikitten was not how he thought this afternoon was going to go, but he doesn’t actually mind. Sasha should have fierce protectors. “I won’t,” he pledges. “He is precious to me.”

“Good,” Maja says, and goes back to her spinning. Aiden slips into meditation, focused on the steady, slightly sniffly breathing of the young nobleman asleep at his side.

He rouses sometime after midnight, to find that Aren and the Mantikittens have all come to bed, and Sasha is much warmer. His breathing is more labored, too.

f*ck.

Aiden slides off the bed to kneel beside it, shaking Sasha gently as the Mantikittens go from a slumbering heap to alert and bristling. “Sasha. Sasha, wake up.”

Sasha makes a miserable little noise and blinks blearily at Aiden. “Ai’?”

“Sasha. You’re getting worse. You need to see Merigold.”

Sasha winces. “Mage,” he says, in weak dismay.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Aiden promises. “She won’t hurt you. Trust me?”

“Trust you,” Sasha agrees, giving Aiden a look so softly adoring that it almost knocks Aiden over.

“Thank you,” Aiden whispers, and scrambles to his feet. It’ll take too much time to put his boots back on - he yanks his stockings off instead. “Keep him talking if you can,” he tells the Mantikittens, and sprints out of the suite, bare feet slapping against cold stone as he runs for Merigold’s rooms.

*

Aleksander feels like he’s underwater; everything is a little wavery, and he thinks he might be shivering, but he’s most definitely also sweating. He must smell terrible. “I should go,” he says muzzily.

“No you f*ckin’ shouldn’t,” Zia snaps. “Lie still, y’ daft ninnyhammer.”

“But,” Aleksander says, trying to sit up.

“Shush,” Maja orders, pushing him back against the pillows with astonishing strength. “Sit still an’ just - just breathe, cousin.”

“Do as she says,” Aren commands roughly. Aleksander nods and sags against the pillows, realizing that it is a little hard to breathe. His head is full of fluff, and his chest feels heavy.

He isn’t sure how long it’s been before the door bangs open, and Aiden hurries in with Lady Merigold on his heels. “Aleksander,” she says, halting beside the bed. “May I examine you?”

Aleksander swallows. She’s a mage. He knows she’s a mage. But Aiden is right there, and the Mantikittens and Aren are there, and none of them will let him come to harm. He nods hesitantly.

“Thank you,” she says gravely, and reaches out to touch his hand. Green fire sparks between them and spreads out over Aleksander, sinking into his skin. It tingles slightly, but - it doesn’t hurt. It feels sort of refreshing, actually.

“Ah, that’s a nasty fever,” the sorceress says. “It’s good you came to me, Aiden.”

“He’s not gonna f*ckin’ die,” Zia says fiercely. “He’s not!”

“No, he’s not,” Lady Merigold says, and lifts her hand away to rummage in a basket Aleksander hadn’t noticed. “Here, this is going to taste absolutely godsawful but it’ll help with the chest and sinus congestion. And if you will allow it, I can also do something about the fever.”

Aleksander glances at Aiden. Aiden nods encouragingly. Slowly, Aleksander takes the vial the sorceress offers. Maja helps him open it, and sniffs at it warily. “What’s in this?” she demands of Lady Merigold.

“Coriander, liquorice, and comfrey, mostly,” Lady Merigold says.

Maja hums and nods before holding it to his lips.

It does, in fact, taste absolutely horrid. Aleksander swallows and pulls a face; Ada scrambles out of the room for a moment and comes back with another mug of tisane. It’s still a little bitter, but it gets the taste of the medicine out of his mouth.

It takes a moment, but his head does start to clear, and he realizes he’s breathing more easily, too. He aches all over, his head worst of all, but he feels less muzzy. He takes another drink of tisane and looks up at Lady Merigold.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says. “Now, you do need to get that fever down, but if you don’t want me casting anything on you, Aiden can bring you down to the hot springs. A soak in one of the coolest ones - no higher than the second pool - would help a great deal. Also lots of soup and tisane.”

“You…won’t bespell me,” Aleksander says slowly.

“Not without your consent, unless you’re actively dying,” the sorceress says. “I will admit that once, I would have thought nothing of casting a healing spell in such circ*mstances, but living among Witchers has taught me much of the importance of choices, and who makes them. This is your choice.”

Aleksander rubs his thumb against the tiny scar on his finger. “I would prefer not, then,” he says very carefully. “Aiden? Would you -?”

“I can bring you down to the hot springs, yes,” Aiden says immediately.

“Very good,” Lady Merigold says briskly. “Go and soak, and drink as much as you can; if your fever spikes again, come to me, but otherwise I think you will recover relatively quickly, especially if you allow yourself to sleep as much as your body wants for the next week or so. You’re mostly just suffering from exhaustion and sleep deprivation, and that weakened you enough for illness to settle in. Be gentle with yourself for a while.” She smiles, a wry little expression. “And please do attempt to be a better patient than most Witchers are.”

“Hey,” Aiden protests.

“The last time I had you in my infirmary, you tried to argue that a broken ankle was a minor hassle and you should be allowed to participate in the annual chimney-cleaning race,” the sorceress says dryly. Aiden opens his mouth, hesitates, sighs, and droops.

“Yeah, alright, that’s fair,” he says ruefully.

“Chimney-cleaning race?” Aren asks.

“I will tell you about that tomorrow,” Aiden promises. “For now I think I should take Sasha down to soak. Thank you, Merigold.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Lady Merigold says, and then nods to Aren and the Mantikittens. “If any of you have any injuries or other complaints, you may come to me at any time,” she says gently. “I will cast no magic on you without your consent, and I would be honored to aid you in any way I can.”

“We will…consider,” Aren says gravely.

The sorceress nods, gives Aleksander another soft smile, and leaves.

“I’ll take him down to the hot springs,” Aiden says to Aren and the Mantikittens.

“We’re coming,” Zia says at once.

“Uh?” Aleksander manages to squeak, but then Aiden is picking him up - apparently effortlessly - and he may not be muzzy-headed with congestion anymore but he is both very tired and very achy, and Aiden and Aren and the Mantikittens are so very insistent about looking after him. Surely it is acceptable to just…allow it to happen? Just this once?

He rests his head on Aiden’s shoulder and drifts a little, not quite noticing what’s going on around him until Aiden says softly, “Can you get your clothes off, or should I help you, sweet pup?”

Which is when Aleksander realizes he’s going to be bathing with the Mantikittens, and surely that will be as uncomfortable for them as it is for him -

But when he raises his head, he finds that the long cavern is only very dimly illuminated, maybe a fifth of the lanterns along the walls actually lit, and the Mantikittens and Aren are already in the water. He can’t see anything more than their heads; they’re all watching him anxiously.

“Look away?” he asks, and Maja nods and corrals her sisters into not staring at him as Aiden lowers him gently to his feet. Somehow, Aleksander manages to get his clothing off - Aiden has to help with the laces, since Aleksander’s fingers are oddly clumsy - and then Aiden strips off his own clothes much more quickly and steps down into the pool, reaching up to lift Aleksander in as easily as if Aleksander weighed nothing at all.

The lukewarm water does feel amazing. Aleksander sinks down into it with a sigh and sags against the wall. Aiden sits beside him, arm around his shoulders to help hold him up, and watches him with soft sunshine-yellow eyes, worried and hopeful and so very, very sweet.

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, and lets himself rest his head against Aiden’s shoulder, closing his eyes.

Aiden will keep him above water. He’s safe, here in Aiden’s arms.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

It is three long, uncomfortable days before Aleksander is well enough to do anything but sleep, drink medicinal draughts and tisane and soup, and soak in the coolest hot spring. The Mantikittens refuse to allow him to return to his own rooms, lest he suffer a relapse while out of their sight, and Aiden barely leaves his side. Lady Merigold visits twice more, very briefly, to look him over and nod and tell him he’s recovering well. Lambert also comes by, and Leocadie, and Dilan, and Dragonfly, and to Aleksander’s blank astonishment the Warlord himself. Milena and Livi, protected from any fear of contagion by their Witcher lovers, stop in to press cool fingers to his forehead and fuss gently over him, and Consort Jaskier comes in on the one afternoon Aleksander manages to convince Aiden to go and run about the obstacle course with Lambert, and plays soft soothing lute music, through which none of Aleksander’s nightmares seem able to intrude.

The Mantikittens keep themselves between Aleksander and anyone they do not know, and bristle obviously enough that most of the visitors keep their visits brief, though Aleksander notices even through his daze that Milena does manage to charm all four of the Mantikittens and Aren too, and when they learn that Livi was arguably responsible for the former Duke Velen’s death, the Mantikittens adopt her wholeheartedly.

It is more than a little overwhelming to learn so inarguably that there are so many people in Kaer Morhen who care about Aleksander. Who are not just willing but eager to spend time and effort helping him, and who do not disdain him for his weakness. Who do not even seem to notice it. He isn’t entirely sure how he has endeared himself to them, but he can no longer argue, even to himself, that they think of him as anything less than a dear friend - or, in the Warlord’s case, a loyal and valued vassal.

He can’t imagine Vizimir ever coming in person to check on the health of even the most devoted of his subjects.

At last, late on the fourth afternoon of his illness, Aleksander wakes from yet another nap to find that his fever has broken and he is clear-headed, feeling weak but hale. He sits up slowly - he has ended up with his head in Aiden’s lap again, which perhaps ought to embarrass him but at this point feels almost normal - and is immediately swarmed by Mantikittens.

“Y’ don’t smell godsawful anymore,” Zia informs him.

“I feel far less like -” Aleksander gives Aiden a quick smile - “like something the cat dragged in.”

Aiden snickers. “If you can make jokes, you’re definitely feeling better. Good!”

Aleksander pats the girls on their heads and shoulders - whatever he can reach - and they move aside enough that he can lever himself carefully out of bed. “I think,” he says, “I would like to go back to my rooms and find a change of clothes. And then perhaps see if I am feeling well enough for supper in the hall, so that you can have your rooms to yourselves again, little cousins.”

“No hardship,” Aren observes quietly.

Aleksander smiles at him. “Thank you. Still.”

Aren nods. “Need some time in your territory,” he says.

Zia takes a deep breath. “T’morrow,” she says. Everyone looks at her. “T’morrow, will you come down t’ the garden? I tol’ that Merigold she could look me over, see what the f*ck those poxy noodledick mages did.”

“Zia!” Maja gasps.

Zia scowls. “She didn’ hurt Sasha. An’ she didn’ magic him when he said no. She can look at me. If she don’ hurt me…”

“She will examine me first,” Aren says firmly.

Zia scowls harder. Aren whistles sharply, the note Aleksander has learned means disapproval. Maja crosses her arms and glowers. “I can go first -”

“You are my pride,” Aren says firmly. “My duty to protect you.”

“None of you need protecting from Merigold,” Aiden puts in. “But I will be there, if you like, and I know Esra will, too. And Aren should go first. You’re still trainees, kittens.”

All the Mantikittens glare at him.

Aleksander says gently, “I will be there. And I will go first, if you like, to let her check that my illness has done me no harm.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Maja and Zia both sigh. Aren gives Aleksander a grateful look. “Sasha,” he says. “Then me.”

The Mantikittens grumble, but Aren whistles again, a short sharp command, and they subside with little sighs or muttered curses.

Aleksander gives each of them a hug before he leaves.

“That was brave,” Aiden says softly, falling in beside him as they head down the corridor.

Aleksander shrugs. “Lady Merigold has been very…respectful, thus far. And you will be there.”

Aiden smiles down at him. “So I will,” he agrees.

Which is actually incredibly reassuring.

If someone had told Aleksander, when he was at court in Tretogor, that someday he would find the presence of a Witcher to be a source of immense comfort, he would have been very surprised. But now there is Aiden, and Aiden’s company has become a promise that whatever else may be happening, Aleksander is safe.

Aiden drapes his arm over Aleksander’s shoulders, and Aleksander leans into him with a soft sigh of contentment. Aiden grins down at him looking very pleased indeed.

*

After supper, Aiden leaves Sasha stashed safely among the Manticores, who are fussing over him like a bunch of hens with one chick, and chases Lambert up through the halls of the keep to their little corner above the battlements. It feels good to stretch his legs after three days of sitting beside Sasha. Not that Aiden begrudges Sasha a single second of it - it’s a f*cking honor that Sasha trusts him enough to sleep most soundly in his presence - but Witchers aren’t meant to stay still that long. Lambert leads him on two full rounds of the battlements before Aiden feels a little less jittery and can actually scramble into the nook and settle down.

“So he’s alright?” Lambert checks.

“Should be,” Aiden says, leaning back against the cool stone and sighing. “Fever broke, and he’s alert and coherent.”

“Thank f*ck.” There’s a brief silence. Aiden listens to the steady slow thumping of his dearer-than-brother’s heart and lets the night breeze blow some of the last three days of fretful anxiety away.

Finally he says, “I do not f*cking like having my - my Sasha - threatened by an enemy I can’t f*cking fight.”

Lambert nudges their shoulders together. “Yeah. It’s f*cking awful.”

“Kitten’s gotten sick?” Aiden asks, startled.

“Nah, kidnapped that one time,” Lambert says. “But it was sh*t. I almost punched a priestess. Thank f*ck Milena’s a damn quick study.”

Aiden snorts a laugh. “Stabby when kidnapped.”

“That’s her,” Lambert agrees proudly. “Not quite the same as getting sick, though.”

“No.” Aiden sighs. “f*ck.”

“At least if he does end up f*cking you, this oughtn’t happen again,” Lambert says.

“If,” Aiden says glumly. Sure, Sasha smells interested, often enough, and he tucks himself under Aiden’s arm without any hesitation, and he smiles a welcome anytime Aiden encounters him, but he hasn’t said anything.

“He does like you,” Lambert says, with startling gentleness. “He’ll mention you, sometimes, in our lessons, and his scent gets all sweet with it.”

Aiden whines softly. f*ck, he doesn’t want to push, he doesn’t want to make Sasha uncomfortable, but his sweet pup has been sleeping on him for almost a week now and sleeps better in his arms and trusts him and smells sweet and happy in his presence -

“Can I borrow that book of flowers?” he asks plaintively. “Or is it still too soon?”

“Gotta ask Milena,” Lambert says. Aiden heaves a sigh that feels like it comes from the bottom of his soul.

“C’mon,” Lambert says, and scrambles down from their nook. “We’ll go run the obstacle course a couple times, I can mock you for lying about getting slow and lazy, and then maybe you’ll be tired enough to actually sleep tonight.”

“I’ll show you slow and lazy,” Aiden growls, knowing Lambert is taunting him on purpose and loving him all the more for it, and chases the Wolf down off the battlements and across the training fields to rampage over the obstacle course in a gleeful whooping gallop. Three passes on the obstacle course is enough to leave Aiden panting and a little sore, with skinned knuckles and a weird bruise on one hip, but he did beat Lambert two runs out of three, and the minor injuries heal up by the time he’s done taking a quick dip in the hot springs to get the sweat and splinters off.

“Thanks,” he says quietly as they head back up to their rooms.

Lambert bumps their shoulders together. “Eh. You’d do the same for me.”

“I would, yeah,” Aiden agrees, and pauses at the junction where their paths diverge to grab his Wolf in a tight embrace, tucking his face into the crook of Lambert’s neck. Lambert hugs back, hard enough to make Aiden’s ribs creak.

“He’ll love you,” he murmurs in Aiden’s ear. “Once he gets his feet under him, he’s gonna f*cking adore you, you ridiculous creature.”

“You can’t know that,” Aiden protests.

Lambert pulls back enough to put his fingers under Aiden’s chin and tilt Aiden’s head up to meet his eyes. “He’s got a Wolf’s heart, doesn’t he? He’ll love you as much as I do, same as you an’ Milena love me.”

Aiden sniffs hard and nods. f*ck, but Milena’s been good for their prickly Wolf. He could never have said that out loud before she showed him how to be sweet in words as well as actions.

“Now go get some damn sleep instead of just meditating,” Lambert adds gruffly, and Aiden laughs and leans in to rest their foreheads briefly together before hugging Lambert again, a quick tight squeeze, and jogging off towards his rooms.

There’s someone waiting outside his door.

Sasha is waiting outside his door, wearing a fur coat over his nightclothes.

Aiden halts probably far too close to his pup, looking down at him worriedly. “You’re alright?”

“Yes,” Sasha says, blushing and looking down at his feet. “I just - ah - I -”

Aiden dares to touch his fingers to Sasha’s cheek. “It’s alright, whatever it is,” he says, as soothingly as he can.

“May I sleep with you again?” Sasha blurts, and then goes so red it looks painful. “Oh, gods, I -”

“Of course you can,” Aiden says, breaking into what he suspects will be a spiral of self-recrimination as quickly as possible. “You’re always welcome in my bed, pup, and I’m honored to be asked.”

Sasha’s shoulders slump as he sighs in relief. “Thank you. I don’t wish to begin having nightmares again, and relapse for lack of sleep.”

“Nobody wants that,” Aiden agrees. “Come on in, pup.”

Sasha settles into his bed a little tentatively, but when Aiden opens his arms, Sasha nestles against him, resting his head on Aiden’s shoulder, and his scent is sweet with affection and happiness. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“You’re very welcome,” Aiden says. Hell, he should be thanking Sasha - having the young noble here in his arms, so sweet and trusting, is as soothing as hearing Lambert’s heartbeat. It’s addictively good, and if Sasha does end up choosing someone else to be his lover, Aiden’s going to be spending a lot of nights on Lambert’s couch.

But maybe - hopefully - Sasha will choose him.

Aiden falls asleep with that thought held as carefully as if it were made of blown glass.

*

Aleksander squares his shoulders and looks down at the Mantikittens. Zia has a hand on her dagger’s hilt and is glaring - not really at anything, just glaring in general. Maja has a hand on Ada’s shoulder and a tense set to her jaw. Elena’s perfect posture suggests she’s retreated behind her courtly manners the same way Aleksander himself does.

Behind them, Aren is flanked by Aiden and Esra. It’s probably a little intimidating, Aleksander thinks as they approach Lady Merigold, who is sitting on a little bench with her hands folded in her lap, wearing a simple green dress and looking harmless.

She isn’t, of course. No sorceress is. But it’s a good act.

Aleksander squeezes Zia’s shoulder and steps forward. “Lady Merigold.”

She smiles at him. “It’s just Triss,” she says warmly. “May I check to make sure you have recovered from your illness?”

Aleksander nods and holds out a hand. It only trembles a little. Lady Triss touches her fingers to it, and that green fire he remembers rather fuzzily from the midst of his illness spreads over him, sinking into him and fading again.

“You’ve got no damage to your lungs,” Lady Triss says, sounding very satisfied. “I don’t recommend you exert yourself too much for the next week or so - and do make sure you get enough sleep - but you’re as healed as magic or medicine can make you.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, and steps back.

Aren limps forward, a look of grim determination on his face. “You may look,” he rasps. “Cast no other spells.”

“I will do nothing without your leave,” Lady Triss says solemnly, and touches her fingers to Aren’s offered hand. The same green fire spreads out to cover him; it looks rather alarming, actually, but Aren doesn’t flinch. Lady Triss frowns in thought as the fire fades.

“Well,” she says, “as I’m sure you know, the bones in your leg have healed badly. If you want to be able to walk without a limp, they’ll have to be re-broken, and it’s been long enough that it will have to be done by magic to do it correctly.”

Aren nods.

“You’re still well under a healthy weight, although I suspect Marlene’s good cooking will remedy that quickly enough. Your throat is…frankly a mess. Even if you allow me to attempt to heal it magically, I’m not sure I could fully mend everything that was broken - the scarring is too comprehensive. Swallow should be able to alleviate some of the pain it must be causing you.”

“It is,” Aren agrees.

“Those are the largest problems. You are still far weaker than you ought to be, for lack of food and exercise. There are minor badly-healed fractures in a number of your bones, most especially your ribs. There are a number of scars which have healed badly and will likely need care at some point. And I think, though I am not sure, that long-term exposure to the dimeritium in the collar which restricted your Signs has made the channels which allow you to use Chaos atrophy; if you wish to resume using Signs, you should do so very slowly, and not attempt to cast them at full power for quite a long time.” Lady Triss sighs. “And you have my apologies, on behalf of every mage on the continent, for what my thankfully deceased colleagues did to you. All of my thankfully deceased colleagues.”

Aren’s eyebrows go up. “Thank you,” he says gravely. “For the apology and the honesty.”

Lady Triss nods solemnly. “It is the least I can do.”

Aren steps back, and the Mantikittens immediately surround him, Zia glaring suspiciously at Lady Triss, Maja tucking herself under Aren’s arm to support him. “She didn’ hurt ye?”

“It did not hurt,” Aren assures them. “Tingles, nothing more.”

They all look suspiciously at Lady Triss, and then Zia grits her teeth and stomps forward, holding out a hand. “Look,” she snarls. “Nothin’ else, or I’ll f*ckin’ gut you, I don’t care if you’re a mage.”

“Understood,” Lady Triss says, and touches her fingers to Zia’s.

“Huh,” Zia says as the green fire fades. “Kinda tickles.”

Lady Triss smiles. “I can see how it might, yes.”

Zia crosses her arms over her chest. “So. What’s wrong with me?”

“Primarily, severe malnourishment going back what seems to be your entire life,” Lady Triss says bluntly. “The mutagens and the abundance of food here should mitigate that somewhat, but you will never be tall.”

Zia shrugs. “Short’s better’n starved to death. What else?”

“Like Aren, you have a number of healed fractures and some significant scarring which may require attention at some point in the future.” Triss sighs. “There’s also magical scarring to your liver and kidneys. I don’t know what the mages were attempting to do, but it seems to have mostly just left damage; thankfully, the scarring isn’t extensive and your mutagens do seem to be healing it. That said, the last thing is that you are…hm. You are a Witcher; you have been given the mutagens. But you were not given what we usually consider the full dose, nor in the proper proportions. There may be long-term repercussions to that, but I do not know what.”

Aren grimaces. “Will she need more?”

“More mutagens?” Lady Triss shakes her head. "No. Being a Witcher is not...not a partial thing. One is, or one is not. The mutagens change every particle of a Witcher's blood and body. The only question is what effect the different proportions of what was given to your daughters might have. But we will not be adding more. It...does not end well, doing so.”

“Good, ‘cause you ain’t puttin’ nothin’ into me, witch,” Zia growls.

“No more mutagens - and nothing else, either, without your permission, no,” Lady Triss agrees evenly.

“You ain’t got it.” Zia has a hand on her dagger hilt, every muscle tense.

“Then I will not,” Lady Triss says calmly. “My word on it.”

Zia scoffs. “What’s a f*ckin’ mage’s word worth,” she snaps, but she does relax a little as she steps back. “Fine. I got scars. I knew that. Is there any sh*t that’s gonna f*ck me up if I don’t let you mess with it?”

“Not so far as I can tell,” Lady Triss says. “I would ask that should you begin to feel ill, you come to me, as that would indicate something has gone wrong; but unless that becomes relevant or you are badly injured, you may continue to avoid my company.” She has a wry little smile that suggests she knows exactly how little Aleksander and Aren and the Mantikittens want to let a mage, even a very kind one, do anything magical in their vicinity.

“Good,” Zia says, jerking a sharp little nod, and Maja steps forward, holding out her own hand.

“Me next,” she says calmly.

Lady Triss smiles, and reaches green-glowing fingers out to touch her hand.

*

Aiden has seen great acts of courage before. He has seen Lambert leap in front of a chort to save Aiden’s own life; he has seen the aftermath of parents using their own bodies to shield their children from monsters; he has seen a man dare a river in flood to reach his stranded wife.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything braver than Sasha and Aren and the Mantikittens lining up to let a mage cast diagnostic spells on them. Especially the Mantikittens. They’re only children, and they’ve been through so godsdamned much, and yet they do not flinch from Merigold’s green Chaos, not even little Ada.

Thank f*ck, nothing is irreparably wrong with any of the Mantikittens. Or, well, nothing except having been made Witchers against their will, by methods that sound like they were even worse than the usual Grasses. Which is more than enough, really.

And Aiden is selfish enough to be almost equally glad that nothing is wrong with Sasha that rest won’t cure. Especially since there’s a decent chance he’ll be getting that rest in Aiden’s arms, smelling of sweet contentment and trusting Aiden to guard him as he sleeps.

Merigold gets up once she’s checked all of them over, gives Aren a little curtsey, and heads back into the keep. Aiden takes a deep breath. “So,” he says, to the little huddle of Mantikittens and Aren and Sasha, “I think that deserves a reward, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Esra rumbles approvingly.

“What sorta reward?” Zia asks, narrowing her eyes warily.

“I was thinking we could ask Marlene for a basket and eat dinner on the walltop,” Aiden says. “The view is marvelous, and Aren’s well enough to make it up the steps.” And so are the Mantikittens, but he doesn’t say that aloud - Zia would only bristle.

“I would enjoy that,” Elena says. Ada peeks out from the center of the huddle of Mantikittens and nods. Aren whistles approval.

“That sounds delightful,” Sasha says, sounding immensely relieved.

Aiden lets Esra herd the little crowd of them slowly up to the walltop while he darts down to the kitchens; Marlene laughs at him when he makes pleading eyes at her, but she also fills a basket with egg pies and Julita’s good bread and goat cheese and some very ripe-smelling apples, so Aiden figures she can laugh at him all she wants. He grabs a jug of small beer and a handful of tankards on the way out, and trots up to the walltop to find Sasha holding little Ada’s belt as she stands in the gap between two merlons. Zia is sitting on Esra’s shoulders, crowing about being tallest of them all, and Maja and Aren and Elena are leaning against a merlon and laughing.

They all crowd around to help Aiden unpack the food, and Sasha sits down next to Aiden and leans against him, grinning and smelling much happier than he did earlier. Aiden wraps an arm around his shoulder and dares to nuzzle at his hair, the way he might Lambert’s or Kitten’s or any of his siblings’. To his delight, Sasha doesn’t flinch away, and his scent goes sweeter with happiness.

Zia takes a very amusing delight in slicing the apples up for everyone, wielding her knife with vicious glee, and Maja takes care that everyone gets a share of everything before settling down with half an egg pie and a pleased expression; Aren seems content just to sit back on the sun-warmed stone and bask between bites. Elena is attempting to teach Ada table manners, with mixed success due in part to the lack of table. Esra is just watching everyone contentedly as he makes inroads on the bread and cheese.

Aiden decides this was a damned good idea and he’s allowed to be proud of himself for having it.

They’re mostly done with the meal when there’s a soft scrape of boot against stone, and Aiden glances over to find Geralt approaching slowly along the walltop. The Wolf raises an eyebrow in silent question.

“Have we room for one more?” Aiden asks his companions.

Aren looks up at Geralt and nods, whistling a soft greeting. Esra tilts his head in welcome. The Mantikittens look startled but not displeased.

Sasha goes very, very still, and his comfortable lean against Aiden turns into a sort of huddle for a moment before he straightens his spine and laces his hands together very formally in his lap.

Geralt folds down to sit between Aiden and Esra, nodding politely to everyone. “Good to see you out in the sun,” he tells Aren.

“Good to be in sunshine,” Aren agrees.

“Good t’ be out of that f*cking hole,” Zia agrees, nodding vigorously.

“You are recovering?” Geralt asks gently.

Aren nods. “Can have Swallow,” he says, and smiles. “Food helps, too.”

“The food here is wonderful,” Elena agrees. “Your cook must be worth her weight in gold!”

“In dimeritium,” Geralt says, smiling at her - a tiny curve of his lips, but enough to be visible, which Aiden knows is rare. And then he turns to Sasha, who goes even stiffer with nerves. “And you?”

“I am well, White Wolf,” Sasha says, bowing a little awkwardly over his crossed legs. “I thank you for your condescension.”

Geralt’s eyebrows go up.

“The f*ck?” Zia says, and scowls at Geralt. “What’d you do to him?”

“What?” Sasha blurts, startled out of his nervousness for a moment. Geralt shakes his head, looking baffled. Aiden wraps an arm around Sasha’s shoulders and squeezes gently.

“Y’ went all scared,” Zia says, still scowling. “What’d he do?”

“He has done nothing to me,” Sasha says, darting a worried glance at Geralt, who is still looking baffled. “Indeed, he has been the soul of courtesy, and made me welcome in his court.”

“Then why’re you all -” Zia gestures to Sasha’s stiff posture and obvious discomfort.

Sasha gives Geralt a worried little look and swallows hard. Geralt gives him an encouraging little nod. Aiden tries to radiate comfort, if such a thing is possible. Slowly, Sasha says to Zia, “Because he is an emperor, and I am dependent on his goodwill for my place within his court, and for both of those reasons I do not wish to give him offense.”

Zia’s scowl gets blacker. Geralt frowns a little - Sasha trembles - and then Geralt shakes his head. “Hm,” he says, and holds up a hand to keep anyone from saying anything while he marshals his thoughts. Aiden leans against Sasha, trying to keep him calm by mere proximity. It might be helping, Aiden’s not sure.

Finally Geralt folds down his smallest finger and his thumb, leaving three fingers up. “Not an emperor,” he says firmly, and folds one down. “You’ve earned your place, now and always.” One finger left. “I’m a Witcher. We’re not easily offended. Takes work.” He lowers his hand and offers Sasha a crooked little smile. “Also, if I hurt you, Milena’d stab me. Also Zia.”

Sasha plasters a hand over his mouth to muffle a shocked little sound. Zia makes a delighted noise; Elena giggles, half amusem*nt and half surprise. Ada squeaks in glee. Maja nods solemnly. Aren and Esra are snickering quietly.

“I think more people than Milena and Zia would stab you,” Aiden points out. “Me, for instance.”

Geralt huffs a tiny laugh. “Yes. But I’d let them. You can earn it.”

Aiden snorts. “Fair,” he agrees.

Sasha is still trembling, but now it smells like it might be laughter. Rather nervous laughter, but laughter all the same.

“Truly,” he says, “Kaer Morhen is not like any other court, and the White Wolf not like any other lord.” He bows to Geralt again, a little more gracefully this time despite still being seated. “Your kindness humbles me.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Your courage humbles me.”

Sasha makes a little noise Aiden can’t quite parse, almost a laugh but not quite. “I have never thought of myself as a brave man, but I suppose it would be very rude to gainsay the Warlord of the North,” he says. “So I can only say, thank you, White Wolf.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, apparently out of words for the moment, and gives Sasha a little smile.

Maja leans forward, holding out one of the last few apples. Geralt takes it gravely, with a nod of thanks.

*

Aleksander may actually have exhausted his ability to be terrified. First there was the encounter with Lady Triss, which was nerve-wracking enough - to be sure, Aiden trusts her and she has never done him harm, but offering his hand to a mage is never going to be something Aleksander does without hesitation, he suspects - and then there was watching Lady Triss examine Aren and the Mantikittens, and now -

Well, now the Warlord of the North is quietly carving an apple into slices and eating them while listening to little Ada talk about all the things she can see from the walltop. The Warlord seems to be enjoying her monologue, or at least doesn’t seem actively unhappy about it, insofar as Aleksander can read his expression at all. It’s like trying to read a piece of granite, but at least the granite is currently friendly.

Which is a very odd thought to have.

Aleksander leans against Aiden’s comforting strength and tries to wrap his mind around the Warlord’s astonishing kindness and equally astonishing bluntness.

Not an emperor - well, that fits neatly into the repeated insistence of pretty much everyone in the keep that Witchers do not desire or enjoy titles and honors.

You’ve earned your place, now and always. Many people have told Aleksander that he is welcome here, that he is one of Kaer Morhen’s people - he is kinsman to the Manticores now, and he would venture to claim Lambert and several of the Cats as friends, and of course there is Aiden, baffling marvelous Aiden who is definitely a dear friend and maybe more if Aleksander can ever figure out what he wants - but to hear the Warlord himself say that Aleksander has a place now and always, as if now that he has earned his place in the Warlord’s esteem it is his forever, is…

Extraordinarily reassuring, actually. It is very hard to doubt the Warlord’s word, given so plainly for so many to hear. It would be like doubting the solidity of stone.

I’m a Witcher. We’re not easily offended. Takes work. And that is reassuring too. There wasn’t a single member of the Redanian royal family who would have claimed to not be easily offended. All of them were very conscious of their rank and rights and privileges, and would react immediately to the slightest infraction. (Aleksander does not count Queen - now Lady - Adelina as part of the royal family in that regard; she was always very kind. But she is not royal by blood.)

Everyone Aleksander has spoken to in Kaer Morhen has assured him that he is welcome, that he is safe, that his sanctuary will not be taken from him, and yet the fear has still persisted. How could it not? He knows full well that the words of a courtier cannot be taken as those of the king, that even Jaskier’s promises of safety would mean little if his lord decided otherwise.

But the word of the Warlord himself, given freely and without hesitation…

Aleksander feels almost like another fever has broken, a great weight lifted away from his very soul.

Aiden nuzzles at his hair, breathing in deeply. Aleksander muffles a laugh - it’s a very strange sensation. “What are you smelling?” he whispers.

“You smell happy, pup,” Aiden murmurs back. “I like it.”

Aleksander can feel his face heating, but he doesn’t pull away from Aiden’s comforting arm around his shoulders, or from the odd adorable nuzzling at his hair. “I am happy,” he replies quietly.

“Good,” Aiden says, and the Warlord glances over and gives them a cracked-granite smile, and Aren whistles a soft note Aleksander has learned means he is pleased.

Aleksander leans against Aiden’s shoulder and watches the Mantikittens enjoying the sunshine, and feels light enough to fly.

He has a place, for now and always.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Aiden is wholeheartedly delighted, in the days following Sasha’s recovery, to discover that something about the whole episode seems to have cured not only the head cold but also a surprisingly large amount of Sasha’s discomfort with Kaer Morhen as a whole.

He seems more…settled, is probably the word Aiden is looking for. Maybe it’s having braved Merigold and discovered she’s not as fearsome as Sasha feared, maybe it’s having heard from Geralt’s own mouth that he’s welcome and wanted, maybe it’s something else entirely, but Sasha has lost a lot of the edginess that surrounded him for those first few weeks.

It’s - he doesn’t get brash, or blunt, or rude, not Aiden’s sweet pup. But he smiles more easily, and he holds his head higher, and he seems much more willing to have opinions about things, rather than accepting whatever is given to him with a sort of helpless eagerness to please.

And he spends every night sleeping in Aiden’s arms. It isn’t a perfect cure for the nightmares, unfortunately, but they have become much rarer, and also, Aiden can feel the catch of Sasha’s breath and the speeding of his heart, and has discovered that stroking Sasha’s hair and humming lullabies will soothe him back into peaceful sleep without Sasha ever truly waking. Which means Sasha is getting enough sleep, thank all the gods.

Which is wonderful, and Aiden would not change it for the world, and it’s also the sort of test of Aiden’s composure which he hasn’t had to endure since he was out on the Path before Geralt took Ard Carraigh, and had to pretend all the insults and nastiness just rolled off his back without ever acknowledging he heard them. Or rather, it’s exactly the opposite of that, in that he has to pretend that he isn’t being affected by pleasure rather than rage or pain, but still.

Every morning he wakes up with Sasha’s head on his shoulder and Sasha’s steady human-fast heartbeat pressed to his, and he wants, so strongly he can taste it, to roll them over and kiss Sasha awake, discovering what sleepy contentment tastes like on Sasha’s pretty lips. He wants to ruck up Sasha’s nightshirt and get his hands on the soft skin it covers, the unscarred flesh and pleasing plumpness that say that Sasha has never had to spend his days in hungry misery. He wants to bite, just a little, just enough to make Sasha squeak, just enough to leave marks to show his claim.

He doesn’t, of course. Sasha still hasn’t said one way or another whether he’s interested in letting Aiden court him, and while he certainly smells like he appreciates looking at Aiden and being held in his arms, as long as he hasn’t said or done anything to give permission, Aiden isn’t going to even hint at wanting to make a move.

He does rather guiltily jerk off more than once with his face pressed into the sheets that smell like Sasha and happiness, but that is a private matter and nobody’s business but his and maybe the laundresses’, and they’re used to cleaning spend out of rags and not asking awkward questions.

But Aiden is planning to give Sasha just as long to adjust as he needs, and not press at all in the meantime, and if he needs to bewail his pining misery he’ll do it with Lambert, who can be counted on to mostly sympathize, only laugh at him a little, and definitely provide interesting alcohol. And if Sasha chooses someone else - Dilan, for instance, who fusses at him nearly as much as Aiden does, or maybe one of the Wolves - then Aiden will get stinking drunk with Lambert and bemoan his broken heart and do his damnedest not to let it ruin his friendship with Sasha.

Because Sasha is brilliant and sweet and noble and kind, and Aiden wants to be near him even if Sasha does choose to take someone else to his bed.

Still, being willing to cede to some other Witcher - or human, or elf, or what have you - if Sasha chooses doesn’t mean Aiden can’t plan ahead for just in case. He gives Serrit a pouch of coins the day before she heads out on a patrol that will come back on foot rather than by portal and asks her to buy whatever Wolvenburg has in the way of drawing materials and paints. Serrit snickers at him but agrees to bring home a treasure trove of charcoal and pastels and the fancy paper that’s apparently better for drawing on. That’ll take a while to come to fruition, of course - Serrit’s patrol is going to take at least a month - but in the meantime Aiden borrows that book of Redanian flower language from Kitten and reads it in spare hours when he’s not training or spending time with Sasha, and takes copious notes. And he also visits the carpenter and begs from him several very handsome pieces of hardwood, and spends the hours while Sasha is teaching Lambert to be courtly or showing the Mantikittens how to sketch in whittling and polishing and gluing.

It takes him a week or so to finish his carpentry project, and then he sits there looking at it for a while and wonders if it truly counts as a courting gift, or if he can get away with giving it to Sasha as a purely friendly gesture.

…f*ck it.

Aiden scoops up the little wooden cylinder and heads for Sasha’s rooms.

Lambert is just leaving; he looks Aiden up and down, eyes catching on Aiden’s newest creation, and raises an eyebrow. Aiden glares. Lambert snickers and claps Aiden on the shoulder and - importantly - doesn’t say it’s a bad idea, just heads off down the hall, whistling one of the bard’s bawdier tunes.

Aiden raps on the door. “Sasha? May I come in?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the door swings open. “Aiden!” Sasha beams up at him. “Were you looking for Lambert? He just left!”

“No, I was looking for you, pup,” Aiden chuckles.

“Oh! Then be welcome, of course,” Sasha says, stepping back to let Aiden into the room. “I didn’t think I was late for supper…?”

“You’re not,” Aiden assures him. “I just -” and now it feels a bit stupid, but Aiden has come this far. “I remember you said you’d had a birdfeeder in Tretogor,” he says instead, and holds out the little wooden object he’s spent the week carving.

“Oh,” Sasha breathes, and his eyes go huge and his cheeks go pink and his smell shifts from quiet happiness to delight, bright and bubbly and delicious. He takes the little wooden birdfeeder from Aiden almost reverently, brushing his fingers over the pointed roof, the tray around the base, the little perches stretching out like the spokes of a wheel. “It’s perfect.”

“I thought I could hang it outside your window,” Aiden offers. “Or down in the garden, if you’d rather.”

“I would love to have it outside my window,” Sasha says, and then hesitates. “But - we’re on the third floor.”

Aiden grins. “Pup, I’m a Cat. Let me go grab a mallet and a bit of wood, and I can have that hung in no time.”

It’s the work of a few minutes to run down to the carpenter’s shed and beg what he needs, and then Aiden grins to himself and, instead of running back up the stairs, saunters around the keep until he’s directly under Sasha’s window and cheerfully clambers up the wall. It’s not a bad climb, really - there are plenty of finger- and toe-holds for an enterprising Cat.

Sasha is sitting on the window-seat, scribbling at something on a lap desk, and is very startled when Aiden raps gently at the windowframe.

“What - you - what?”

Aiden laughs. “I’m a Cat. The wall is substantially easier to climb than a cliff - or the really nasty bit of the hardest obstacle course, for that matter. Now, did you want this centered or off to one side?”

“Ah - off to one side a bit, I think,” Sasha says, still looking flabbergasted.

“Lovely, there’s a bit of a crack in the mortar just here,” Aiden says, scrambling up a little higher and peering at the wall. “Won’t take me more than a minute.”

And in truth it doesn’t take long - the crack is wide enough that Aiden can shove the end of the wooden stave into it deep enough to hold it steady while he takes a mallet to it, and once the stave is firmly planted in the wall, it’s simplicity itself to hook the twine that runs through the birdfeeder over the notch at the end of the stave, and then the birdfeeder is dangling perfectly right outside Sasha’s window, well within reach so that Sasha can refill it without any danger to himself, or even bring it inside during windstorms.

Aiden goes scrambling back down the wall to return the mallet, and comes back to Sasha’s rooms via a quick detour to the cellar, where he begs some of the seed they use for the pigeons from Tadeusz without too much trouble. Sasha looks even more delighted when Aiden hands him the little barrel, and immediately goes over to fill the birdfeeder, stashing the barrel itself carefully in a corner where it won’t be in the way.

He and Aiden stand there admiring the new birdfeeder for a few minutes in silence, Aiden’s arm draped over Sasha’s shoulders and Sasha - delightfully - leaning against Aiden without seeming to notice he’s doing so, and after a little while they are rewarded by a sparrow landing on one of the little spokes and looking, insofar as Aiden can interpret bird body language, absolutely delighted to discover a trove of seeds so far above the ground.

Sasha makes a soft, happy noise. “It works! Oh, thank you - this is - thank you.”

Aiden squeezes his shoulders gently and nuzzles at his hair. “You’re very welcome, pup. I’m glad you like it.”

Sasha tilts his head back to smile up at Aiden. “How could I not? It’s - this may be one of the kindest gifts I have ever gotten.”

Aiden blinks. “Surely not.” It’s just a birdfeeder.

“It is a gift made, so I am guessing, by your own hands, purely because you thought I would like it - not in hope of gaining my favor for some political reason, and not given to encourage me to be more like the proper nobleman I ought to be, but simply because you knew it would bring me joy,” Sasha says quietly.

The words give Aiden a vivid and very unpleasant idea of what life in Tretogor must have been like, and he winces a little. Yeah, he’s definitely never going to even suggest that the birdfeeder might have been a courting gift, or have any sort of ulterior motive at all.

He made it because Sasha would like it, and there’s an end to the matter.

“I’m glad it pleases you,” he says simply, and they stand there watching the sparrow together, Sasha tucked up against him, warm and soft and sweet, glowing with happiness because of Aiden’s gift, which is the finest thanks Aiden could ever desire.

*

Two days after Aiden brought Aleksander a birdfeeder (a birdfeeder! A gift that isn’t about his rank, or his marital prospects, or the hobbies and interests a noble son of Redania ought to have, but simply something Aleksander likes!), Consort Jaskier stands up after supper and claps his hands for quiet, which falls immediately. “So,” he calls into the stillness, “does anyone else fancy a dancing night?”

There is a general roar of approval from the Witchers. Consort Jaskier beams and beckons for one of the Bears to join him on the steps of the dais. Aleksander is fascinated to see the Bear has a drum in his hands which looks quite small until he’s standing next to Consort Jaskier and Aleksander realizes he’s nearly seven feet tall and the drum in his hands at least twice the size of a regular tabor. He starts tapping out a steady drumbeat, and Consort Jaskier strikes up a lively tune on his lute.

Several dozen Witchers and humans pour out onto the cleared space between the high table and the common seating, pairing off cheerfully without anyone seeming to mind that most of them are men. Master Merten rises and offers a hand to Leocadie, who takes it and stands with a grin. Aleksander watches them step out onto the floor with a grin of his own - they look so very happy together.

Also Leocadie is astonishingly graceful on their metal leg - if Aleksander didn’t already know about it, he would never have guessed that only one of Leocadie’s legs is flesh and bone.

“So,” Aiden says brightly as he slides into the seat Leocadie has just vacated. “Do you like to dance, Sasha?”

“I do,” Aleksander says. He’s very fond of it, in fact. Dancing is all patterns, after all, and once he’s mastered a pattern it’s quite easy to keep his hands and feet moving as they ought without thinking about it; and the sorts of conversation it is appropriate to have while dancing are all quite simple, pleasant nothings that take little thought. And he likes the exertion of it, likes feeling a little more graceful than is his usual wont.

Consort Jaskier is playing a tune Aleksander knows, and if the Witchers are not such polished dancers as courtiers would be, still, they all seem to be having fun. It looks delightful.

“Dance with me?” Aiden asks, widening sunshine-yellow eyes hopefully.

Aleksander blushes. “I am afraid I’ve never learned the lady’s part,” he admits. And, he doesn’t add aloud, he certainly cannot imagine a Witcher like Aiden - confident, dangerous, co*cky Aiden - dancing the lady’s part for someone like him.

“You can lead, then,” Aiden says easily, proving Aleksander instantly and bafflingly wrong.

Aleksander swallows hard. They’ll look a bit ridiculous with him leading - Aiden is quite a bit taller than he is - but if Aiden truly doesn’t mind -

This is Kaer Morhen, and strange things are common here.

“I would be honored to dance with you,” he says, and stands, offering Aiden a bow. Aiden grins broadly and rises to bow back, then takes Aleksander’s hand and tugs him out onto the makeshift dance floor, turning gracefully into Aleksander’s arms as Consort Jaskier changes tunes.

Aleksander swallows again and reminds himself firmly that it’s just dancing, and he knows how to dance, nevermind that his partner is male and a Witcher and the handsomest man he’s ever seen. He can do this. He can.

It turns out Aiden is a very good partner. He learns quickly, and follows the slightest cues of Aleksander’s hands and stance with that easy, liquid grace that seems to mark the Cat Witchers especially. Nobody bats an eye at them as they move across the floor. Aleksander lets himself relax into the music and the pattern of the dance, into feeling like he’s…well, he’s leading, for the first time since Aiden put an arm around his shoulders and ushered him through a portal into Kaer Morhen’s chilly halls.

Aiden smiles down at him, sunshine-yellow eyes seeming to glow with happiness.

He’s terrifyingly appealing.

Aleksander carefully tucks that thought away; he certainly doesn’t want to start smelling like lust in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by Witchers. He focuses instead on his pleasure in the ease of dancing with Aiden, the joy of doing something he’s genuinely skilled at, and that seems to work; certainly Aiden’s smile grows broader.

“You’re good at this!” he says, as Aleksander catches him after a twirl. “And good at teaching it, too. You’ve got a gift for teaching, sweet pup.”

Aleksander can feel himself blushing, but he can’t truly mind. Lambert has said similar things, and by Aleksander’s estimation is very nearly ready for what they’ve decided will be his final examination - a staged conversation with Consort Jaskier, Livi, Milena, and Liliana, during which Lambert will be required to properly judge their ranks according to their clothing, compliment them appropriately, and avoid giving overt insult for the space of half an hour - and frankly, if Aleksander has managed to teach Lambert of all people to mimic courtly graces, then he might actually have something of a knack for teaching.

Certainly he’s less afraid of starting with the trainees now. They can’t possibly curse as inventively as Lambert does when he gets something wrong.

And he’s weirdly proud that he’s able to teach Aiden this. That Aiden trusts him enough to let Aleksander lead, to answer his cues so readily.

Consort Jaskier pauses for a moment between tunes to stretch his fingers and catch his breath, and Aleksander startles as someone taps his shoulder. “Little cousin,” Leocadie says cheerfully, “would you care to trade partners for a dance?”

“Ah -” Aleksander hesitates. In Tretogor, dancing with only one person for the whole night would be both scandalous and extremely rude. And he quite likes Leocadie, who has been endlessly kind to him. And, importantly, Aleksander is fairly sure this would be a purely friendly gesture, not an attempt at courting, given that Leocadie and Master Merten are very clearly devoted to each other.

Having one Witcher who is interested in courting him, should Aleksander ever dare to allow it, is quite enough. Aleksander doesn’t think he could cope with more.

“If Aiden doesn’t mind,” he says carefully.

“Not as long as I get you back later,” Aiden says, grinning down at him. “I’ll go show Merten what you’ve taught me, sweet pup.”

Aleksander nods, and Leocadie and Aiden trade places gracefully.

Leocadie is taller than Aiden, and Aleksander feels even more awkward about leading, but after a few moments he relaxes into it. Leocadie takes his cues almost as well as Aiden does, and seems delighted to learn some of the flourishes and fancy steps which Aleksander knows.

They also, when the dance has taken them to the other side of the floor from Merten and Aiden, say softly, “So, you’ve chosen yon Cat, then?”

Aleksander misses a step and has to scramble to catch his balance. “Chosen?”

“Because if you have not, and you dare not tell him to leave you be, Merten and I will be honored to do so in your place, little cousin,” Leocadie says gently, and then smiles, a wicked curl of lips that exposes very white teeth. “But you do not smell as if you mind being in his company.”

“I,” Aleksander says, and feels himself blushing hotly. “I do not mind his company, no. Please do not - do not attempt to discourage him.”

“Then we will not,” Leocadie says, patting Aleksander’s arm comfortingly. “We just wanted to make sure. Cats can be pushy.”

“Aiden has been the soul of kindness,” Aleksander says, as firmly as he can. “I could not ask for a better friend, and -” he hesitates, then plows onward, hoping his voice won’t crack with nervousness - “and perhaps something more.”

Leocadie’s smile goes soft. “Ah, little cousin, he’s a good choice. Even if he is a Cat.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, a little faintly, and they dance in silence until they meet Merten and Aiden in the middle of the dance floor. Leocadie twirls gracefully out of Aleksander’s arms and into Merten’s even as Aiden steps back into Aleksander’s embrace.

Aiden relaxes visibly. “That’s better,” he says as Aleksander steers him away into the next measure. “Merten’s not a bad dancer, but he’s not you, sweet pup.”

Aleksander swallows. “And Leocadie is not you,” he replies, and is rewarded by a startled, wholly delighted smile spreading over Aiden’s face.

He guides Aiden into a twirl, and finds himself laughing quietly, just because he cannot find any other way to let out the bubbling joy deep in his chest.

*

Aiden could happily have danced until dawn, but Sasha’s only human, and eventually he starts to flag. Aiden tugs him gently off the dance floor at the end of a tune. “You smell exhausted, pup.”

“I am,” Sasha admits. “But that was marvelous, Aiden, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Aiden says. “That was the most fun I’ve had outside the sparring ring in a long time.” He leads Sasha over to the Cat table and pours him a mug of small beer, taking another for himself - White Gull is nice, but right now he doesn’t want to be drunk, he just wants to quench the surprising amount of thirst brought on by a couple of hours of dancing.

Sasha’s a very skilled dancer, and a very good lead. Aiden didn’t even need to think about anything but following the clear directions of Sasha’s hands, and Sasha is stronger than he looks: Aiden can trust his weight to him, knowing he won’t be dropped or left hanging. It’s an addictively good feeling.

He makes it most of the way through the tankard before his conscience gets the better of him.

He glared three Manticores and a Crane away from daring to ask if they could cut in. Which felt damn good at the time - Aiden is a possessive bastard and doesn’t mind admitting it - but now he feels sort of…small, and nasty, in a way he doesn’t like at all.

He sighs. “Sasha,” he says quietly. Sasha looks up at him, crooking an eyebrow in question. “I wasn’t the only one who wanted to dance with you tonight.”

Sasha blinks. “Other than Leocadie, you mean?”

“Yes,” Aiden says. “There’s - I’m not the only one who thinks you’re sweet as anything, pup.”

“Oh,” Sasha says, sounding rather taken aback at the thought.

“I can - I can point ‘em out to you, if you’d like to tell them they’ve a chance,” Aiden grits out. He doesn’t want to. He has only rarely wanted anything less than telling Sasha who his rivals might be. But it isn’t fair to Sasha to keep him thinking that Aiden is the only Witcher who finds him attractive.

Sasha frowns slightly, and thinks for a long moment, sipping at his beer. “I might,” he says at last, “wish to dance with other people now and again. Milena and Livi, at the very least - I know they are fine dancers, and quite enjoyed partnering with them in Tretogor. But as for more - ah - more euphemistic partnering -” he hesitates, biting his lip. “I am - I am very flattered to learn that there are other Witchers who find me…interesting,” he says at last. “But in that matter I - I think I should like to continue dancing with you alone, as it were.” He gives Aiden a shy little glance through his eyelashes. “I trust you,” he adds, very softly.

Aiden feels about ten feet tall, and strong enough to punch out a wyvern. Sasha’s words are far more effective than a vial of Thunderbolt. He could fight the f*cking White Wolf and win, high on the thrill from knowing Sasha trusts him. And, at the same time, he wonders if it’s possible for a person to melt into an actual puddle out of sheer overjoyed relief. He may yet find out, at the rate this evening is going.

“Pup,” he breathes, and shifts a little closer, draping his free arm over Sasha’s shoulders and nuzzling at his hair. “You…f*ck, you are the sweetest thing.”

Sasha blushes, but he doesn’t pull away, and Aiden lets himself bask in the scent of Sasha’s joy and the possessive curl of delight nestled between his ribs: Sasha wants to dance with him. Sasha trusts him. Sasha doesn’t want to know who Aiden’s rivals for his affections are.

…Aiden really, really wants to kiss him. Wants to lick at his throat, tasting sweat and sweet affection. Wants to carry him off to his bedroom and cover him with marks so no one else will ever doubt that Sasha is his, all his.

“f*ck’s sake,” Dragonfly says, slumping down on the bench across the table and tugging Livi into her lap before reaching for a pitcher of human-safe ale. “Stop that, you ridiculous bastard.”

“Stop what?” Sasha asks, looking from Dragonfly to Aiden and back again in confusion.

Aiden gives Dragonfly a pleading look. If she scares Sasha off by mentioning how much Aiden wants him, Aiden might never forgive her.

“He’s doting, it’s sickening,” Dragonfly grumbles.

“And so are you,” Aiden rejoins, grinning with joyful relief; doting is far less likely to scare Sasha off than lusting would be. “Or did I not just see you nuzzling your lass’s hair?”

Dragonfly snarls a little, not very seriously, and Sasha and Livi laugh softly. Which - Sasha being able to laugh at a Witcher’s snarl is a vast and wonderful improvement from those first few awful days when he clearly thought any error on his part would result in his being hurt or cast out.

“I’ll dote if I want to,” Dragonfly huffs. Livi coos and kisses her cheek.

Sasha yawns, covering it with a hand and making a little noise of dismay. “Oh, I’m sorry, I do not mean to be rude -”

“Not rude, just tired,” Dragonfly says, grinning and wiggling her eyebrows. “Go put your pup to bed, Aiden, you’ve worn him the f*ck out.”

Sasha blushes, but he laughs, too. “Goodnight, then, Dragonfly, Livi.”

“Goodnight,” Livi says cheerfully, waving a little as Aiden guides Sasha away.

Sasha is stumbling a little with weariness by the time they make it to Aiden’s rooms and get changed into their nightclothes. Aiden tugs him into bed and curls around him, breathing in the scent of Sasha’s happiness and wishing he could purr.

Sasha trusts him.

It’s not quite permission to court his sweet pup…but it’s close enough to give Aiden hope.

*

Aleksander wakes up, as has become routine, to the feeling of Aiden sliding gently out from under him, and the soft murmur of Aiden’s voice saying, “I’m off for training, pup.”

Aleksander manages to make some sort of noise in reply, though not a very coherent one, and Aiden laughs quietly; there’s the soft rustling of the Witcher changing his clothing and donning his armor, and then the creak and thud of the door opening and closing, and Aleksander is alone in Aiden’s rooms.

It’s a remarkable level of trust, and one Aleksander is careful not to abuse.

He won’t be getting back to sleep, but he lies there in quiet contentment for a while, nestled into the heap of furs that still hold Aiden’s more-than-human warmth and the faint scent of the spiced soap the Witcher prefers.

It’s very comfortable, and very comforting; even without Aiden’s actual presence, the scent of him and the reminder of his warmth are enough to reassure Aleksander that he is utterly safe within these rooms.

Utterly safe, always, in Aiden’s arms, and that -

That has taken on an aspect Aleksander isn’t quite sure how to deal with, after last night’s dancing.

Aiden is quite terrifyingly attractive.

It isn’t as though Aleksander hasn’t noticed this before. He’s been having scandalous thoughts about the Cat Witcher since his first day in Kaer Morhen. But somehow dancing with Aiden - feeling the strength of Aiden’s lithe body under his hands, moving at Aleksander’s direction; basking in the warmth of Aiden’s sunshine-yellow eyes as he smiles - has moved Aleksander’s occasional wistful thoughts thoroughly to the forefront of his mind.

He’s not entirely sure what it is about Aiden which makes him the handsomest man Aleksander has ever seen. Maybe it’s his hair, hanging in loose dark-brown ringlets to his shoulders, something about its soft curls inviting Aleksander to run his fingers through it the way Milena does Lambert’s short-cropped hair. Or maybe it’s the way Aiden’s sunshine-yellow eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles down at Aleksander, the way he looks at Aleksander like he’s worthy of affection just for existing. Or maybe it’s the inhuman grace of his movements, elegant and confident, utterly unhesitating. Gods, but watching Aiden sparring with Lambert is glorious: he moves like lightning made flesh, faster than Aleksander’s eyes could truly follow, every motion sleek with a liquid grace that Aleksander could watch forever and never grow tired. Or maybe it’s the faint scars on his face which only draw attention to the sharp beauty of his cheekbones, or the neatly trimmed lines of his beard enhancing the curve of his elegant jawline. Or maybe it’s all of that together, combined with the wicked smirk of Aiden’s smile and the graceful gestures of his hands and -

Aleksander rolls over and buries his face in a pillow. Gods, dancing with Aiden - holding him close, feeling the more-than-human heat of him, seeing all that perfect grace moving at the direction of Aleksander’s hands - Aleksander could happily do that every night, and count himself far wealthier than he ever was as a duke, just to have the opportunity.

And Aiden is...sweet. It’s odd to think of a Witcher being so - certainly Lambert and Dragonfly aren’t, as far as Aleksander can tell, except to their lady-loves and occasionally to Aleksander himself - but Aiden is so...warm, and kind, and gentle.

And so clearly, unashamedly, blatantly interested in Aleksander.

In Tretogor, the barest suggestion that a man might find other men desirable was a dueling insult. Aleksander has therefore never let himself look at other men with desire, never let his eyes linger on broad shoulders or trim hips or well-groomed beards. He likes looking at women, after all, their curves and elegant features and beautifully-coiffed hair, and so he very carefully only ever looked at women, and even then, not long enough to suggest more than a passing interest, lest his gaze be taken as a suggestion that he desired more.

Even here in Kaer Morhen, he’s more than a little wary of looking too intently at anyone.

Except Aiden. He’s been very indiscreet in how he looks at Aiden.

He isn’t sure how to signal a - a willingness to be courted. It wasn’t something he ever wished to display in Tretogor, and in any case Kaer Morhen is so very different a court that Aleksander cannot imagine the signals would be the same.

Is he willing to be courted?

He has been allowing Aiden to understand that at some point in the future he might be willing, but Aiden has made it clear that if Aleksander were to find some other lover, the Cat would not stand in his way. He would probably expect Aleksander to stop sharing his bed, but…

Aleksander doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to find another lover, and he doesn’t want to stop sharing Aiden’s bed, and he -

Aleksander closes his eyes and lets himself imagine kissing Aiden. It’s not exactly easy to imagine, since Aleksander hasn’t kissed anyone before, barring polite pecks to familial cheeks, but he’s seen Milena and Livi and Consort Jaskier kissing their lovers, and it does not seem so terribly complicated. It would just be - tilting his head up, and Aiden bending down to meet him, and then -

He can feel himself blush at the thought of Aiden’s lips on his. Blush, and go hot down to his toes, and shiver with desire.

That would seem to be a fairly clear indication that he’s interested in allowing Aiden to court him, then.

Now it only remains to figure out how to ask for that.

He’s fairly sure he is not brave enough to tell Aiden outright that he wants…wants to discover if they can be lovers, if they will suit each other in that way as well as they seem to fit in so many others. But, well -

There is a long romantic tradition of go-betweens, and Milena has acted as one already, telling Aiden not to press his suit while Aleksander was still so off-balance and discomforted that such a thing would have panicked rather than delighted him.

Aleksander rolls out of bed and rummages for a change of clothing in the chest Aiden has brought in for Aleksander’s clothing. He can talk to Milena after her morning bath. Or he can be brave, and go down to bathe with Consort Jaskier and the ladies, on purpose this time. It was fine last time; they made him welcome, and did not make much of his awkwardness. He will manage to overcome his nerves. Communal bathing is part of living in Kaer Morhen, and Aleksander is of Kaer Morhen now. Even if he’s going to blush the whole time, and probably stare at the ceiling instead of his companions.

And then…

And then he’ll see what being courted by a Witcher might entail.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“Aiden,” Kitten says, and loops an arm through his, guiding him around a corner before Aiden’s quite figured out what’s going on. “I need to talk to you.”

“Alright,” Aiden says, following obediently as she leads the way to her and Lambert’s rooms and closes the door behind them. “What’s got you smelling so serious?”

Kitten turns and looks up at him, dark eyes solemn. “I need you to promise me something,” she says.

“Name it,” Aiden replies, because he can’t imagine what Kitten could ask of him that he wouldn’t give.

“I need you to promise not to immediately go entirely overboard and begin making dramatic absurd gestures,” Kitten says.

“Alright,” Aiden says warily. “What am I not going overboard about, Kitten?”

“Sasha asked me to tell you that he is, in fact, interested in being courted. By you, specifically.”

For a moment, there are no thoughts in Aiden’s head, nothing but sheer blank joy so overwhelming it swamps everything else under a wave as all-encompassing as a tsunami.

And then, of course, he realizes why Kitten demanded he promise not to go overboard, because his first instinct is to head straight out to the gardens and put together a bouquet of every single flower that Redanian flower language says means love, and then carry Sasha off to bed and ravish him repeatedly, possibly on top of said flowers.

Which he will not be doing, or at least not yet.

“Gracious,” Kitten says, sounding like she’s suppressing laughter. “I haven’t seen a Witcher’s pupils go that round, that quickly, since the last time I disarmed Lambert.”

Aiden snorts, distracted from his grandiose plans by amusem*nt at Lambert’s expense. “Yeah?”

“It’s quite remarkable, really,” Kitten says, smiling. “Now. Are you going to go bowl poor Sasha over?”

“No,” Aiden says, and takes a deep breath, shaking himself a little to settle his…everything, really. “No, I’m not going to overwhelm my sweet pup. And thank you for taking precautions to ensure that. What do you think of one flower, at dinner?”

“I think one flower is a very good start,” Kitten says, smiling. “And, Aiden -”

Aiden raises an eyebrow. Kitten reaches out and puts a hand on his arm.

“Sasha’s lucky to have you,” she says quietly. “You’re a good man, and as dear as a brother to me. I know you’ll treat him as well as Lambert does me, and that is well indeed.”

Aiden swallows against a sudden lump in his throat. “I’ll do my damnedest, Kitten,” he promises softly.

“I have every faith in you,” Kitten says, patting his arm gently.

Aiden grins at her. “Thanks, Kitten,” he says, and leans down to kiss her forehead. “I’m going to go raid the greenhouse now.”

“One flower,” Kitten reminds him firmly. “One!”

“One,” Aiden promises, and heads for the greenhouses at speed, running over every bit of flower language he’s learned in the last few weeks. It’s probably far too soon for anything that actually means love - that should wait until they’ve at least kissed, surely - and it is definitely far too soon for anything that means passion, given that he’s trying not to overwhelm Sasha. Which does narrow his choices down a little. And of course there’s the limit of what he can find in the greenhouses or the herb gardens.

He does a quick loop of both, eyeing the late-summer blooms in the gardens and the profusion of greenery in the glassed greenhouses. He has options, though fewer than he might like, given that Witchers don’t tend to grow ornamental flowers. But there are decorative flowers along the edges of the beds in the big herb garden with its winding paths, and edible flowers in the kitchen greenhouse. And some flowers in the alchemical greenhouse, too, though Aiden will need to avoid the poisonous ones.

And there might end up being more flowers in the gardens one of these days, if more Witchers start learning flower language. Aiden is planning on getting Lambert a flowerpot and a packet of tansy seeds for midwinter, so he can hand out flowers that mean ‘I declare war on you’ to all and sundry. Though they’ve already got tansies in the alchemical greenhouse - apparently they’re useful in potions.

Aiden certainly won’t be giving those to Sasha.

But in the same section of the greenhouse, to Aiden’s mild surprise, there’s a small patch of mignonette. He didn’t know that was useful in alchemy - well, to be fair, he doesn’t know what sorts of plants are needed for anything but the most basic potions. He’s never been good at alchemy, and all the potions he knows are by rote - not like Lambert, who knows exactly why every ingredient is needed and what altering it might do, and likes to tinker with substitutions for this or that to see if he can make their potions stronger, or longer-lasting, or less toxic. For that matter, Aiden hasn’t made his own potions in years. It’s much easier to grab them out of the supply cupboards that Merigold and the alchemically-inclined Witchers keep stocked, and the potions are better, too.

Aiden runs a finger over a spray of mignonette, grinning. Surely a single sprig counts as one flower, even if it’s actually closer to a dozen blooms, right?

He picks the nicest sprig and heads in for dinner, feeling like he could practically burst into bloom himself. And wouldn’t that be a sight, a Witcher covered in flowers?

*

Aleksander isn’t quite sure what he expects to happen after Milena tells Aiden that Aleksander is - is open to being courted.

He half suspects he’s going to learn that the message has been passed on when Aiden appears out of nowhere to pounce on him, which would be startling but not entirely unwelcome. Though Aleksander isn’t sure he’s ready to deal with any such public displays of affection as Milena and Livi and Consort Jaskier are wont to perform with their Witcher lovers.

But Aiden does not spring upon him without warning; indeed, Aiden has already taken his place at the Cat table for dinner by the time Aleksander arrives, and for a moment Aleksander wonders if Milena managed to pass along the message at all.

And then Aiden turns to greet him.

Aiden looks -

He looks dazed with happiness, grinning so broadly it ought to hurt his cheeks, sunshine-yellow eyes as bright as midday, and Aleksander feels himself blushing and smiling back, delighted at the thought that he has somehow made Aiden this happy.

Aleksander sits down, and Aiden reaches over to lay something gently on the table in front of Aleksander.

A sprig of flowers. Of mignonette flowers.

Aleksander blushes so hard he could probably cook dinner on his cheeks, and covers his face with both hands. Across the table, Livi makes a soft sound of delight.

“Alright,” Dragonfly says slowly, “Aiden getting him flowers is sweet, sure, but why’s Aleksander gone cherry-colored?”

“A question much on all our minds,” Cedric agrees.

“I genuinely did not mean to turn you this red, pup,” Aiden says, sounding very worried. Aleksander peeks through his fingers to see that Aiden is looking distressed instead of happy, which is -

Aleksander has no idea what to say to reassure him, but he knows Aiden likes it when Aleksander leans against him, so he shifts closer and buries his face against Aiden’s shoulder. Aiden wraps an arm rather tentatively around him, tightening it carefully when Aleksander doesn’t object.

“Mignonette means ‘your qualities surpass your loveliness’,” Livi explains. “And I don’t think Sasha was expecting quite that sweet of a compliment.”

“I was not,” Aleksander agrees, muffled against Aiden’s shoulder.

“Did you know what it means?” Axel asks.

“Yep,” Aiden says, sounding rather proud. “Kitten loaned me a book of flower language a few weeks ago. I’ve been studying.”

Aleksander takes a deep breath and straightens up, though he doesn’t pull away from Aiden’s comforting arm around him. He picks up the sprig of mignonette carefully, brushing his fingers against the tiny blossoms, and after a moment’s thought he carefully tucks it through two of the lacing-holes of his shirt, so it will stay in place. The sweet scent fills the air, faint but definitely noticeable.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and dares to look up and meet Aiden’s eyes.

“Was that too much?” Aiden asks softly. “I thought a single flower - well, alright, a dozen, but it’s one stem -”

“It’s not too much,” Aleksander says, pretending not to notice the other Cats listening avidly. “I just…wasn’t expecting it. But -” he reaches up to brush his fingers against the delicate flowers again. “It’s - thank you.” He smiles, delighted when Aiden starts to smile too, sweet and hopeful. “You have a talent for very thoughtful gifts.”

“You know, no one’s ever told me that before,” Aiden says.

“We haven’t said it,” Dragonfly says contemplatively, “but he’s right, actually. You got me an’ Rach an’ Vesper those special stays back when we were just getting old enough to need ‘em, remember?”

“And you brought me a dwarf-made scribing wheel the winter after my old one broke,” Axel puts in. “Damn thing hasn’t gone dull yet.”

“I still use those adamant chisels you gave me,” Cedric adds.

Aiden looks like he would be blushing if he could. Aleksander leans his head against Aiden’s shoulder, and Aiden rests his forehead against Aleksander’s hair, hiding his face just as Aleksander did only moments ago.

“Now how’m I supposed to uphold a reputation as a terrifying wild Witcher if you keep getting my siblings to say nice things to me, hey, sweet pup?” he murmurs.

Aleksander muffles a laugh. “Do you want to have such a reputation?”

“Well. Not really,” Aiden admits, straightening up again. “I mean, I am a Cat, with everything that comes with that, but one of the nice parts of this whole Warlord thing is that we aren’t necessarily treated like monsters within the Wolflands. And we don’t have to posture and bristle and snarl just to get a little respect, for that matter.” All his siblings nod.

“Everything that comes with that?” Aleksander asks, and then remembers Leocadie telling him about the seven Schools and their quirks. “Ah - do you mean the -” there must be a polite term for it, but he doesn’t know what it is.

“The Cat-madness,” Aiden says easily, lifting his arm from Aleksander’s shoulders to accept a tray of food from one of the servants. “Oh good, you do know about that.”

“Leocadie mentioned it,” Aleksander admits. “And Dilan said it had not been - ah - relevant in the last few years.”

“Dilan’s right,” Cedric says. “None of us have gone off in the last - sh*t, it must be five or six years now, and that was Kiyan anyhow.”

“Kiyan’s high-strung even for a Cat,” Dragonfly explains. “We’ve gotten good at squelching him when he starts getting twitchy.”

Aleksander isn’t sure he wants to ask what squelching means in this context. He’s encountered Kiyan a few times - mostly as the blond Cat goes bounding up into the rafters of the hall to nap, though sometimes Kiyan can also be found following Mouse around, alternating between teasing her and running errands at her behest. He doesn’t seem dangerous, or no more so than most Witchers do. Instead he says, “May I ask what does cause such unfortunate occurrences?”

“Unfortunate occurrences, I like that,” Cedric snorts. “Sure, if you’re taking up with a Cat you oughta know. You too, little Livi, if nobody’s told you straight-out yet.”

Livi nods. Dragonfly grimaces.

Axel sighs. “Of the four of us, I’m the one who’s gone off most…comprehensively,” he says. “And what set me off was thinking someone’d killed Cedric.” He gives Aiden a sort of apologetic grimace. Aiden tilts his head in something like a nod of acceptance. Aleksander wonders what that was about, but he’s not going to ask, and in any case, Axel is still talking.

“As far as we can tell from our records, that’s one of the two main reasons: either you think someone’s hurt your person, or you get real badly hurt yourself. But either way it’s - it’s not just getting hurt. It’s -” He trails off, groping like he’s trying to seize the words he wants out of the air.

“It’s panicking,” Cedric says quietly. “Being absolutely sure you or your person is gonna die and there’s f*ck-all you can do about it. Especially if you’re already on edge for one reason or another - exhausted and hungry and knowing there’s another fight coming and you’re not ready -” He shrugs. “And then you get hurt, or your person gets hurt, the one who means more to you than your own life…”

“And you go berserk,” Dragonfly finishes softly. “Which is almost never the right response, but tell that to our f*ckin’ messed-up mutagens.”

“That’s terrible,” Livi says.

Aleksander wholeheartedly agrees.

*

Aiden has rarely been through such a set of emotional somersaults as he has this morning: first the absolute glee of knowing Sasha will allow him to court him, then the sudden terror that he has somehow chosen wrong with the flower, followed by the sheer delight that Sasha likes it, is wearing it, thinks Aiden is good at choosing gifts, and now this. Now waiting on tenterhooks for Sasha to decide that a Cat, with all that the School and its mutagens entail, is not a suitable partner for a sweet Wolf-hearted pup like him.

Sasha frowns in thought, and then says, slowly, “I am oddly reminded of tales I have heard ere now, of mere humans who, when in grave danger - or, often, when their children were in grave danger - performed acts of immense strength, such as they could never have done under ordinary circ*mstances. Lifting boulders, for instance, or intimidating full-grown bears.”

Livi is nodding. “The instinct to fight or flee, I have heard such circ*mstances called,” she agrees. “And as Witchers do not seem able to flee -”

“We have to fight,” Axel says. “Huh. That…huh.” He frowns, tapping his fingers on the table as he thinks.

“That’s…an interesting way to look at it,” Cedric says quietly. “That it’s a perfectly normal instinct, just…magnified all out of proportion.”

“Not sure if that makes it less monstrous or more,” Axel says. “But. Huh.”

Cedric wraps an arm around his mate’s waist and rests his head on Axel’s shoulder in silent comfort.

“It doesn’t happen often,” Dragonfly says. “Most of us never have to deal with it. And with the new patrol groups, even if one of us does go off, there’s someone there to squelch us.”

Livi hums. “So, Cat-madness is not the same as - as when your eyes were black?”

Dragonfly blinks. “What? No, that was - I was toxic, not Cat-mad. Still damn stupid of me to come looking for you, since people tend to run away when they see us like that, but not the same thing at all.”

“Toxic?” Sasha asks, giving Aiden a worried look.

“Um,” Aiden says. “So you know how we can drink poison.”

“Yes, I dine with the Manticores regularly,” Sasha says, very dryly. Dragonfly barks a laugh.

Aiden grins despite the worry he can’t quite set aside. “So when we’re out hunting, we have potions to make us stronger, or faster, or better able to see in the dark - all that sort of thing.”

Sasha nods. “Yes; Lambert and Leocadie make many of them, I believe.”

Aiden nods. “Well, the potions work, but they’re also very, very poisonous. Enough that it even affects Witchers.”

Livi and Sasha both smell very unhappy about that. “Affects in what way?” Livi asks.

“Well, we can’t take too many, or it will end badly,” Dragonfly says. “But you’ve seen what they do in…controlled doses.”

Livi nods, and gives Sasha a solemn look. “It was quite disconcerting,” she says. “Her eyes were black, and her skin very pale, with black veins.”

Sasha winces. “That sounds…”

Aiden waits for ‘horrific’ or ‘monstrous’ or ‘disgusting’.

“Deeply uncomfortable,” Sasha decides.

…Or Aiden’s sweet Wolf-hearted pup could surprise him again.

“It is, a bit,” Cedric agrees. “Most of them taste like sh*t, too. But they’re a damn sight better than they used to be.”

Axel nods. “Lambert and Ivar and Leocadie between them have improved the f*cking things immensely. I don’t throw up every time I take a Swallow any more, for instance.”

“Yeah, that was godsawful,” Cedric says, grimacing. “The nausea did not enhance the healing experience.”

“It did not,” Axel agrees.

Sasha frowns a little. “So to sum up: in order to most efficiently fight the monsters you slay, you drink poisonous potions, and their side effects are deeply unpleasant.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Dragonfly says.

“It’s kind of why we exist,” Aiden adds, and Sasha gives him a curious look. “The stuff we hunt, it’s faster and meaner than anything humans could kill - or not without taking obscene numbers of casualties.”

Cedric nods. “A bruxa could go through a company of soldiers like grass through a f*ckin’ goose.”

“Exactly.” Aiden shrugs. “And even Witchers aren’t as fast or as strong as the monsters, sometimes. So we’re made as sturdy as we can be so we can drink the potions that make us just barely strong enough.”

Sasha’s eyes are very wide. “I think I would very much like to never encounter any of the monsters you face,” he says faintly.

“f*ck no,” Aiden agrees fervently, all the other Witchers nodding vigorously. “The whole point of us is that you never have to get within a dozen furlongs of a monster.”

“What he said,” Dragonfly agrees, pulling Livi onto her lap and curling protectively around her. Livi laughs softly and just nestles into her embrace.

“Well then,” Sasha says, and wonder of wonder, leans in to rest against Aiden’s shoulder, smelling of - of contentment, and mignonette. Aiden wraps his arm back around Sasha’s shoulders and wishes he could purr as Sasha relaxes against him, warm and soft and not leaving, not pulling away even now that he knows what sort of monsters Witchers truly are.

*

Aleksander isn’t entirely sure how he makes it through the rest of the day. He’s distracted enough that his attempts to put the finishing touches on his syllabus for the trainee etiquette classes are worse than useless. Over supper, all the Manticores give him grins of vast amusem*nt; Dilan ruffles his hair, and Leocadie coos at him. But none of them tease him, even when he’s tongue-tied and clumsy with mixed delight and apprehension.

Delight, because he has a sprig of mignonette tucked into his shirt that smells of sweet vanilla and means Aiden is courting him.

Apprehension, because after supper he’s going to be going to bed with Aiden, just as they have every night for the last few weeks, and Aleksander doesn’t know what might change now that Aiden is courting him.

It’s not that he’s opposed to doing…shocking and scandalous things which a proper nobleman ought not know anything about, with Aiden. It’s just that he was, up until he committed high treason, a very proper nobleman indeed, and therefore he does not, in fact, know anything. And even if it’s like a dance, where once you know the pattern it’s easy enough to follow, the initial learning of the pattern is always a little fraught, and the more so since he wants so fervently to not…to not disappoint Aiden somehow.

He’s feeling like he might jitter out of his skin, or possibly go hide in the herb garden, by the time he joins Aiden in his rooms that night. Aiden takes one look at him - and, presumably, one sniff - and says, “Pup, what’s wrong?”

“Ah,” Aleksander says, and swallows hard.

Aiden winces visibly. “Are you rethinking this?” he asks in a very small voice, reaching out to just barely brush his fingers against the sprig of mignonette.

“What? No!” Aleksander blurts, horrified. “No, no, of course not!”

Aiden’s shoulders sag in obvious relief. “Oh thank f*ck,” he says. “Well then. What is the matter?”

It’s very odd, thinking that Aleksander can have such an effect on so confident and competent a man as Aiden - that Aiden wants him so much, and cares so deeply for his own affections.

“I don’t know what - what you expect of me,” he admits quietly.

“Oh!” Aiden says, and grins, stepping a little closer and brushing the backs of his fingers against Aleksander’s cheek. “Pup, all I expect is that you’ll let me hold you close and protect you from nightmares, same as we’ve been doing.” His grin gets a little toothier. “Sure, I’ve got a whole list of things I’d like to do, but I don’t think you’re quite ready for most of ‘em. I’m maybe hoping you might let me kiss you, though. You don’t have to!” he adds hastily. “Just, if you wanted.”

Oh. Well. That’s…much less intimidating than Aleksander was building it up to be in his own mind.

“I would like that, I think,” Aleksander says carefully. “Though you will have to show me how; I haven’t any relevant experience.”

The way Aiden’s pupils dilate, swallowing the sunshine-yellow of his irises in hungry darkness, is actually rather fascinating. “Will I now,” Aiden purrs softly. “What gifts you give me, Wolf-hearted Sasha.” He tucks a curled finger under Aleksander’s chin, tilting his head up a little more, and bends down until his lips are barely a hair’s breadth away, his breath puffing hot against Aleksander’s mouth. Aleksander is trembling slightly, but it doesn’t feel like fear. Anticipation, perhaps, is a far better word. He lets his eyes fall closed, waiting.

“May I kiss you, sweet pup?” Aiden breathes against his lips.

“Yes,” Aleksander whispers.

The press of Aiden’s mouth to his is very, very gentle, and when Aleksander sways a little, startled by how much he likes the feeling, Aiden’s hand slides around to cup the back of his head tenderly, and his other hand splays hot and steady across Aleksander’s back, and all Aleksander needs to do is follow Aiden’s lead.

Aiden’s tongue taps gently at Aleksander’s lips, and Aleksander opens his mouth on a gasp, and the kiss goes from chaste and sweet to overwhelming. Aiden tastes of ale and honey and something pleasantly bitter that Aleksander can’t name, and he kisses like he wants to devour Aleksander whole.

Aleksander doesn’t think he’d mind being devoured.

He’s breathing hard when Aiden finally pulls back just enough for their lips to part. “Sweet pup,” Aiden whispers. “Gods, you taste divine.”

Aleksander opens his eyes to find Aiden staring down at him with an expression he can only call wonder.

“So do you,” Aleksander says softly, and Aiden smiles, bright as the noonday sun.

“Sweet pup,” he says again, and bends to press another gentle kiss to Aleksander’s lips. “Wolf-hearted Aleksander. My Sasha. Come to bed and let me hold you?”

“Yes,” Aleksander says.

It turns out kissing in a bed is even more overwhelmingly good than doing so while upright, and Aleksander falls asleep some uncounted time later with his lips still tingling and Aiden’s arms wrapped warm and heavy around him, holding him close.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Aiden is expecting his siblings to tease the f*ck out of him during training the morning after Sasha agrees to allow Aiden to court him. He expects Lambert to laugh raucously and then help him think of possible gifts, sympathizing entirely with Aiden’s flailing desire to do this right. He even maybe expects some of the Manticores to swing by and make sure he knows that he’d better treat Sasha well, or else he’ll be finding poisons in his everything forever.

He is not expecting to step out of the keep onto the training field and immediately be accosted by a pint-sized Mantikitten who looks ready to gut him where he stands.

Zia glares up at him, gold-and-grey eyes narrowed. Her dagger is clenched in one fist, knuckles white with the tightness of her grip. “Esra said you was gonna be courting Sasha,” she says.

“Yes,” Aiden says warily. “Sasha said I could.”

Zia steps closer, glowering fiercely enough that Aiden’s a little surprised he hasn’t been set on fire by the sheer force of it. “You don’ get to make him yer catamite. We won’ let you.”

“Ah,” Aiden says, genuinely taken aback. “Hoo boy. Right. Come over here where we’re not in the way and let’s talk, little cousin.”

Zia follows him warily off to one side of the field, and Aiden sinks down to sit cross legged on the ground, hands open and obviously empty on his knees. She dithers for a moment before dragging a crate over and sitting on it; it makes her a little taller than he is, which is all to the good, probably.

“Right,” Aiden says. “Take a good sniff, little cousin. Can you tell what I smell like, when I think about Sasha?”

Zia frowns and wrinkles her nose, but she takes in a deep breath; Aiden concentrates as hard as he can on the sheer adoration he felt this morning, waking up with Sasha nestled against him, still able to taste his sweet pup’s kisses.

After a moment, Zia says slowly, “Y’smell like honey.”

Aiden nods. “Honey on warm bread is love, little cousin,” he says as gently as he can. “I adore Sasha. I would rather throw myself off the keep than do him any harm at all.”

Zia’s frown deepens. “Truth,” she says reluctantly. “But then why -”

Aiden shakes his head. “I can only imagine what you saw in Tretogor, but here, two men - or three, for that matter, or more I suppose - it’s not about - about dominance, or pain, or just not having enough women.”

Zia hesitates. “That - that’s - I figured, the Wolf, hell, he can have who he wants, an’ I guess he’s good t’ Jaskier - he don’ ever smell like pain - but it’s -” She stops and takes a deep breath, fingers flexing around the hilt of her dagger. “You ain’t gonna bugger Sasha bloody for sh*ts an’ giggles.”

“No,” Aiden promises. “I won’t. That’s not how things work here. That’s not why I want Sasha. And -” he snorts and offers her a crooked grin. “If anyone’s buggering anyone, it’ll be him having me.”

That, apparently, is enough to startle her out of her anger. “Wait, what?”

Aiden shrugs. “I prefer it that way.”

“Y’ prefer -” Zia cuts herself off and shakes her head. “Nevermind. Yer - you love him?”

She sounds almost as young as she truly is, odd eyes wide with a sort of painful hope.

“I do,” Aiden says. “And I think I will grow to love him yet more with every day that passes.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter much to Witchers, you know - who you choose to love, I mean. Getting to love someone at all is too damn precious to quibble about what they’ve got in their pants.”

“Huh,” Zia says, eyeing him thoughtfully, and then, slowly, she puts her dagger away. “It really is courtin’, then.”

“It really is,” Aiden says.

“You gonna marry him?” Zia demands.

“Uh.” Aiden blinks. “Witchers don’t marry. But if he’ll have me, he’ll be my mate, as sure as Kitten is Lambert’s or Zofia is Auckes’, or Jaskier is the Wolf’s and Eskel’s. And I’ll be his.”

“Oh,” Zia says. “Huh.” She hops off of the crate, and Aiden gets to his feet. “I’ll tell m’sisters not t’stab you,” she says. “Not unless y’ hurt him.”

“If I hurt him, you may stab me as much as you please,” Aiden promises.

Zia snorts. “Yeah, alright,” she says, and turns away - then stops and turns back. “It really don’ matter here at all? Who y’ f*ck?”

“Not at all, as long as everyone involved is happy about it,” Aiden promises.

“Huh.” She hesitates. “And what if y’ don’ want to f*ck?”

“Then no one will expect you to,” Aiden says. “And - well. Even if you do smell interested, people will ask. That’s one of the things we get taught, starting real damn early. How you smell isn’t consent. You gotta ask. Always.”

Zia looks startled and thoughtful.

Aiden smiles at her gently. “The trainees do usually end up bedding each other, because putting that many young men with entirely too much energy and the sex drives of rabbits in one place means they’re going to f*ck, but none of the adults will touch any of them until they’ve passed their Medallion Trials and are full Witchers. But even the trainees won’t ask unless you make it pretty clear you’re interested.”

“I’m not,” Zia says roughly. “None of us are.”

“Understandably so,” Aiden agrees. “So no one will ask - or if they do, they’ll damn well take no for an answer.”

“An’ so will you?” Zia checks.

“Always,” Aiden says. “Sasha’s setting the pace, and always will be.”

“Hmph,” Zia says, but she nods. “Alright. Fine.” She gives Aiden one last glare before shrugging and looking away. “He’s awful fond of you,” she mutters, and goes stomping away.

Aiden is pretty sure that’s as close as the prickly little Mantikitten can get to giving him her blessing, and is oddly touched.

Also rather pleased to not have had to decide between getting stabbed - and he’s reasonably sure she would have gone for a vital organ if she’d tried - or possibly hurting her in defending himself.

Lambert comes over and slings an arm around his shoulders, grinning. “Thought you were done for,” he teases.

“What, you weren’t going to save me?” Aiden laughs.

“Nah, I woulda,” Lambert says. “Sasha’d be sad if you died, and then Milena’d be sad.” Aiden guffaws.

Lambert snickers for a moment before sobering and leaning in to bump their foreheads gently together. “So would I,” he says, very softly. “So no dying, kitty.”

Aiden swallows the lump in his throat. “No dying,” he promises. “And the same to you, Lam.”

“Heh. I’m too spiteful to die,” Lambert says, and pulls away, clapping Aiden on the shoulder. “C’mon, I want to go see what the new Crane bullsh*t on the obstacle course is.”

“Ooh,” Aiden says, and follows Lambert across the training field, feeling warm down to his very toes.

*

“Sasha!” Milena says delightedly. Aleksander actually manages to smile at her before carefully averting his eyes. Bathing with the ladies and Consort Jaskier is getting easier, but only a very little at a time.

“So,” Consort Jaskier says as Aleksander settles into the water. “I suspect I oughtn’t tease you at all, my friend, but I have to ask: that was mignonette in your shirt-lacing last night, was it not?”

Aleksander can feel himself blushing. “Yes.”

“What?” Princess Ciri asks, sounding very confused.

“Mignonette is a flower that means something very sweet in Redanian flower language,” Milena explains. “In this case, it means our Sasha is allowing Aiden to court him.”

“Oh!” Princess Ciri says, and even though he knows better, Aleksander braces himself for disapproval.

“Aiden’s nice,” Princess Ciri says. “Are you happy?”

Aleksander blinks and takes a second to readjust his expectations yet again to allow for Kaer Morhen. “Exceedingly,” he assures her.

“Then I’m happy for you,” Princess Ciri says, grinning.

Which is - well, Aleksander cannot imagine any of the royalty of Redania saying such a thing in such a circ*mstance, but Princess Ciri seems utterly sincere. “Thank you, your highness,” Aleksander says gravely, and Princess Ciri giggles.

“I’m not a highness, I’m a menace,” she says, to the clear amusem*nt of everyone else in the pool.

“It is always good to have someone else join the ranks of those of us sensible enough to realize that Witchers are truly superlative creatures to have in one’s bed,” Consort Jaskier says lightly. “Mostly, of course, because they act as extremely cuddly furnaces.”

Livi makes an inelegant little snorfling sound. Milena laughs aloud.

“Eskel did say something about you having remarkably cold toes,” Lady Yennefer muses, tapping one perfectly manicured finger against her lips.

“He did not!” Consort Jaskier squawks indignantly.

Lady Yennefer snickers. “No, he didn’t. He said you sing in your sleep.”

“Oh, well, that I’ll admit,” Consort Jaskier says, lounging back against the side of the pool again. “Or at least, all my various bedmates have said I do, and I can’t believe they’d all invent the same lie independently!”

“You are inspiring, little flower,” Lady Yennefer teases.

Aleksander is frankly grateful that they’ve decided to banter with each other instead of continuing to interrogate him. He doesn’t think he could talk about what it feels like to have kissed Aiden. To know what Aiden tastes like, the way his eyes go dark with hunger, the painstaking gentleness of his hands cradling Aleksander close.

Maybe, maybe, he could speak of such things with Milena and Livi. They would understand, and not tease, or not much. But with Consort Jaskier and Lady Yennefer and Mouse and Nadia and Princess Ciri? No. He would die of mortification.

“Aleksander,” Princess Ciri says, “Milena said you’d be giving Lambert a Trial of Etiquette pretty soon.”

Consort Jaskier makes a little sputtering sound. Lady Yennefer laughs aloud.

“Trial of Etiquette, that’s beautiful,” Livi chortles.

“We will, yes,” Aleksander says. “I think he is going to do very well, too.”

Princess Ciri grins. “Well, I was going to ask - do you think he’d mind if he had an audience?”

Aleksander blinks at her, seeing expressions of matching confusion on everyone else’s face. “An audience, your highness?”

Princess Ciri grimaces at him in mild admonishment for the title; Aleksander gives her an apologetic look, grateful that she isn’t offended by his occasional slips into the sort of etiquette appropriate to an emperor’s daughter. “Well, you’re going to be teaching the trainees soon,” she explains. “I thought perhaps it would be good for us to all see what you’re going to be teaching - what we’re aiming for, the way the trainers will show us how a parry is supposed to work before they have us try it.”

“That…is not a terrible idea, little menace,” Lady Yennefer says thoughtfully.

“It really isn’t,” Milena says. “Though we shall have to be very clear that any audience is not to heckle. And we will have to ask Lambert if he minds - if he would rather not be observed, then we could certainly put on a performance for the trainees without his assistance.”

“We could recruit a Griffin or two,” Livi agrees. “But it would be very good for the trainees to see Lambert, specifically, I think. Everyone knows he didn’t have any courtly graces before Sasha showed up.”

Aleksander nods. “And he is still not - I would not call him a courtier,” he says. “He is a Witcher who has learned to play the game, but he is still a Witcher. He does not lie, nor will he accept true insult. It would be good for the trainees to see that they need not become other than they are, only learn another language, as they do Skelliger, or Nilfgaardian.”

Princess Ciri is nodding vigorously. “Exactly! That’s what I want them to see. I’ve been trying to explain what Jas and Milena have taught me, but I’ve only been learning etiquette for a little while really, and also I’m so much younger than most of the Grassed trainees that I’m still working on earning their respect, you know?”

“I will ask Lambert if he would be willing to have his Trial of Etiquette observed,” Aleksander says. “And if he would prefer not to have the actual Trial observed, perhaps he would be willing to re-create it afterwards.”

“Oh, good thought,” Princess Ciri says. “Thank you!”

Aleksander is struck yet again by how very odd the royal family of Kaer Morhen is. None of the royal blood of Redania would ever have thought to ask for such a thing - neither that it would be useful to their compatriots, nor that they should ask before intruding upon such an event. And certainly none of them would have been so very polite in the asking.

But then, that is Kaer Morhen all over: odd, and blunt, and kind.

*

Aiden slides onto the bench next to Sasha and wraps an arm around his shoulders, grinning when Sasha leans into him and gives him a shy little smile accompanied by a wash of bright happiness in his scent.

“So,” Aiden murmurs, under the noise of the rest of the Witchers taking their seats, “am I allowed to kiss you in public, sweet pup?”

Sasha hesitates, going slightly pink. “Ah - perhaps not as Lambert and Milena kiss?”

“Not like I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder and carry you off to my den, got it,” Aiden says, and is rewarded by a muffled little laugh and a brighter pink on Sasha’s cheeks. He leans down and brushes a very gentle kiss against Sasha’s lips. “How’s that?”

Sasha smells delighted and embarrassed and so sweet Aiden can understand why Lambert tends to kiss Kitten so ravenously, if she smells anything like that when he kisses her. It’s mouthwatering. “That will suit me well,” Sasha says shyly.

“Lovely,” Aiden purrs, and does it again, just because he can, before straightening up to start filling his plate. Dragonfly wiggles her eyebrows at him from across the table.

“Don’t you start,” Aiden warns her. “You’re as bad as I am, and we all know it.”

Dragonfly snorts. “Fair, fair. I am as bad as you.”

Livi giggles. “And Sasha and I are as besotted as each other.”

“Even so,” Sasha agrees, with a shy little smile.

Aiden could not tell anyone what he ate for dinner, if they happened to ask - he’s far too distracted by the scent of Sasha’s happiness and the way Sasha leans against him, just a little. His siblings don’t tease him too much, but then again, Dragonfly really is as bad as he is, and Cedric and Axel aren’t about to give anyone else sh*t for falling in love.

And after dinner, to Aiden’s utter delight, Sasha lets Aiden follow him up to Sasha’s rooms, takes a long look at the lap desk lying on the table beside the couch, and then turns to Aiden. “I have,” he says hesitantly, “had a - a daydream of sorts.”

“Oh?” Aiden asks.

“Would you be willing to sit with me in the window-seat?” Sasha asks, ducking his head a little like he’s worried Aiden will make fun of him for the request.

“I would love to,” Aiden says, quite honestly. Sitting with Sasha, being allowed to curl around him and nuzzle at his hair and maybe kiss him some more, while watching the birds come visit the birdfeeder he made for Sasha, sounds absolutely marvelous.

Sasha gives him a shy, happy look through his eyelashes, and Aiden firmly resists the urge to scatter kisses across his face, mostly because he’s not sure he’d be able to stop at just the face.

Sasha brings over a fur from his bed, and Aiden collects a pair of cushions from the couch, and they make themselves a delightful little nest on the window-ledge, pressed close together so the fur can be wrapped around both of them. Aiden curls around Sasha, delighting in the way Sasha leans against him, the easy trust of it and the smell of sweet happiness filling their little comfortable cocoon.

“Sasha, may I kiss you?” Aiden murmurs in Sasha’s ear, very pleased by the little shiver that runs through Sasha and the way he presses closer.

“Yes,” Sasha whispers, and shifts until he doesn’t have to crane his neck awkwardly around to look up at Aiden.

Aiden smiles down at him, wondering if he’ll ever get used to the overwhelming joy and worry he feels every time Sasha looks at him with such perfect trust in his soft hazel eyes. Joy, because Sasha does trust him, wants him, maybe even someday might love him. And worry, because - well, what if he f*cks it up?

He suspects that if he asks Lambert, the Wolf will say that sensation never does go away, or at least hasn’t yet. Hell, he could probably ask Auckes and get the same answer, and Auckes has been mated to Zofia for two decades now. It’s going to take a lot longer than that for any Witcher to get used to the idea that there might be a human who not only doesn’t fear them, but wants to be around them - in their life, their bed, their heart.

Hells, most humans don’t tend to think Witchers have hearts.

But Sasha knows Aiden does, and for some baffling reason doesn’t mind knowing he has a place in it.

Aiden leans down slowly, savoring the way Sasha’s pupils dilate just before his eyes fall shut, the way his lips part in eager anticipation, the way his scent goes sweeter and richer with the first hints of lust.

When their lips meet, Sasha makes a sound, soft enough that maybe only Witcher ears could hear it - a tiny moan, barely a breath. Aiden groans deep in his chest and presses closer. He wants to hear Sasha make that noise again - wants to hear him get louder, see if they can really test the soundproofing spells. Wants to know if he can make his sweet pup howl with pleasure. Or maybe Sasha will never be any louder than this, and Aiden will simply have to hoard his noises like a dragon’s treasure, knowing no one else has ever heard them nor - hopefully - ever will. That thought pleases his possessive instincts a little too much.

Sasha’s mouth opens under his, and Aiden deepens the kiss, pulling Sasha even closer - into his lap, in fact, so he can get his hands on Sasha’s gorgeous plump ass.

Sasha makes a shocked little noise and startles, and Aiden lets go hastily. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, loosening the curve of his arms so Sasha can pull away if he needs to.

“I - I was only surprised,” Sasha says, relaxing again.

“You’re sure?” Aiden checks. “You can always tell me to back off, pup. I don’t want to push any further than you’re comfortable going.”

To his delighted surprise, Sasha reaches up to tuck a lock of Aiden’s hair back behind his ear, and lets his fingers brush against Aiden’s beard as he lowers his hand again. “I will tell you if I am uncomfortable,” he promises.

“Thank you,” Aiden says, and kisses him again.

Sasha melts into it, sighing softly in happiness.

Aiden sinks into kissing his sweet pup like it’s almost a sort of meditation, everything outside of their little huddle of fur and cushions fading away. He can hear the birds on the birdfeeder, faintly, and beyond that the distant yelling from the Witchers down on the training fields, but none of that matters. He’s surrounded by the scent of Sasha’s happiness and lust, and also a faint hint of apples which he thinks might be Sasha’s chosen soap, and Sasha is warm and soft under his hands, and he makes such beautiful tiny noises against Aiden’s mouth, and…

Aiden’s going to have to ask Lambert if it’s possible to get addicted to kissing someone, if they taste like happiness and lust and maybe even a little love. Witchers are generally immune to the addictive properties of things like fisstech or White Gull, but this - he’s pretty sure no Witcher alive has a defense against this.

Nobody ever thought they’d need one, after all.

But now here Aiden is, with his Sasha in his arms, so happy he can’t even find any words for it - not that he needs to. All he needs to do is kiss his sweet pup, over and over, reveling in every perfect kiss.

*

Aleksander goes up on his toes and kisses Aiden gently on the lips and then carefully pushes his - his Cat - back a step. “Go and find a place to watch from,” he says, as firmly as he can.

Aiden smirks. “I won’t distract you or Lambert, pup, I promise,” he purrs, and bends to steal one more quick kiss before sauntering off towards the half of the room that’s serving as the audience’s seating area. Steward Kelner has found a screen from somewhere - Aleksander thinks it may have been sent as tribute - made of polished wood carved into intricate curlicues full of holes, which spans the whole width of the salle, so the audience can watch without being as obviously present.

Aleksander goes over to his fellow examiners for this Trial of Etiquette and nods to all of them before closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, concentrating on donning the persona he has chosen to wear for this little mock-court of theirs.

He’s going to pretend to be his father: cold and stern and very proper, hard to offend but hard to impress. Milena is going to affect the same temperament as her sister Marta, haughty and eager for power. Livi has decided to wear the personality of an acquaintance of theirs named Camellia, who was frankly a bit flighty and would flirt with anyone. Consort Jaskier has declared he’s going to imitate his cousin Ferrant, who is willing to play the sycophant to anyone who seems important. And Mouse, to Aleksander’s surprise, announced that she would be delighted to play a version of herself: a baron’s daughter, lady-in-waiting to a princess.

The challenge for Lambert is going to be negotiating half an hour in their company without grievously insulting anyone, being trapped into any agreements he doesn’t want, or losing his temper.

Aleksander is fairly sure Lambert is going to do very well indeed. Though he may have to go thrash someone on the training fields afterwards.

Aleksander opens his eyes and nods to his companions. Livi grins and starts prattling excitedly about an upcoming performance by a particularly well-regarded acrobatic troupe. Milena sniffs derisively, unamused by such plebeian entertainments; Consort Jaskier, glancing between the two ladies, chooses to side with Milena, since she’s the higher-ranking of the two. Mouse - or rather, Lady Liliana, as she has explained the persona is very nearly another person entirely - sides with Livi. Aleksander observes everything coolly, trying to look neutral and a little unimpressed.

It takes them an astonishingly short amount of time to properly get into character, and then it really does feel like an afternoon at court, listening to everyone snipe at each other and jostle for position. Aleksander is disconcerted to discover how little he enjoys it. Yes, he knows the scripts for this, could probably recite them in his sleep, but the thought of going back to living like this all the time - no. A thousand times no. He’ll stay in Kaer Morhen, where he may not quite understand how the court works but at least he knows his missteps won’t utterly destroy his reputation, thank you very much.

Mouse’s maid Nadia has agreed to act as herald for them. Aleksander signals her when he thinks they’ve all gotten into the spirit of the exercise, and she slips out the door and then swings it wide a moment later, rapping the heel of a staff on the floor and declaring in quite a good imitation of a herald’s ringing tones, “The Witcher Lambert, of the Wolf School!”

They all turn to look, of course, just as any courtiers would, and Lambert steps into the room with a wary set to his shoulders. Aleksander sees him looking them over: sizing them up as opponents, he is sure.

They haven’t made this easy on him. He’d be insulted if they had. Aleksander, who is playing the highest-ranking person here, is also the least impressively dressed…unless you notice the signet ring and the exceedingly well-made boots. Livi and Milena are wearing the symbols of their noble houses, but not very obviously: a cameo necklace for one, and a decorative comb for the other. Lady Liliana has the finest dress of all of them, but it has clearly been remade to fit her, since in every other court, being given the princess’s old clothing is one of the benefits to being part of her household. And so on and so forth - it is possible to parse which of them takes precedence, they haven’t made this an impossible challenge, but it’s deliberately difficult all the same.

Lambert takes a deep breath and strides forward, aiming straight for Aleksander.

Aleksander carefully does not beam with pride.

Lambert’s bow is absolutely note-perfect, marquess - or Witcher - to duke. Aleksander returns it smoothly. “Master Witcher,” he says, keeping his tone cool and disinterested.

“Your grace,” Lambert replies, and Aleksander is so damn proud, because he knows Lambert didn’t know how to properly address a duke when Aleksander first arrived in Kaer Morhen.

Lambert gives him a brief and very uncourtly fierce grin before schooling his face into a more proper courtly mask, and turns to the rest of the little party. And Aleksander has a very hard time keeping a proud smile from his face, because Lambert addresses all of them in absolutely perfect order of rank and importance, with bows that show he knows he’s more important than any of them and yet do not give insult. He handles Jaskier’s groveling with the sort of disdain which makes it seem that Jaskier is the one overstepping; he neatly sidesteps Livi’s blatant attempt at flirtation; he ignores the barbs Milena flings at him magnificently. He is politest to Lady Liliana, which is very smart, since she can be assumed to have the ear of the royal family, and to Aleksander himself. And when Nadia flips the hourglass she’s been carrying and declares, “This Trial of Etiquette is completed,” Lambert has successfully managed to be courtly - for a rather blunt but notably not rude value of courtly - for half an hour without a single misstep.

Lambert’s shoulders slump and he lets out a loud and heartfelt f*ck that makes everyone on both sides of the screen laugh.

Aleksander smiles at his first student and - astonishingly - dear friend. “Well done,” he says. “You are victorious.”

To his astonishment, Lambert hauls him into an embrace. “You f*ckin’ marvel,” he says roughly, releasing Aleksander and taking him by the shoulders to grin down at him. “You godsdamned little genius. f*ck, I can’t believe that f*ckin’ worked. It is another language.”

And then he turns to grin at Milena, leaving Aleksander reeling a bit. “Tongue as sharp as your daggers,” Lambert teases Milena, and Aleksander leaves them to their banter and heads for the screened-off half of the room.

The trainees are all staring at him in wonder when he steps around the screen. Behind them, Aiden - and, to Aleksander’s shock, Lord Eskel and the Warlord and Lord Vesemir - are all giving him approving looks. Well, Aiden’s is more hungry than approving, but that’s become rather normal these last few days.

“Hello,” Aleksander says to the trainees, bowing a little to Princess Ciri, who is in the second row of chairs. “My name is Aleksander, once of Velen, now kinsman to the Manticores, and I am to be your teacher in the language of courtly etiquette.”

“You taught Lambert etiquette,” one of the older trainees, a lanky young man with Witcher-yellow eyes, says incredulously.

“I did, yes,” Aleksander agrees.

“Are you magic?” one of the younger trainees asks.

Aleksander muffles a laugh. “He is actually a very good student,” he replies. “So long as he sees worth in what he is being asked to learn. I hope to convince all of you, also, that etiquette is a valuable skill to have available, if only so that you will be choosing not to use it, rather than doing so out of ignorance.”

“If you can teach Lambert,” the lanky trainee says, “then I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re gonna be real damn interested in learning whatever you’ve got to say.”

Most of the other trainees nod agreement.

Aleksander feels his shoulders drop at least an inch. “Well then, I look forward to beginning our lessons.”

The lanky trainee nods, and he and the other older trainees begin ushering their fellows out of the salle. Aiden waits until they’re all gone before - well, the only word Aleksander can find that fits the action is pouncing on Aleksander, sweeping him up in a hug and pressing half a dozen kisses to his forehead and cheeks.

“That was marvelous,” he says, beaming down at Aleksander. “I’m gonna have to go tell Lambert he’s f*cking brilliant, but you - you taught him that.”

“I didn’t think it could be done,” Lord Eskel chuckles, clapping Aleksander gently on the shoulder as he passes. “Good job.”

“Very good,” Lord Vesemir agrees gruffly. “Impressive as hell, lad. ‘Specially given it took me half a decade just to teach him not to bite people.”

The Warlord just meets Aleksander’s eyes over Aiden’s shoulder and nods, once, with a tiny, crooked smile; it feels like the highest praise Aleksander could ever desire.

Aleksander can hear a little hubbub on the other side of the screen: Consort Jaskier crowing delightedly about the success of the Trial, Mouse and Nadia laughing, Dragonfly insisting that Livi repeat several of her better flirtatious lines in return for kisses. But it is quieter on this side, and he is just as happy to be right here in Aiden’s arms.

“Also,” Aiden says, “if that was anything like what being at court is like, then f*ck me but I never want to deal with that. Ugh.”

“It was as accurate a representation as we could contrive,” Aleksander says.

Aiden wrinkles his nose. “How the hell’d you come out of that sane, pup?”

“Are we sure I did?” Aleksander replies, a little shocked at his own daring. “I’ve gone and fallen in love with a Cat, after all.”

Aiden’s eyes go very wide, and then he smiles so broad and sweet it’s almost blinding. “It’s true that doesn’t say many good things about your sanity,” he agrees softly. “But oh, sweet Wolf-hearted Aleksander, my brilliant Sasha.” He lifts a hand to cradle Aleksander’s cheek. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Aleksander says, and Aiden takes his mouth in the hungriest kiss they have shared yet, a ravenous thing that leaves Aleksander reeling and clutching at Aiden’s shoulders, held steady by the inhuman strength of the Witcher who has won his heart.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

Sasha gets carried off by the other nobles of Kaer Morhen after supper, which is adorable, and Aiden is glad to see his pup so happy among his friends. Aiden catches Lambert’s eye once the humans have left and jerks his head towards the ceiling, and Lambert nods; a few moments later, they’re meeting up at the door, Lambert with a jug of White Gull in one hand. They head up to their niche on the walltop without needing to say anything, and get settled in silence, passing the jug back and forth a few times. Aiden relaxes back against the rough stone of the wall and the heat of Lambert’s shoulder with a contented sigh. Even watching Lambert flick another spider away cannot dent his perfect joy. Lambert leans his head against the stone and makes a low, grumbly sort of noise deep within his chest, which Aiden knows from experience means he’s happy and doesn’t want to admit it.

“So,” Aiden says after a little while, when the jug is about half-empty. “You’ve gone and learned another language. Can you swear in it?”

Lambert snorts. “Yeah, I f*ckin’ well can.” He sniffs and puts his nose in the air, trying to look haughty. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I mistook you for a footman.”

Aiden snickers. “That’s courtly swearing?”

“According to Sasha it’ll earn me a slap with a glove and an invitation to duel.” Lambert grins toothily. “Which will be fun.”

“For you,” Aiden laughs. “Not for the other poor bastard.”

“Well, no. But Sasha’s been real clear about not deliberately picking fights unless I mean to, and I’ve got a damn good reason for it.” Lambert shrugs. “Something about me being too high-ranking to just f*ck around like a bull in a pottery studio.”

“I gotta admit, I did not anticipate ‘Lambert ends up essentially a marquess’ as one of the consequences of the Wolf’s mad plan,” Aiden says thoughtfully.

“f*ck no,” Lambert agrees fervently. “An’ if it weren’t for Milena I wouldn’t put up with it. Hell, I’d go up mountain and never come down.” He grins wickedly at Aiden. “You realize you’re gonna have to learn this sh*t too, if you’re gonna be Sasha’s. He’s gonna end up going and being courtly the next time we need a negotiator, bet you anything, and unless you want to send him without you…”

“Oh hell,” Aiden says. Because Lambert knows full well he won’t be letting Sasha go off to any cesspit court without Aiden right there with him, which means that yeah, Aiden’s going to need to learn to speak Etiquette.

Lambert snickers at him. “You’re gonna end up a duch*ess,” he teases.

“I’d wear a dress better’n you,” Aiden snipes absently, too distracted by the idea of being paraded around on Sasha’s arm - being claimed like that, being so obviously Sasha’s, and Sasha so obviously his. “How soon is too soon to get him a medallion?”

Lambert snorts and knocks their shoulders together. “Wait til you’re both sure,” he says softly. “Til you stop thinking every morning, ‘Today’s the day he’ll come to his f*ckin’ senses and find somebody better’.” He grimaces eloquently. “Wait til it’s more like every third day instead.”

Aiden huffs a laugh. “Kitten’s not gonna leave you.”

“We’re going on progress next year,” Lambert says quietly. “Gonna be meeting more people than I can shake a really big f*ckin’ stick at. And yeah, she loves me. But there’s nothing to say she might not meet someone who suits her better.”

Aiden hums. “Sure, she might,” he allows. “Assuming such a person exists. But Lam, I really don’t think he does. How many men are there who’d see her strength instead of her beauty?”

“Ah - huh,” Lambert says, and lapses into silence, taking a long pull from the jug of White Gull. “Guess that isn’t what most nobles seem to want in a woman,” he says at last.

“Given that you just spent the last several weeks learning what nobles do expect of each other, you’d know better than I would,” Aiden points out.

Lambert snorts and shrugs.

“She isn’t fickle,” Aiden says gently. “She’s picked you, Lam. Hell, if she just wanted a Witcher, she could’ve had her pick. If she’d wanted to go to a court again, she could’ve gone down to Ard Carraigh, or to Temeria - I betcha Marika’d be glad to have her. She doesn’t want any of that. She wants Kaer Morhen, and she wants you, the prickliest Witcher in the keep. On purpose. She picked you on purpose, Lam. She’s not gonna give you up so easily.”

Lambert takes a slightly shaky breath. “On purpose,” he says faintly. “Yeah.” He takes another long drink from the jug and hands it over. “And Sasha’s picking you on purpose, too.”

Aiden nods. Sasha is. He’s said he doesn’t want to know which other Witchers are interested in him - doesn’t want any other options, because he trusts Aiden. He sleeps in Aiden’s arms, knowing he’s safe there from any threat. He lets Aiden cuddle him and hold him close and kiss him. He could have pretty much any other Witcher he wanted - he could ask to be sent to Ard Carraigh, or Vizima, and join the court there, and find some pretty young noblewoman who would be flattered by his attention - he could do any number of things, and instead he has chosen Aiden. On purpose.

“We’re a pair of damn lucky bastards, aren’t we, Wolf?” he asks softly.

“Yeah, we are,” Lambert agrees.

Aiden sighs and leans his head against Lambert’s shoulder. “I still want to bring him an elk.”

Lambert snorts. “Ridiculous kitty,” he says fondly, and they sit in companionable silence, watching the moon rise and passing the jug back and forth, until they’re out of Gull and it’s late enough that their lovers are probably waiting for them.

*

Aleksander sighs happily and curls closer to Aiden as the Cat slips into bed beside him. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

“Yep,” Aiden says cheerfully. “And you?”

“Delightful,” Aleksander admits. He and Livi and Milena and Jaskier drank probably a little too much very good wine and gossiped about their respective lovers, an experience Aleksander has never had before, though Jaskier said it was a familiar ritual from his years at Oxenfurt. It was extremely entertaining, and also Aleksander has finally managed to stop mentally appending the title to Jaskier’s name. It’s hard to think of the other man so formally when Aleksander has seen him tipsy and giggling over being allowed to wash the White Wolf’s hair.

“I’m glad,” Aiden says, nuzzling at Aleksander’s hair. “You smell happy. ‘S nice.” He’s slurring his words just a little, which is unusual.

“Are you drunk?” Aleksander asks.

“Mmm, slightly squiffy,” Aiden says. “Half a jug of White Gull. Could still run the obstacle course, but…maybe shouldn’t do it blindfolded.”

Aleksander muffles a laugh against Aiden’s shoulder. “Which is otherwise definitely an option.”

“Naturally,” Aiden says. “How else are we to demonstrate our innate superiority to all other Schools?” He is clearly trying to sound as snooty as a courtier, and not doing it well.

Aleksander giggles; Aiden laughs, a low pleasant sound that shivers through Aleksander delightfully, and kisses the top of Aleksander’s head. Aleksander tilts his head up until he can catch Aiden’s lips with his. The kiss is long and languid, and Aleksander sighs into it, relaxing bit by bit until he feels rather like a puddle of happiness.

“My Sasha,” Aiden murmurs as they part, rubbing their noses together softly. “My sweet, Wolf-hearted pup.”

“My Aiden,” Aleksander replies, feeling greatly daring. Aiden makes a low, very happy noise and kisses him again. Aleksander is thoroughly distracted for several very pleasant minutes, but at last they have to part so Aleksander can catch his breath, and Aiden seems just as happy to curl around Aleksander and nuzzle at his hair. Aleksander takes a deep breath, and braces himself. “I have a question.”

“Ask it,” Aiden says easily.

Aleksander bites his lip for a moment before blurting it out. “Why - why me, and not Lambert?” Because Aiden adores Lambert, it’s clear to anyone with eyes, and Lambert is a Witcher, strong and bold and clever, and maybe Lambert is with Milena now, but he and Aiden have been friends for longer than Aleksander has even been alive -

“Given that I love him dearly, and he me?” Aiden asks gently.

Aleksander nods, tucking his face against the warm skin of Aiden’s shoulder, taking comfort in the way Aiden is still petting his back and hair.

Aiden huffs a soft laugh. “Well. I do love him dearly, more even than I do my brothers, and I trust him utterly, and I would die for him. I have killed for him. But…well, you’ve seen our dynamic together.”

Aleksander must smell as confused as he feels, because Aiden chuckles again.

“I tease him, he swears at me. We spar constantly. We banter and bicker and needle each other, we chase each other about, we give each other endless sh*t. And it’s good, I love it, I wouldn’t trade it for the world, but it’s not actually what either of us wants with a lover. You’ve seen Lambert with Kitten.”

Slowly, Aleksander nods. “He’s…gentle.” According to Milena, he’s like that in the bedchamber, too, which was somewhat more information than Aleksander necessarily needed, but is still good to know, just so that he can be sure his friend is being well treated.

“Precisely. He’s gentle. He’s tender, the impossible asshole; I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. He couldn’t do that with me. He’d always be wondering if I was going to be a little sh*t about it, and I probably would, because I kind of am a little sh*t. We’re too alike in our skills and interests to keep from competing, from measuring ourselves against each other. But someone like Kitten - or like you - you’re not Witchers. You have skills we never even dreamed of having. We can’t compete with you.”

“And we cannot compete with you in…in Witchering,” Aleksander says slowly. “We are no threats to you.”

Aiden nods. “You aren’t threats - which means it’s safe to let you in past our shields.”

Aleksander makes a thoughtful sound and burrows closer. Aiden keeps turning Aleksander’s weaknesses into virtues somehow, saying he prefers Aleksander’s softness to a Witcher’s strength. It’s baffling, but also strangely comforting. Very few people have ever thought Aleksander is…is enough, just as he is, shy and odd and soft. Mikolaj always has. Livi. Milena. And now - well, now Aiden, and Lambert, and Jaskier, and Leocadie and the other Manticores, and Aren and the Mantikittens, and -

It’s a little overwhelming, actually, to realize how many people there are in Kaer Morhen who seem to like Aleksander without any reservations at all.

“Hey now, pup, what’s the matter?” Aiden murmurs, and Aleksander realizes he’s crying, very quietly, not sobs but just hot tears rolling down his cheeks to dampen Aiden’s shoulder.

“It’s not - I’m not upset,” Aleksander says. “I’m just…overwhelmed. And honored.”

Aiden nuzzles at his hair. “You honor me, Wolf-hearted Aleksander.”

Aleksander laughs softly. “I suppose we shall have to agree that we both feel honored by the other’s regard.”

“Even so,” Aiden agrees, and nudges Aleksander’s chin up until he can kiss the tears from Aleksander’s cheeks. Aleksander makes a tiny formless noise of surprise. Aiden chuckles and kisses the tip of Aleksander’s nose. “My sweet Sasha,” he murmurs. “Could just eat you up.”

Aleksander feels himself blushing. “I might let you,” he whispers, and is rewarded with a kiss so deep and devouring that it leaves him reeling and clinging to Aiden’s shoulders like the Cat is the only steady part of the whirling world.

*

Aiden does not, in fact, devour his sweet pup that night. They’re both tipsy, and Aiden hasn’t dared suggest anything past kissing yet, because Sasha still blushes and trembles for even the chastest kisses. He opens like a flower when Aiden kisses him more deeply, safely alone in Aiden’s rooms with Sasha tucked under the furs on his bed, but Aiden is perfectly willing to wait forever, if need be, for Sasha to be comfortable enough to ask for more.

Which happens…rather sooner than Aiden expects, actually. Not that Aiden is objecting.

It’s a few nights later, and Jaskier chooses to play dancing music again, which means that Aiden gets to spend the evening being whirled around the dance floor in Sasha’s arms, and is feeling warm and pleased and exceedingly fond of his sweet pup, even more so than usual. Sasha is so lovely when he forgets to be nervous and relaxes into knowing that he is good at something. Self-confidence is a good look on him. He and Kitten even show off a little, taking the center of the dance floor and demonstrating some of the fanciest moves as Jaskier plays faster and faster, and Aiden and Lambert stand off to one side staring in awe and hunger as their lovers whirl in beautiful patterns.

“f*ck,” Lambert whispers as Sasha twirls Kitten entirely under his arm and around his back, catching her neatly as she spins back into place. Kitten’s skirt bells out and swishes about their ankles in a great rustling wave.

“Damn,” Aiden agrees. “I need a skirt. That looks like far too much fun to leave it to the ladies.”

Lambert smirks. “You’ll look good in a skirt, duch*ess.”

Aiden punches him without ever looking away from the dancing couple, and Lambert growls softly and shoves his shoulder in reply, but neither of them wants to start an actual brawl right now, and when Jaskier brings the music to a triumphant end, they’re quick to cross the floor and sweep their lovers up, heaping praise upon them as the other Witchers clap and cheer.

Aiden and Sasha are both tired but still thrumming with the energy of the dance when they get back to Aiden’s rooms, and Aiden strips down to his smallclothes and sprawls out on the bed with a happy sigh. Sasha chuckles and undresses more decorously, changing into a sleep shirt and loose trousers before joining Aiden on the bed.

Neither of them has snuffed out the candle, so there’s enough light for Sasha to see Aiden, and while they’ve certainly seen each other naked in the baths, Aiden has definitely noticed that Sasha never looks - never lets his eyes dip below Aiden’s shoulders. That he is looking now…Aiden stretches and poses, preening at the admiration in his sweet pup’s eyes, the rich lust starting to fill Sasha’s scent.

Sasha stretches out next to him and reaches out a hand, hesitating just before his fingers touch Aiden’s bare chest. “May I?”

“You can touch me, pup,” Aiden assures him. “I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, but you can always touch me.”

Sasha gives him a shy little smile and presses his fingers gently to the curving scar which carves its way across Aiden’s chest. “May I ask what - what gave you this?”

“Oh, sure,” Aiden says easily, lacing his hands together behind his head and grinning. “Archgriffin. I got a little too close to the claws. Lambert had to sew me up again; I think I learned a dozen new curse words while he was doing it.”

“I can well imagine,” Sasha says, tracing the line of the scar with careful fingers. “Does it still ache?”

“Nah, not really. This one does, sometimes.” Aiden turns a little so Sasha can see the knot of scar tissue on his side marking a deep puncture wound - that one had left him feverish for three days until the Swallow finally defeated the infection. “Kikimora queen.”

“Oh,” Sasha whispers, tracing the outline of the scar gingerly. “That sounds…particularly dangerous?”

Aiden laughs. “Yeah. They tend to lair in swamps, and I stepped in a deep bit I hadn’t noticed, and got stuck long enough for her to get a claw into me. Can’t recommend the experience. These days we mostly let the Cranes try out their new crossbows in that sort of situation. Which is occasionally messy, I grant you, but very effective.”

“Messy?” Sasha asks warily.

“Well, last time I went out with a Crane, it ended up raining forktail bits.” Aiden lounges back again and grins up at his sweet pup. “Which is frankly disgusting, even by Witcher standards.”

“Ew,” Sasha laughs.

Aiden grins up at him. “Strangely enough, not the sound I want to hear from the sweet young man in my bed,” he teases.

Sasha makes a startled noise and claps a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh. “I wouldn’t ever say that about you,” he says. “You’re - you’re lovely.”

Aiden discovers his cheeks are a little hot. “Well, thank you,” he purrs, trying not to look flustered. Sasha blushes and gives him a sweet, shy little smile.

And then bites his lip, takes an obvious deep breath, and says, “What noises do you like to hear from the young men in your bed?”

Aiden licks his lips. “Any that mean pleasure,” he says. “May I touch you, sweet pup?”

“Yes,” Sasha says, and Aiden sits up, rolling them until he’s propped on one arm and leaning over Sasha. Sasha gasps softly, a little startled, and then smiles and reaches up to stroke his fingers over Aiden’s beard and down his throat, spreading his hand flat against Aiden’s chest. Aiden waits, wondering what Sasha will do next.

“You’re very warm,” Sasha says quietly, moving his hand in a slow stroke almost like he’s petting an actual cat. Aiden leans into it, smiling down at him. “Milena said all Witchers are.”

“Something in the mutagens,” Aiden agrees. “Means we don’t freeze too easily. Also we make very good bedwarmers.” He wiggles his eyebrows to show he means that in every sense of the word, and Sasha lets out a scandalized little huff of laughter. He’s still petting Aiden’s chest, fingers lingering over the scars.

“You do,” he says quietly, looking up to meet Aiden’s eyes. “You’re very warm, and your heartbeat is so slow and steady. Even in my dreams I hear it, like a distant drum, and it reminds me that I am safe in your arms.”

Aiden swallows hard. Sasha’s hazel eyes are huge and shining, and his cheeks are flushed, and his words seem to strike right to Aiden’s very heart and wrap the battered old thing up like it’s a priceless treasure. “Always,” Aiden says roughly. “Always, you are safe with me.”

“I know,” Sasha says, steady, calm, confident the way he is when he is dancing. As sure in Aiden as he is of his own next step in the dance. “Will you touch me, then, my love?”

Aiden isn’t sure what to call the noise that rumbles from his chest, but it makes Sasha’s eyes go dark and his cheeks go pink, and his scent go glorious with lust.

*

Aleksander isn’t entirely sure what he expects to happen, when he invites Aiden to touch him in whatever way he pleases. He knows - he thinks he knows - that Aiden wishes to bed him; he cannot smell lust as a Witcher can, but he thinks he can read the heat in Aiden’s gaze, the eagerness with which he kisses Aleksander at every opportunity, the many playful jokes about bedsport, as being signs of Aiden’s desire. From what Milena and Livi and Jaskier have said, Aiden is unlikely to do anything Aleksander truly dislikes; he certainly has never done so yet, and all three of his friends assured him that their Witcher lovers would stop whatever they were doing at even the barest hint of discomfort on the human’s part.

And, of course, Aleksander trusts Aiden with…well, with anything. With his heart, with his safety, with his honor. Trusting Aiden with his body only makes sense.

Aiden kisses him, which is - well, Aleksander is almost starting to get used to being kissed. It’s still overwhelming and wonderful and dizzyingly pleasant, but it’s not shocking the way it was at first. He’s learned what he likes, and what Aiden likes, and he knows the pattern to it, like a new and marvelous dance he’s started to master.

And then Aiden sits back and tugs at Aleksander’s sleeping shirt, and Aleksander half sits up and wriggles out of it, Aiden helping pull it away, and flops inelegantly back down and has just enough time to think again that he is too soft and squishy for any Witcher to look at with desire -

And Aiden lets out a low, distinctly hungry sound. Aleksander looks up to see that Aiden is staring down at him, sunshine-yellow irises mere hair-thin rings around enormous pupils, looking ravenous.

It would almost be terrifying, if Aleksander didn’t trust Aiden utterly. But he does, so it’s…thrilling, actually. To be looked at like that. To have Aiden looking at him like that.

Aleksander doesn’t think he could manage the graceful lounge that Aiden makes look so easy, all elegant danger like a great cat in truth, but he doesn’t seem to need to. Aiden looks at him with unabashed hunger without Aleksander needing to do anything at all.

But Aiden’s hands, when he reaches out to touch, are so gentle it almost brings tears to Aleksander’s eyes. He touches Aleksander like Aleksander is made of glass or porcelain, priceless and infinitely breakable, and yet with the same sort of pleasure as Aleksander has seen when he runs his hand over the soft fur of Aleksander’s coat.

Aiden’s hands are callused, but the slight roughness feels marvelous against Aleksander’s skin. Aiden’s touch never drifts below the waistband of Aleksander’s trousers; instead, he seems determined to explore every inch of Aleksander’s torso, grinning when Aleksander leans into his hands, snickering when Aleksander twitches at a ticklish stroke of his fingers, nearly purring when Aleksander gasps and arches into a particularly pleasant touch.

And when Aleksander dares to try to mirror the way Aiden touches him -

Oh. This is why Aiden likes it so. The feeling of Aiden’s skin warm beneath his fingers, and the little gasps Aiden lets out, and the way Aiden’s eyes widen a little and then fall shut in pleasure - all of it is so good.

Giving such pleasure to Aiden, whose skin wears the testament to the pain he’s suffered through all the years of his so-long life…

Aleksander didn’t understand what Jaskier meant, days ago, when he said his greatest joy was being allowed to take care of the White Wolf and Lord Eskel. Surely, Aleksander had thought at the time, he meant the other way around. That seems to be what Witchers want of their human companions: someone to take care of, to cherish, to be soft where all their lives have been so hard. But no, Jaskier was being entirely accurate. It is a privilege beyond all words to be allowed to be good, as so few people have ever been good, to a Witcher with hard-callused hands and too many scars and a heart of purest gold.

Aiden ends up stretched out beside Aleksander, both of them lying propped up on their sides, so close his breath is warm against Aleksander’s lips, as they both let their hands wander where they will. It’s not as overtly sexual as Aleksander had anticipated it might be. Sensual, perhaps, is the better word. And the gentle touches, the slow strokes of Aiden’s hands, the feeling of Aiden’s skin under his own fingers, let the last of Aleksander’s nervousness leak away like water through a broken jug, leaving him just…happy. Content to be here in this moment, with Aiden.

Also rather astonishingly aroused, but it’s surprisingly easy to ignore that.

Up until one of Aiden’s hands, which has been tracing idle patterns on the soft skin of Aleksander’s side, slides down to cup Aleksander’s prick through his trousers.

Aleksander makes a loud, rather embarrassing sound and loses his balance, toppling over onto his back with a flump.

Aiden laughs - not mockingly, Aleksander thinks, just very pleased with himself - and leans over so he can grin down at Aleksander. “Sweet pup,” he croons. His hand is very warm and very new and Aleksander cannot help the whine he lets out. “Oh, pup,” Aiden murmurs, and leans down to kiss him. Aleksander clutches at his shoulders and holds on, shaking, as Aiden’s hand moves in tiny little shifts, not even full strokes, and every one of them goes through Aleksander like a wave.

The only coherent thought Aleksander can find is that he doesn’t want to ruin his smallclothes. He lets go of Aiden’s shoulder to paw at the strings of his trousers, and Aiden laughs again, so very pleased, and moves his hand - Aleksander whimpers at the loss of its warm weight - and his fingers join Aleksander’s on the trouser-laces and then somehow, Aleksander isn’t entirely sure how, his trousers are open and his smallclothes are being shoved out of the way and Aiden’s so-warm hand is on his prick.

“There you go,” Aiden murmurs, eyes fixed on Aleksander’s face, dark and hot and hungry. “Will you give me this, too, sweet pup? Let me see you peak for me? Please?”

Aleksander nods shakily, and it doesn’t take very long at all - he’ll be ashamed of that later, he’s distantly sure - only a few perfect strokes of Aiden’s so-warm hand before Aleksander is shaking and whimpering and spilling, pleasure washing through him like the tides.

Aiden kisses him through it, drinking down the little noises Aleksander can’t help making, answering them with half-desperate moans. “Beautiful,” he gasps against Aleksander’s lips. “My sweet pup, my lovely Sasha, gods, look at you -”

Aleksander lies there gasping as the pleasure ebbs. Aiden presses one more kiss to Aleksander’s lips before sitting up a little and lifting his sticky hand to lick his fingers clean. Aleksander watches, awash in a strange mixture of shock and arousal. People do that? Does it taste good? Has Aleksander ever seen anything quite so astonishingly beautiful as Aiden licking his long clever fingers clean, eyes dark and expression so very pleased with himself that the only phrase Aleksander can use to describe it is the cat who got the cream?

*

Aiden is fairly sure the evening can’t actually get any better. He’s gotten to touch Sasha, to see his pleasure, to taste it. He has Sasha lying mostly-naked in his bed, panting and flushed and so godsdamned lovely it almost doesn’t feel real. The world is, for once, an entirely wonderful place and Aiden is floating on the smell of lust and - faint but distinct, more precious than dimeritium - honey. Honey on warm bread. Not strong, yet, not the overwhelming scent that surrounds Kitten and Lambert, or Jaskier and his Wolves, but there.

Aiden is going to get drunk on it, he’s pretty sure.

And then Sasha sits up, looking nervous and determined, and says, “May I reciprocate?”

Which is the politest f*cking way anyone’s ever asked Aiden if they can jerk him off, because of course it is. Of course his sweet courtly pup found a polite way to refer to f*cking. Aiden loves him so much.

“Of course,” Aiden says, and stands up just long enough to shove his smallclothes down and away before sprawling out on the bed beside Sasha, grinning up at his lover. “I’m all yours.”

The words are a lot truer than maybe Sasha quite understands, but he bends down and kisses Aiden anyway, so that’s alright.

His hands are so careful as he moves down Aiden’s body, soft and gentle as no one ever is with a Witcher, and something about that leaves Aiden breathless, panting and shivering under Sasha’s tentative touches.

Sasha looks rather astonished at his own daring as he finally wraps his fingers around Aiden’s prick. His hand is soft and uncallused, and the touch is entirely unpracticed, and Aiden still shudders like an aspen in a high wind. f*ck, f*ck, what this sweet pup does to him.

Sasha frowns after a moment. “The angle is very unlike any I am accustomed to; I am sorry to be so clumsy -”

“Shh, pup,” Aiden says, cudgeling his dazed mind into any thoughts that aren’t soft sweet gentle good so good. “Angle. Right.” He rolls onto his side, gesturing vaguely behind himself. “Snug up behind me and reach around? Might be a little easier.”

Sasha slides into place hesitantly, and Aiden sighs and leans back a little, trusting some of his weight to Sasha. Interestingly, that seems to settle Sasha a little; he takes a deep breath and wraps an arm around Aiden’s waist and kisses his shoulder before propping himself up a little so he can see what he’s doing. His softening prick is nestled against Aiden’s ass, and that is so distracting that Aiden is actually startled when Sasha’s hand wraps around his prick again.

“f*ck!”

Sasha laughs, a quiet huff of warm breath against Aiden’s skin. “This is easier,” he says, as his hand starts to move in careful strokes.

“Glad to - glad to hear it,” Aiden gasps, trying to cling to coherency while surrounded by the smell of Sasha’s lust and the warmth of his body and the really amazingly good feeling of Sasha’s hand on his prick, gentle as Aiden doesn’t usually bother to be with himself, uncallused fingers so soft and careful. f*ck, Aiden’s not going to last.

“You’re very lovely,” Sasha murmurs, right in Aiden’s ear. “I could watch you forever.”

“Yeah?” Aiden pants. “You like it when I show off for you, sweet pup? Oh gods,” as Sasha adds a twist to the top of his stroke, fingers sliding easily in the precum dripping from Aiden’s prick.

“I like making you feel good,” Sasha whispers, soft like a secret. “I like knowing I can.”

“Can do - oh - anything you want to me, sweet pup, f*ck,” Aiden rasps, letting his hips roll forward into Sasha’s gentle grip, back against the soft weight of Sasha’s prick.

Sasha swallows audibly, and then leans in until his lips are brushing Aiden’s ear. “Will you let me see you peak?” he breathes.

“f*ck,” Aiden snarls, and does, spilling hot over Sasha’s fingers and the blanket beneath them, trembling with the force of it.

He rolls over onto his back before the ecstasy has even started to ebb, and hauls Sasha close enough to kiss. “Sasha, Sasha, f*ck, so good,” he mumbles against his lover’s lips. “So good to me, my sweet pup, my perfect Aleksander.”

Sasha kisses back, laughing giddily, and it’s a long time before Aiden gathers enough of his wits to find rags and water to wipe them both down.

And when he falls asleep that night, it’s with Sasha in his arms, smelling sated and pleased and faintly of honey, and Aiden is as happy as he thinks he’s ever been.

*

Milena smiles at Aleksander as he slides into the water. “You look pleased with life, my friend.”

Aleksander can feel himself blushing, but he smiles back. “I am, indeed.”

“Good,” Milena says, and reaches over to pat his shoulder. “I am so glad to see you happy.”

“So are we all,” Jaskier agrees warmly. “And that was a truly marvelous display the two of you put on last night! I think if you started offering dancing lessons, there would be a line of interested Witchers immediately.”

“Perhaps we should,” Milena says thoughtfully. “At the very least, those who are going on the Progress next year should know as many of the common dances as possible.”

“Very true,” Lady Yennefer says.

“Sasha? Would you be willing to take on another class?” Jaskier asks.

“I haven’t started my first one yet,” Aleksander points out.

Jaskier whacks his own forehead gently. “I knew I was forgetting something - Vesemir told me yesterday afternoon that the trainers have managed to rearrange the schedules, and would like you to start teaching at the beginning of the coming cycle, in three days. I have a copy of the schedule for you - I can fetch it after breakfast. You’ll be working with the Grassed boys, five afternoons a week: one per year-group.”

Aleksander nods. That sounds…slightly terrifying, admittedly, but he has a syllabus and he’s successfully taught Lambert, so he has hopes it won’t be too overwhelming.

“I’ll be in with the fourteen-year-olds,” Princess Ciri says, beaming. “And I promise I won’t play any goose tricks in your class.”

“Thank you,” Aleksander says, unable to keep from grinning. Now there is a promise he would not expect in any other court - neither the need for it, nor yet the royal heir’s willingness to give it.

“I notice you didn’t specify any non-goose tricks,” Lady Yennefer says, grinning down at the princess, and Princess Ciri giggles, eyes lighting up with mischief.

“Well, I wanted to leave my options open,” she replies brightly. “Jas says always leave a loophole!”

“What are you teaching our cub?” Lady Yennefer asks Jaskier in mock-indignation. Aleksander covers his mouth to hide a grin as they banter. Lady Triss’s kindness helped immeasurably in allowing Aleksander to recover from his terror of mages, but seeing Lady Yennefer play with her companions during their morning baths has helped as well.

He follows Jaskier up to the consort’s rooms after breakfast, amused as he always is by the piles of parchments on the desk and several of the chairs. Jaskier uses his rooms more as an office and wardrobe than anything else - by his own admission, he hasn’t slept in them since he and the White Wolf became lovers - but since he needs both office and clothing storage, and there are no available rooms nearer the White Wolf’s suite, it makes sense for him to retain them. Aleksander has started wondering if he should ask Steward Kelner whether there is an empty room near Aiden’s which Aleksander could use as an office, since he hasn’t been sleeping in his own bedroom at all. But his rooms have such a lovely view, and he would hate to move the birdfeeder and confuse the birds…

Well, Aiden hasn’t suggested Aleksander ought to move in with him, so until he does, Aleksander won’t worry about whether he should retain his own rooms or not.

“Here we go,” Jaskier says triumphantly, fishing a piece of parchment off the top of one of the stacks. “You know, I really need to find a Livi of my own,” he adds thoughtfully, looking at the heaps. “By which I mean a superlative secretary. Here’s hoping we find someone on Progress, I suppose.”

Aleksander eyes the piles warily. “Really, all of the Councilors ought to have secretaries,” he points out. “And probably the School Heads, as well.”

“Oh, won’t that be fun,” Jaskier says, grinning. “Convincing Ivar to accept a secretary will be almost as difficult as finding one who won’t run away as soon as they meet him!”

Aleksander must admit that Lord Ivar, Head of the Vipers, is a genuinely terrifying man. His mismatched eyes and perpetual glower, combined with strength and speed which nearly rival that of the White Wolf, are thoroughly intimidating. Finding a secretary for him will be a rather daunting task.

“I have heard that these days, those who do not succeed at Aretuza sometimes go on to become law clerks or secretaries for the powerful,” he offers. “Surely one who was nearly a mage will have the…the courage to work for Lord Ivar.”

“Fascinating! We will have to look for one who also has the ethics, but that is a good thought,” Jaskier says, tapping a finger against his lips. “I’ll talk to Yen, she might know something about that. Thank you, Sasha, that’s a damn good suggestion.” He grins. “You’re a useful man to have around, Aleksander, kinsman to the Manticores.”

“It is…good to be of use to lords worth serving,” Aleksander admits shyly.

Jaskier gives him a warm smile. “Isn’t it, though? ‘A far finer king than Redania’s’ - I called my beloved lord that, once, before he was anything to me but my lord, and I stand by those words.”

Aleksander smiles back. “The White Wolf is a finer king than any other, yes, but he is not the only lord in this keep, and I would account you and Lord Eskel both as more than worthy of any honorable man’s fealty.”

Jaskier goes quite pink. “I can’t even accuse you of flattery!” he wails, and steps forward to catch Aleksander’s hands, giving him the double cheek-kiss of close kin. “Any lord would be honored to have your service, my friend. As I am.”

Aleksander ducks his head, sure he’s just as pink as Jaskier is. “I should go and make sure I have my syllabus in order.”

“And I should try to get that song about Letho strangling a bullvore done,” Jaskier agrees. “I’m trying to figure out how many synonyms for ‘extremely large’ one can fit in a single song.”

Aleksander grins. “Are you describing Letho or the bullvore?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says dryly, and they are both still laughing as Aleksander takes his leave.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

The first day Sasha is going to actually have to stand up in front of a class of trainees and make them listen to him, Aiden brings him a stalk of fennel flowers at dinner. Sasha goes pink and tucks them into his doublet-laces, and goes off to face the trainees with his head held a little higher and a pleasing confidence to his stride.

Aiden is very pleased. Flower language is a delightful way to make sure his sweet pup can carry an assurance of Aiden’s adoration with him even when Aiden has to be doing something else.

“Not going to lurk outside the classroom window?” Dragonfly teases.

“No, I am not,” Aiden says, with great dignity. “I trust that Sasha has everything entirely under control and won’t need me lurking about to interfere.”

Dragonfly raises an eyebrow. Aiden grins ruefully. “Also the trainees are Grassed and would notice.”

Dragonfly snorts. “Want me to go chase you around the obstacle course to distract you from fretting over your pup?”

“Yes, please,” Aiden says sheepishly.

Dragonfly snickers, but she also does chase him over the hardest obstacle course three times in a row, the last time with an appreciative audience of un-Grassed trainees. Aiden does a triple flip off the last wall and lands rolling, springing to his feet and grinning at the boys. Tiny Osa, a Cat trainee who looks like he’d blow away in a strong wind, bounces on the balls of his feet, clapping his hands gleefully. “Someday I’m gonna be able to do that!”

Aiden ruffles the lad’s hair. “Yep,” he agrees. “When you’re a little taller. And Grassed.” There are parts of the hardest course which can only be crossed with the use of Signs - and other parts where Quen isn’t strictly necessary but it sure is nice.

The boys’ trainer, Garet of the Cranes, grins. “And by then we’ll have made it harder!”

“It still needs to be doable, you madman,” Dragonfly laughs. “And I don’t mean by the Wolf!”

“Aw,” Garet mock-pouts. “Spoilsport. Want to help me run these lads over the easy course? Another couple pairs of eyes wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Sure,” Aiden says, and that’s enough to distract him for another couple of hours. The boys are -

He used to avoid the trainees, honestly. The un-Grassed ones, anyhow. It hurt too much to look at their little faces and know too many of them would end up on tiny pyres, their lives screamed away on stone tables in the hopes that a few would be strong enough to bear the mutagens. But now - well. All of these boys are expected to survive the Grasses, and most of them ought to survive the Medallion Trial, too, and in a decade or so they’ll be Aiden’s brothers or cousins, full Witchers with medallions about their throats and swords on their backs, ready to walk the Path in packs instead of going out alone to die.

Aiden discovers that working with them is a genuine pleasure.

The trainers can pick and choose, now, he knows. All the boys who have come to Kaer Morhen since shortly after the Wolf took Ard Carraigh are orphans, selected for intelligence and even temper and reasonably good health in addition to the ability to drink the testing potion without reaction. And all of them want to be here. They know what their future will be and they do not fear it, because being a Witcher under the White Wolf’s leadership isn’t something to fear.

Yes, it’s still dangerous. Monsters and monstrous men will never be safe to deal with. But these boys know they’ll go out with brothers at their sides and unbreakable vials of healing potions in their packs and crystals at their throats to call for rescue should disaster strike.

Aiden could envy them, but that would be…unworthy of him. So instead he just delights in knowing that these boys won’t live through the same misery he did, and shows them some of the tricks he knows that can be done by un-Grassed boys. He might also pick little Osa up and launch him over a deep ditch for Dragonfly to catch, and then have to do the same thing for all the other trainees, which is a valuable lesson for him at least.

“I should bring the Mantikittens out here when it’s not busy,” he says to Dragonfly, thoughtfully, as they head for the hot springs.

“Are they strong enough?” Dragonfly asks, frowning. “It hasn’t been that long, and they were in that sh*thole for years…”

“Um. Good question.” Aiden wrinkles his nose. “I should ask Aren if he thinks they’re ready, is what I should do.” Because Zia would absolutely claim she’s fit to run the obstacle course, just out of sheer spite and venom, and then quite possibly get hurt, and then Aiden would have to go let a selkiemore eat him or something, because getting any of the Mantikittens hurt, after everything they’ve been through, would be absolutely unforgivable.

“How are they doing?” Dragonfly asks. “I know we’re all curious, but we haven’t wanted to press - f*ck knows in their shoes I’d be so twitchy with all the new everything I’d stab first and ask questions later. I’ve seen the little stabby one out and about a little.”

Aiden nods. “Zia has been exploring. And being very good about not stabbing people, to my genuine surprise. Aren did a damn good job. Maja has been poking around, too, but she’s quieter about it. Elena has latched onto Kitten, which is cute as hell; Ada is still staying pretty close to their rooms. Aren’s been able to drink some Swallow, so he sounds less like ten miles of bad road, and his leg is less godsawful but it’ll need magery to heal straight and he doesn’t trust our mages that much yet.”

“Fair,” Dragonfly says, nodding. “Hell, in his place I wouldn’t trust any mages ever again. Bad enough what the old ones did to us. What those monsters did to him…” She trails off and shudders dramatically.

Aiden nods. The idea of being trapped like that for decades, of not even having the tiny hope that the boys going into the Grasses do, that at least one way or another it will be over eventually - of being caged and chained like an animal, unable to protect himself or anyone else - of having his blood used to torture dozens of girls and then some of them living, becoming the closest thing any Witcher is ever likely to have to children of his own and then not being able to protect them -

Aiden is frankly surprised Aren is still sane. The Manticore is far stronger than Aiden is, that’s for sure.

“Nobody’s ever gonna get trapped like that again,” he says quietly. “That’s one good thing about these group patrols. Nobody can vanish like that.”

Dragonfly nods. “Ain’t that the truth,” she replies. “And thank f*ck for that.”

“Thank the Wolf,” Aiden says wryly, and Dragonfly nods again. They may joke and they may tease, but when it comes right down to it, every damn one of them is loyal to the Wolf because he made things better for them all.

*

Aleksander drops into his usual seat at the Manticore table with a great sigh of relief. Leocadie grins at him across the table.

“And how did your first day of teaching go, little cousin?”

“I think it went well,” Aleksander admits.

“You haven’t run screaming from the keep,” Dilan points out, grinning as he nudges his shoulder against Aleksander’s. “That’s probably a good sign.”

Aleksander grins back. “They were remarkably well-behaved, actually.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve all heard about that show Lambert put on,” Bricriu says. “Impressive as hell. A’course the cubs want to learn what you can teach, if you can get Lambert to be courtly.”

“It wasn’t as hard as you might think,” Aleksander admits. “He wanted to learn, which helped immensely.”

“He’s been bragging that now he can swear in courtly language, too,” Dilan chuckles. “Whatever you did, it worked a treat.”

“We’re proud of you, little cousin,” Leocadie says gently. “You are thriving. It is good to see.”

Aleksander can feel himself flushing, but he smiles, too, because he is thriving. It’s a strange feeling. In Tretogor he knew the patterns, knew how to keep his balance, but he was only surviving. Here in Kaer Morhen, amid so much strangeness, he can feel himself blossoming like - like a flower in the sun.

He has friends, not merely friendly acquaintances: Milena, and Livi, and Jaskier, Dilan and Bricriu, Lambert, Aren and the Mantikittens, Dragonfly, Cedric and Axel - the list goes on for an astonishingly long time. He has work to do which actually suits him, for a wonder. He has time to watch the birds come to their feeder, and to wander the herb garden, without worrying about what others might think of his pastimes. He has the protection of a lord truly worth serving. And he has Aiden.

He doesn’t know who he would have ended up marrying, had he stayed in Redania as Vizimir’s catspaw, but he is absolutely sure that whoever it was would not have suited him so wonderfully as his Cat does.

“You’re doting,” Dilan teases. Aleksander blushes and grins. “What’s your flower mean today?”

“Strong and praiseworthy,” Aleksander admits.

“Aww,” Bricriu says, propping his chin on a hand and grinning at Aleksander. “Your Cat’s a sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Aleksander says simply.

“Damn, I can’t even give you sh*t properly, you’re too cute,” Bricriu laughs. “Still think you’re a bit daft for picking a Cat, mind you.”

“You realize the Cats think your School is quite mad,” Aleksander points out.

“Yes, well.” Bricriu shrugs and grins. “They’re not wrong. Speaking of which, how did that oleander batch of Gull turn out, Dilan?”

“Not bad,” Dilan says. “A little sweeter than I generally like, but some nice bitterness on the back end.”

The conversation turns to the best poisons to add to White Gull and what effects they have - a perpetual favorite among the Manticores, from what Aleksander has been able to discern - and Aleksander contents himself with his meal, which is superlative as always, since he has no particular opinion on poisonous drinks apart from not wishing to partake.

Jaskier sings after supper; he’s finished the song about Letho and the bullvore, and debuts it to great merriment. Aleksander spots Letho looking somewhere between proud and mortified as his siblings whack him on the shoulders and bellow the chorus more gleefully than tunefully.

Aleksander excuses himself when Princess Ciri has gone up to bed and Jaskier switches to some of his bawdier tunes, though. Aleksander and Aiden may have become lovers in truth, but that actually makes it worse: Aleksander is absolutely sure he can’t listen to Jaskier sing about bedsport and not blush crimson, and all the Manticores would know exactly how flustered he was, which would be extremely embarrassing.

Aiden follows him, of course, his arm landing heavy and warm across Aleksander’s shoulders before they even reach the stairs. “Hey there, pup,” he purrs in Aleksander’s ear. “How did it go?”

“Well,” Aleksander says, smiling up at his lover.

“Good,” Aiden says, and steals a quick kiss, grinning mischievously when Aleksander blushes. “Would my sweet pup like a reward for surviving his first day as a trainer?”

“What sort of reward?” Aleksander asks.

“Well,” Aiden says thoughtfully as they turn down the Cat corridor, “I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you for a while. If that sounded good to you.”

Aleksander swallows hard. “On one condition,” he says shakily.

“Name it,” Aiden says at once.

“You teach me how to - to reciprocate,” Aleksander says, knowing he’s blushing terribly but not letting it stop him.

Aiden actually stumbles. “f*ck. Wolf-hearted pup, indeed. Yeah, I’ll teach you, if you want to learn.”

“I do,” Aleksander admits. “I want to - to know how to give you as much pleasure as you do me.”

“Gods damn,” Aiden murmurs, hauling open the door to his rooms and ushering Aleksander through. “You are the sweetest pup in all the world, and I am going to eat you up.”

Aleksander blushes. “How - ah - how should I -?”

Aiden kisses him. “Let me undress you?”

Aleksander nods.

Patryk used to undress him, of course - court clothing requires a valet or a lady’s maid to get into or out of - but this is different. The clothing is simpler, and Aiden lifts away each piece of it almost reverently, leaving Aleksander standing bare beside the bed.

“Sit down there on the edge,” Aiden says. Aleksander obeys, feeling awkward and a little confused, and then can’t help the little squeak of surprise he lets out when Aiden sinks to his knees on the rug between Aleksander’s feet.

“Sweet pup,” Aiden purrs, curling his hands around Aleksander’s ankles and then stroking up Aleksander’s legs; it tickles a bit as the hair is rucked the wrong way, but Aiden’s hands are so warm. They end up spread across Aleksander’s thighs, calluses a little rough against the tender skin, warm as brands but comforting somehow.

Aiden leans forward, eyes locked on Aleksander’s, and breathes hot against Aleksander’s half-hard prick.

Aleksander knots his hands in the blankets and swallows. Aiden’s lips are very red and his breath is so warm and he’s - he’s about to -

Aiden licks delicately at the head of Aleksander’s prick. Aleksander bites his lip hard to hold in a whimper. It’s - warm, and wet, and nothing like his own touch or Aiden’s careful, callused fingers -

“Sweet pup,” Aiden whispers again, and opens his mouth and takes Aleksander’s prick in. Aleksander makes a strangled little noise, feeling himself hardening quickly in the heat of Aiden’s mouth; Aiden’s tongue dances across the tender skin, and Aleksander shakes.

Aiden catches Aleksander’s eye again and winks, and then he starts to move his head, bobbing it carefully from the very tip of Aleksander’s prick all the way down to the very base, swallowing around Aleksander’s length, humming like the salty taste of it is a cherished treat.

It’s so good.

Aleksander crams his knuckles into his mouth, trying to muffle the helpless whines spilling from his lips, and shakes with the effort to not move. Aiden’s hands hold him still, and his mouth is so hot, and Aleksander bites hard enough to break the skin on his knuckles as pleasure washes over him.

Aiden swallows his spend down like it’s the Manticores’ best mead.

*

Aiden sits back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. Sasha looks wrecked, flushed entirely pink and shuddering with the aftershocks of pleasure.

…And his knuckles are bleeding. sh*t.

Aiden rolls to his feet and takes Sasha’s hand gently in his, tsking softly over the bite marks. “If you’ve got to bite something, sweet pup, bite me.”

“I didn’t entirely mean to,” Sasha says sheepishly.

Aiden reaches for the human-safe salve he’s started keeping in his nightstand just in case, and smears a bit of it over the shallow marks. Sasha gives him a rueful smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, pup,” Aiden says, and bends to kiss him, licking the blood from Sasha’s lips until he cannot taste it anymore. Sasha opens for him so easily, sighing into his mouth and reaching up to cling to Aiden’s shoulder with his unhurt hand.

And then when they part, Sasha says softly, “You said - may I -” and makes as if he’s going to slide off the bed and onto his knees, mirroring Aiden’s previous position.

Aiden catches him under the arms and pulls him upright again. “I did say, and I will teach you, but I don’t want you bruising your knees while you do.”

“Oh,” Sasha says, blushing. Aiden grins and kisses him and strips out of his clothes as quickly as he can, then stretches out on the bed, piling the pillows up until he’s sort of half-reclined like a fancy courtesan. Sasha looks at him with a very flattering heat in his gaze.

“Come here, pup,” Aiden says, holding out a hand, and Sasha does, clambering into the bed and curling into Aiden’s side the same way he does every night, trusting and warm and sweet. “Right,” Aiden says. “So. The important things to remember are don’t bite, and don’t choke yourself. I’m a Witcher: we get our gag reflexes trained out of us young, so we can take our potions without retching. You’re not a Witcher, and if you try to swallow me down the way I did you, neither of us will enjoy it. Alright?”

Sasha nods solemnly, like he’s committing the words to memory.

“Other than that - take your time, use your hands too, and see what feels good. And don’t be afraid to tell me if you don’t like it. Some people don’t.” Aiden shrugs. “It’s fine with me either way, sweet pup.”

Sasha nods again, and shuffles down the bed until he’s looking at Aiden’s prick. His hand is soft and tentative as it wraps around the base, and his lips are even softer as he takes the tip into his mouth, and Aiden rests a hand on his sweet pup’s hair, not pushing at all, and breathes out a long low moan at how good it feels.

And then he watches in blank astonishment as Sasha’s eyes fall closed and an expression Aiden recognizes settles into place on his sweet face: utter contentment, utter calm. Sasha’s mouth is hot and wet and so, so gentle around Aiden’s prick, tongue working tentatively on the sensitive skin, and Sasha looks blissful with his pink lips stretched around Aiden’s girth.

f*ck. Aiden’s sweet pup doesn’t like giving head, he loves it.

“Gods,” Aiden whispers, and pets Sasha’s hair in slow gentle strokes and lets himself float on the pleasure as Sasha learns what feels good for both of them until at last Aiden’s peak washes over him with the same slow inexorable pull of the tides. He has only barely enough warning to pull Sasha away so the sweet pup won’t choke, and he falls back against the pillows panting as Sasha wipes his mouth and pillows his face on Aiden’s hip, still looking and smelling utterly contented.

Sasha comes back to himself after a while, and there’s a brief fuss of getting Aiden cleaned off and both of them under the sheets, and then he’s back where he belongs, in Aiden’s arms with his head resting on Aiden’s shoulder. He still smells very, very happy.

“So I think it’s safe to say you enjoy that,” Aiden murmurs.

“Very much,” Sasha says. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think I would, or not so deeply. It’s thought entirely unmanly in Tretogor, you know. One of the worst insults you can give a man.”

“And you tried it anyway?” Aiden asks, struck again by Sasha’s courage.

“Well, I’m not in Tretogor,” Sasha points out with a little smile. “In Kaer Morhen I am beginning to suspect the only insult regarding that act would be accusing someone of being bad at it.”

Aiden snorts with laughter. “You are not wrong.” He hesitates. “Still. You’re only recently come from Tretogor. How did you manage to overcome that…custom?”

Sasha smiles. “Really, it’s the flip side of what you said the other day.”

Aiden blinks. “What?”

“You said you and Lambert, and those other Witchers who take human lovers - you can be gentle with us, because we are not threats in the same way another Witcher would be.” Sasha shrugs a little. “For me, it is - well, of course I am weaker than you are. I am weaker than the newly-Grassed trainees. There is no point in my trying to pretend to be strong and manly, whatever that means, when any Witcher could break me without a thought. So I may as well do what pleases me, and pleases my lover, without fretting over it.”

“Huh,” Aiden says. He hasn’t really ever considered being weaker as being freeing before, but it does make a certain odd sense. “Was that - did you have to spend a lot of time worrying about that sort of thing in Tretogor?”

Sasha wiggles a hand equivocally. “Yes and no? There are…various ways to be properly ‘manly’, and I certainly don’t fit some of them.” He gives Aiden a wry little smile. “I’m too soft, and have no skill at arms, and I did not go out to the gambling halls or the brothels. But on the other hand, I was in the direct line for a ducal seat, and therefore quite wealthy, and my manners were always impeccable, if…old-fashioned. Which meant I never did anything scandalous or shameful that anyone could use against me. Except being friends with Milena even after she swore to the Wolf, which was an entirely different sort of problem.”

Aiden grimaces. “I can see how that might have been awkward, yes.”

“Actually, being friends with Livi was substantially more awkward, in the short time between my grandfather’s death and my departure from court,” Sasha says ruefully.

“Because she ran away?” Aiden asks, frowning.

“No, because the news of her escape caused my grandfather’s death.” Sasha shrugs. “I was expected to denounce her, and I did not.”

“Good on you,” Aiden says, kissing his forehead. “Wolf-hearted Aleksander.”

“I don’t feel brave,” Sasha says softly. “Not like a Witcher.”

Aiden smiles. “You’re not brave like a Witcher,” he agrees. “Because Witchers aren’t brave.”

Sasha blinks at him in utter bafflement. “What? But - Witchers go out and hunt monsters!”

“Courage is being scared sh*tless and then doing it anyway,” Aiden explains. “Witchers get fear burned out of us by the Grasses, so we can’t be brave. You’ve still got all those instincts. You can be scared out of your damn mind - and you were, by the smell when I first met you. And you do the hard thing anyway.”

Sasha stares at him for a long moment, blush getting steadily deeper with every heartbeat. “I - I had never thought of it like that,” he admits, and tucks his face against Aiden’s throat, smelling embarrassed and pleased in almost equal measure.

Aiden strokes his hair and grins. “Wolf-hearted Aleksander,” he whispers again. “Brave and honorable and good, and sweet as honey.”

*

There’s a little sprig of edelweiss waiting at Aleksander’s place at the Cat table the next day. He blushes and tucks it into his doublet lacing as Livi coos approval.

“What’s that mean, then?” Dragonfly asks, looking intrigued, and Aleksander is opening his mouth to reply, Noble courage, when there’s a sudden hush, and Aleksander looks up to discover that there are petitioners standing in front of the Wolf table, escorted by Coën of the Griffins and Theodore of the Manticores: a young woman with long dark hair in a thick braid and rather grimy looking but quite fine clothing, two dwarves, one young and one old, and one older man with a bushy beard, wearing mage’s robes.

Aleksander shrinks back against Aiden, trembling.

“Shh, pup,” Aiden whispers, wrapping an arm around Aleksander and holding him close. “He’s wearing dimeritium - see? Around his throat. He can’t cast a spell any more than you can fly.”

Aleksander lets out his breath in a shaky sigh. The mage is wearing a chain about his throat, some silvery metal with an odd sheen to it. So is the girl. So neither of them can cast spells, and in any case neither would have any reason to cast anything on Aleksander, and also Aleksander is reasonably sure Aiden would cheerfully gut anyone who offered him harm.

Which probably shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is.

What is not reassuring is the absolute poison the mage spits, demanding that the White Wolf give the girl over to him for some sort of vile experiments. Aleksander is abruptly very grateful that Aren and the Mantikittens have not yet braved the great hall for meals. If any of them heard this, it would doubtless cause them such distress as Aleksander doesn’t even want to contemplate.

And the girl - the girl asks only that she be given a clean death. Aleksander’s breath hisses through his teeth in horror as he waits for the White Wolf’s response.

It comes in the flash of a sword and three snarled words that rumble through Aleksander’s very bones. “No more experiments,” the Wolf decrees.

“Well,” Aiden says lightly, once the ringing silence has ended, the mage’s corpse has been hauled out, and the girl has been led over to the Griffin table to dine, “that was exciting.”

“Yes,” Aleksander says shakily. “Are all mages like that, except those who serve the Wolf?”

Aiden shrugs. Cedric snorts. “There’s a few decent ones, but they tend to keep to themselves,” he says. “The ones you find in courts are pretty much all monsters. And the really rich ones, too, for that matter.”

“You don’t get rich being nice,” Axel puts in wryly.

“We really are going to have to do something about that sooner or later,” Dragonfly says thoughtfully.

“Do something?” Livi asks. “Such as what?”

“Well, we could try burning Ban Ard down and salting the ashes,” Cedric says.

“Oh, I like that idea,” Dragonfly grins. “Ask the Cranes for some dimeritium bombs to make sure none of the f*ckers portal out.”

“Are there…mage trainees?” Aleksander ventures hesitantly.

All the Cats look at him blankly for a moment, and then Aiden shakes his head, not in dismissal but in astonishment, and says, “Sweet pup, this is why we need people like you around.”

“Alright, first we get any little baby mages out, then we burn it down and salt the ashes,” Axel says.

“Sounds good,” Cedric agrees. “I’ll mention it to Treyse, make sure the Council knows we’re perfectly happy to commit a little arson for a good reason.”

“Have you committed arson for bad reasons?” Livi asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Axel says brightly. “We burned down a hunting lodge once because we were very drunk and I thought it had looked at Cedric funny. There wasn’t anyone in it,” he adds hastily.

“How, pray tell, does a hunting lodge look at someone in any manner?” Aiden asks, snickering. Aleksander leans against his lover’s shoulder and muffles laughter as Cedric and Axel tell the story of that particular youthful misadventure, and by the end of dinner he is in a far better mood.

*

Aiden sees Sasha off to his classes with a kiss that’s only just chaste enough to keep Sasha from blushing crimson, and takes himself upstairs to the Manticore hall. The Mantikittens should hear about the mage and his unceremonious death, and better it should be soon and on purpose, rather than by hearing a rumor and getting the wrong idea about some part of it.

Aren is doing some slow, careful stretches in the middle of the room when Ada lets Aiden in. Zia and Maja are imitating Aren; Elena is sitting in the window, sewing.

“Is Sasha with you?” Zia asks, sitting up and giving Aiden an expectant look.

“He’s teaching the boys how to be courtly,” Aiden replies, shaking his head. “You’ll have to make do with me, sorry.”

Zia snorts and sticks out her tongue. “You gonna tell me I shouldn’t prefer Sasha?”

“Naturally not,” Aiden laughs. “Everyone should always prefer Sasha.”

“No fun givin’ you sh*t if you’re just gonna be sweet about it,” Zia grumbles, but she smells pleased all the same.

“Ye don’ usually come by yourself, though,” Maja points out.

“No, I don’t,” Aiden agrees, and folds down to sit on the floor. “We had a rather odd moment at dinner, and I think you all ought to hear about it.”

Aren levers himself to his feet and takes his usual chair, and the Mantikittens settle at his feet, watching Aiden warily. “Go on,” Aren says. He still doesn’t use two words where one will do, even if his voice does sound astoundingly better.

“A girl about Zia’s age came to beg justice of the Wolf,” Aiden says. “She said that she was cursed, and begged of him either sanctuary or a clean death.”

Zia’s hands close into fists. Maja puts her arms around Ada and Elena protectively. “Why’d she need sanctuary?” the eldest Mantikitten asks warily.

Aiden nods to her. “Because the other petitioner was a mage who wished to experiment upon her, to learn about the curse he claimed she bore.”

Aren goes still as a snake just before it strikes. Zia hisses a curse under her breath. Ada claps both hands over her mouth to muffle a whimper.

“What did the Wolf do?” Elena breathes.

“Took the f*cking mage’s head right off,” Aiden grins. “And the girl’s been given sanctuary as long as she needs it.”

All of the Mantikittens let out long slow breaths, and Aren relaxes visibly.

“Good,” Zia snarls. “f*ck mages.”

“So it isn’t just…just Witchers he rescues,” Elena says slowly.

“I think if he could, the Wolf would rescue every person in the world,” Aiden admits. “And honestly the mage is lucky the Wolf killed him so quickly. The last time a bunch of mages stood up in front of a hall full of Witchers and said they wanted to experiment on children, we tore them into very tiny pieces.”

“Good,” Zia hisses.

Aiden grins at her. “It was very cathartic.”

“Is Sasha alright?” Ada asks. “He goes kinda green if we talk about any of the really ugly sh*t.”

“He’s alright,” Aiden assures her, deeply touched. “He had a few bad moments, but he was in a good mood again by the time dinner was over, and I’ll make sure to keep alert for nightmares.”

“Good,” Maja says, nodding firmly.

“Thank you for telling us,” Aren adds, in a quiet rasp.

“Figured you should hear it as soon as possible,” Aiden shrugs. “Dunno if the girl will be sticking around - she’s a princess, she might be going back to her kingdom - but in case you see her or a couple of dwarves wandering about, that’s what’s going on.”

“I’ve never met a dwarf,” Elena says. “What are they like?”

“Well, they’re pretty much people,” Aiden says. “They tend to be very focused on stonework or metalwork, though. Or at least some sort of craft. Very proud of their skills and their women. And their beards. Surprisingly dangerous - turns out a mattock to the knees will take just about anything down.”

Zia’s eyes light up. “Aren, can I -”

Aren laughs, a soft rough noise that isn’t quite as painful-sounding as it used to be a few weeks ago. “Sword and daggers first,” he says. “Then mattock. If you want.”

Zia sighs and grumbles, and her sisters laugh. Aiden marvels. They’re healing so f*cking well. It’s truly beautiful to see.

*

Aleksander is genuinely surprised, and quite impressed, when Princess Renfri joins them in the baths the next morning. He is still getting used to bathing in company, and spends a great deal of time with his gaze fixed on the high-arched natural stone of the ceiling so he will not accidentally catch a glimpse of something he ought not. (Bathing with Aiden has also gotten rather more fraught in the last few days. Now that he knows what Aiden looks like in the throes of pleasure - now that he knows what it feels like to put his hands and his mouth on that warm brown skin - it is much harder to ignore the fact that Aiden is naked and beautiful and close enough to touch. Aleksander is sure Aiden can smell his embarrassed lust, and grateful the Cat hasn’t said anything about it.)

Princess Renfri looks uncomfortable but determined, and slides into the water without obvious hesitation. Princess Ciri introduces her to everyone, and Aleksander makes a firm mental note that she prefers to be called Shrike. She seems to be making very similar mental notes about all of them - he recognizes that expression of fierce concentration - and he’s amused, though not surprised, when it fractures into shock at Jaskier’s explanation of Aleksander’s own rank.

“Abdicated?” she asks incredulously.

Aleksander gives her what he hopes she’ll take as a companionable smile. “Technically, I committed high treason, so I felt continuing to hold the ducal seat might be a bit awkward.” It feels odd saying it out loud - admitting to treason isn’t exactly comfortable - but he did, and he’d do it again given the circ*mstances, so he’s not going to dodge the subject.

Shrike gapes at him for a moment, looking entertainingly boggled. Livi muffles a giggle behind her hand. Finally Shrike finds her voice again: “What did you do?”

“I sent a letter to Milena, telling her the king of Redania’s mages were torturing a Witcher and had killed more than a hundred girls in attempting to create more Witchers in the basem*nt of the ducal mansion I inherited upon my grandfather’s death, resulting in the overthrow of the royal family and the conquest of Redania by the Wolf,” Aleksander says, shrugging a little. “I don’t regret it, but technically it did count as treason.”

Shrike’s thoroughly gobsmacked expression is rather charming. Aleksander leans back and looks at the ceiling again as Jaskier gracefully picks the conversational thread up, keeping his attention firmly away from the many naked ladies (and Jaskier); he can tell by now, to his own great relief, he will get used to communal bathing, probably sooner rather than later, but he hasn’t quite gotten there yet. It doesn’t help that all of the ladies are very pretty, and Jaskier is very handsome. But at least none of them are Witchers - and at least Livi warned him about the smelling-emotions thing his first day here, rather than it being left to a Witcher to explain. That would have been deeply mortifying.

He’s going over the lesson plans for the day in his mind, paying only mild attention to the conversation going on around him, when Jaskier squawks and flails, and Aleksander yanks his mind back to the present just in time to hear Jaskier bemoaning the fact that Lord Eskel will be going with the Wolf to deal with the Prince of Creyden. Because the Wolf needs Lord Eskel’s Axii.

What, Aleksander wonders, is an Axii? Has Lord Eskel named his sword?

He resolves to ask Aiden at dinner. His Cat ought to have an entertaining opinion, if that is what Jaskier means.

In the meantime, he’s promised to spend the morning with the Mantikittens, so once breakfast is over he takes his leave of Jaskier and the ladies and heads up the stairs. He can actually find the Manticore hall without getting lost, which is a delightful development, and gives him hope that he may be able to learn a decent fraction of the keep’s maze of corridors by spring, perhaps. Enough that he won’t have to be constantly relying on friendly Witchers to point him in the right direction.

Zia pounces on him as soon as he opens the door. “Sasha! Come and look!” She half-drags him over to the window and points down; Aleksander leans out, following the line of her finger, to see Shrike working with Mistress Zofia and several Viper Witchers, apparently learning the basics of knifework.

“Izzat the princess who came for sanctuary?” Zia demands. “Aiden told us about her yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s her; she prefers to be called Shrike,” Sasha says, smiling down at the prickly little Mantikitten. Aiden had mentioned last night that he’d informed the Mantikittens about the newest human in Kaer Morhen. Aleksander is glad of it - they should know. They doubtless took as much comfort as Aleksander did himself from the knowledge that the Wolf’s response to monstrous mages remains as swift and merciless as it was in Velen. He rubs his thumb absently against the scar on his finger, reminding himself again that Master Gustavus is very dead. As dead as Master Stregobor, and for the same reason.

“Isn’t a shrike a bird?” Ada asks, tucking herself under Aleksander’s other arm and peering down at the training fields.

“Yes, it is,” Aleksander tells her, ruffling her hair gently. “They’re called butcherbirds, sometimes, for their habit of impaling their prey on thornbushes. They’re quite adorable, though, if you don’t know about that.”

“Can you draw one?” Ada asks, looking up at him hopefully. “Like you did for us - you could draw a shrike for Shrike, to welcome her to Kaer Morhen!”

“That is a very good idea,” Aleksander says, so very proud of the youngest Mantikitten, who has somehow kept such compassion despite everything she’s been through. “If you’ll get out my drawing kit, I’ll do just that.”

Ada bounces in excitement and goes darting off to dig the parchment and quills out of a cupboard. Aleksander looks over to find Aren smiling proudly at both of them. The Manticore meets Aleksander’s eyes and gives him a small, approving nod; Aleksander smiles back, and lets Zia tug him over to the low table by the fire.

He feels…welcome here, among the Mantikittens. It’s a very good feeling.

When he writes to Mikolaj next, he should tell his little brother that he considers the Mantikittens to be his sisters, as surely as by blood. Mikolaj will be delighted to have younger siblings, Aleksander is quite sure.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

Aiden is rather hoping that there won’t be any upheaval during dinner today - once per week is quite enough, really, and while having a mage executed in front of the Wolf table isn’t going to put any Witcher off their food, it did scare the crap out of Sasha, which is a state Aiden would like to avoid pretty much all the time, thanks ever so.

Unfortunately, when Sasha slides onto the bench next to him, after a greeting and a chaste kiss and a delighted little exclamation about the yellow jasmine flower Aiden managed to filch from the greenhouse full of non-toxic plants, Sasha asks, “Has Lord Eskel named his sword?”

“No?” Aiden says, frowning. “Witchers don’t, generally speaking. A sword is a sword is a sword - if we got into the habit of naming them, we might not be willing to leave them behind or risk breaking them, and then we might get our fool selves killed. That’s pretty much a direct quote from Guxart’s lectures, by the way. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Jaskier said something about the White Wolf needing Lord Eskel’s Axii in Creyden this afternoon, and I was wondering what that was,” Sasha explains.

Aiden bites his lip. “Ah. sh*t.” Whatever’s going on in Creyden must be even worse than anticipated, if Geralt wants Eskel’s Axii. “I’ll explain after dinner,” he promises. “Or - after your classes, I guess?”

“I have a little time,” Sasha says. “I am not due in the classroom until the third hour after noon, today.”

Aiden nods. “Then after dinner,” he says. Sasha gives him a worried look, but nods, and even strikes up a conversation with Livi about what he’s going to be teaching, and whether she thinks Kitten or Mouse will be willing to come and demonstrate courtly curtseys at some later point, so the trainees can practice bowing in response.

Aiden, meanwhile, tries not to think about all the ways the coming conversation could go very wrong. He knows he hasn’t told Sasha about the various Signs, but he’d somehow figured someone would - Leocadie, maybe, or Aren, or…well, someone.

Aiden himself probably should have, if he’d just thought of it.

Dinner is over far too soon, and after a moment’s panicked internal flailing, Aiden leads the way out into the herb garden where Sasha likes to sit and sketch the birds, and settles on a bench against the wall. Sasha sits down beside him and tucks himself under Aiden’s arm, snug against his side, warm and trusting.

Aiden takes a deep breath. “So,” he says. “You know Witchers can do magic - our Signs.”

Sasha nods.

“There’s five major Signs, and a couple of more specialized ones that we use more rarely,” Aiden says, feeling his way forward like he’s blindfolded and walking a tightrope over a pit of spikes. Which he has, in fact, done successfully. So maybe this will go alright? “I think you’ve probably seen some of them. Quen’s the golden shield.”

Sasha nods again. “And Igni, I think, creates fire; Zia learned it from Lord Eskel.”

“Yep,” Aiden agrees. “Yrden makes a sort of trap: it’ll slow down an attacker, or make a wraith take physical form long enough to take its head off. Aard - well, you’ve seen us playing Aard-the-Cat, right?”

Sasha laughs. “Yes! That’s the one that sends you flying.”

Aiden grins and nuzzles Sasha’s hair. “Exactly. And then there are the rarer ones - Supirre makes sounds seem louder; Warritt of the Vipers uses it to compensate for not being able to see. And Somne puts things to sleep, but unless you’re very good it really just makes people sort of dozy and tired.”

Sasha nods. “That is only four major Signs,” he points out warily.

Aiden takes a deep breath. Here goes. “The fifth major Sign is Axii. It can be used to dull pain, or calm a panicked animal, or to distract someone, but what it really does, when you come right down to it, is briefly control someone’s mind.”

Sasha goes very still, and his scent spikes fear. “It what?”

“It lets a Witcher control someone’s mind,” Aiden repeats, heart in his throat. “It’s not easy to use, and there are really f*cking strict rules about it these days, but…yeah. That’s what it does.”

“Why does the White Wolf need Lord Eskel’s Axii?” Sasha asks, trembling. “What is he planning to do?”

“I don’t know exactly, but -” Aiden frowns. “I think I heard that the cub and Mouse and Shrike would be watching the whole thing in Yennefer’s workroom. Would you like to join them, and see for yourself?”

Sasha swallows hard. “Yes,” he says, in a very small voice. He’s rubbing at the scar on his finger again, as he does when he’s nervous or distressed, and he smells more fearful than he has in weeks. Aiden hates it. “I - yes. Please.”

“Come on, then,” Aiden says, standing and pulling Sasha to his feet. “I’ll show you the way.”

*

Aleksander cannot keep his hands from trembling as Aiden ushers him through a nondescript door into what is clearly a mage’s workroom. Mouse glances up briefly and nods to them; neither Ciri nor Shrike seems to notice their arrival. Their gazes are fixed to an enormous silver-backed mirror hung upon the wall, which shows not the girls’ reflections but a royal hall somewhere Aleksander does not recognize. The Wolf is seated on a throne, with Lord Eskel glowering beside him; at the foot of the dais, a well-dressed man kneels, and a woman in a beautiful gown stands beside him. Both are wearing circlets on their dark hair. The man looks a little like Shrike, in profile.

The Wolf looks grim, as cold and furious as he was in the hall during dinner yesterday. As he was in Tretogor, pronouncing judgment on Vizimir for what was done to Aren and the girls.

This…this is the Warlord of the North, the unstoppable conqueror. Not the oddly gentle man who shared a meal with Aleksander on the battlements, the doting lover who cuddles with Jaskier on the double-wide chair, the adoring father who treats Ciri as beloved daughter and heir. This is the face the rest of the world sees.

“Tell me,” the Warlord commands the woman, “what was done with the soldiers of Kovir?”

“They were returned to Kovir, my lord,” the woman replies smoothly.

The Warlord’s grim expression grows stonier, and his voice drops into a growl like a distant avalanche. Aleksander shrinks back against Aiden, taking comfort as his lover wraps an arm around him and nuzzles at his hair.

“That is a lie,” the Warlord rumbles.

Oh, gods. Witchers can smell lies - that was some of the first advice Aleksander was given when he came to Kaer Morhen. Witchers don’t like lies. And no king in the world would be pleased at having a vassal lie to his face.

“Tell me true,” the Warlord orders. “What was done with the soldiers of Kovir?”

The woman pales, as well she might. Aleksander doesn’t know what was supposed to be done with the Koviri soldiers, or why, but he’s fairly sure whatever it was, she didn’t do it. Which was foolish of her. Disobeying an overlord is treason, and Aleksander should know. And if one is not willing to face the consequences of treason, one ought not commit it.

“They were sent on, my lord,” the woman says, which is such an obvious bit of obfuscation that Aleksander is embarrassed on her behalf.

“Sent on,” the Warlord repeats, looking very angry now. “Eskel.”

Lord Eskel steps forward and makes a sign in the air, and a glowing symbol forms and flies forward to strike the woman. The tension seems to drain out of her stance; she stares straight ahead, glassy-eyed and placid. Aleksander bites his lip and shudders, pressing his thumb to the scar on his finger hard enough that it might bruise. f*ck, he’s had so many nightmares in which he ends up like that, utterly under the control of a mage’s will -

“Speak truth,” Lord Eskel commands. “What was done with the soldiers of Kovir?”

“I had them poisoned,” the woman says, voice unnaturally calm. “The bodies are buried in the lime pit.”

Aleksander winces. That is almost certainly not an answer that’s going to let this woman keep her head.

Aiden makes a low, angry noise deep in his throat, but his arm is still very gentle around Aleksander’s shoulders.

Lord Eskel continues to question the woman, but Aleksander honestly isn’t paying much attention to her anymore. She’s a dead woman walking, whether the Sign holding her lets her realize it or not.

Instead, Aleksander watches Lord Eskel, and what he sees is…strangely reassuring, actually. For two reasons.

The first is that Lord Eskel doesn’t actually make the woman do anything but tell the truth. If Aleksander didn’t already know that Axii controls the mind, he might actually think it was just a sort of truth-spell. Many lords Aleksander has known, had they had similar powers, would have used them to do terrible things to one who has angered them as deeply as this woman has angered the Warlord of the North.

The second is that after the first minute or so, Aleksander can see the focus that holding the Sign requires. It’s not obvious - he suspects no one in the court of Creyden notices - but it’s visible in the tightness of Lord Eskel’s shoulders and the set of his jaw. This isn’t effortless, the way casting the silencing spell on Aleksander seemed to be for Master Gustavus. It can’t be put in place and left there like that spell was, either. And if even Lord Eskel finds it a strain to hold the Sign in place on someone for a prolonged period of time, then if a Witcher ever cast it on Aleksander, it wouldn’t last very long.

He couldn’t be made to do too much harm, surely.

Lord Eskel finally drops the Sign, and as the woman begins shrieking in outrage, Aiden murmurs, “Seen enough, pup?” in Aleksander’s ear.

Aleksander nods, and lets Aiden guide him out and away.

*

Sasha’s scent went through so many permutations that Aiden doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’s thinking. He guides the pup back to Sasha’s rooms and installs him on the windowsill, curling around him and wrapping a blanket around both of them.

Sasha is still worrying at that scar on his finger. Aiden catches his hand and raises it to kiss each fingertip, very pleased when Sasha’s muddled scent lightens a little with happiness.

“So Axii is…terrifying, but not as much as it could be,” Sasha says, which is such a relief that Aiden has to put his head down on Sasha’s shoulder for a minute and just breathe.

“I’m glad,” he says once he gets his too-fast heart back under control. “What…uh…what makes you say that, pup?”

Sasha looks down at his hand. “You’ve noticed this scar,” he says, which seems like a complete change of topic. Aiden nods, confused.

“I got this from Master Gustavus, the court mage in Tretogor,” Sasha says. Aiden’s breath hisses out between his teeth, and he braces himself against sudden rage. “He used some sort of ceremonial knife, and bound me by my blood not to speak of Aren, or the experiments. And as far as I could tell, the spell was…easy. Simplicity itself. It cost Master Gustavus no more than a moment’s thought.” He looks up to meet Aiden’s eyes solemnly.

“It took Lord Eskel effort,” Sasha explains. “And the Wolf asked for Lord Eskel - for the Witcher with the strongest Signs - because even so simple a use, if prolonged as that interrogation was, is - I think I can guess - difficult for the caster.”

“Yeah,” Aiden says. “It is. I can hold an Axii maybe thirty seconds, for something as hard as making someone tell the truth when they really don’t want to. A sentence or so, no more than that.”

Sasha nods. “So it isn’t - it isn’t really like the spell that bound me. It’s still a little terrifying, but…not as much as it could be.”

“Thank f*ck,” Aiden breathes.

Sasha hums. “Why does that matter so much to you?” he asks.

“I don’t ever want to scare you, pup,” Aiden explains quietly. “And I should have told you about this earlier; it just slipped my mind, and I was worried you’d decide having a lover who could do that was too f*ckin’ scary.”

Sasha turns his head to kiss Aiden’s cheek. “I trust you,” he says softly. “I am always safe with you. You wouldn’t need Axii to do anything you pleased with me, but I know you wouldn’t use your strength against me, and this is only an extension of that.”

“I won’t ever cast Axii on you unless you say I can,” Aiden pledges. “I might ask if I can, if gods forbid you ever get hurt and need me to dull the pain until I can get you to a healer, but I won’t force it on you, ever.”

“Thank you,” Sasha says, and then hesitates. “Ah - actually -” He braces himself, heart beating faster, apprehension filling his scent. “Would you? Please?”

“Would I cast Axii on you?” Aiden asks, baffled.

“Yes. I want to know what it feels like.” Sasha is trembling, but his voice is steady.

“Uh,” Aiden says. “I. Um. Alright.”

He shapes the Sign as carefully as he can, and lets it sink delicately into place against Sasha’s mind. “Tell me your favorite food,” he says, clinging to his composure and the Chaos as hard as he can.

“Cherry tarts,” Sasha says dreamily, and then the Sign shatters and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh. Oh, that’s…”

Aiden bites his lip and waits, not even breathing, for Sasha’s decision.

“I think I could have fought that,” Sasha says, voice full of wonder.

“Yeah,” Aiden agrees. “Strong minds can, if they really don’t want to obey.” Strong minds like Sasha’s must be, to have borne up under that bedamned mage’s cruelty, and still found a way to contact Milena.

“Huh,” Sasha says softly. He looks down at his scarred finger. “I couldn’t even fight the spell. But I could have fought that.”

“Wolf-hearted Aleksander,” Aiden purrs. His pup is so f*cking brave. To have been under a spell which affected him so strongly, and then to dare to ask to have Axii placed on him - gods, Aiden is in awe, he really is.

Sasha lets out a long sigh, and leans more heavily against Aiden, tucking his head under Aiden’s chin. Aiden cuddles him close, scrubbing his cheek against Sasha’s head to feel the pleasant rasp and catch of his beard against Sasha’s hair, humming one of the bard’s slower songs deep in his chest.

“You said there are rules?” Sasha asks softly after a little while.

“No using Axii for personal profit or to cause harm, don’t use it without a damn good reason or clear permission, and report any uses without the permission of the person being put under Axii to Eskel or a School Head as soon as possible,” Aiden rattles off easily.

“And permission is usually given in case of injury?” Sasha guesses.

“Out on the Path, yeah,” Aiden agrees. “In Kaer Morhen, well, I know there’s a couple people who like feeling a little floaty in bed.”

Sasha shudders. “I would not enjoy that.”

“Then we’ll never try it,” Aiden says easily. “It’s not to my taste either, honestly.”

Sasha nods and nestles closer. “I’m glad. I - I would not wish to deprive you, but -”

“Trust me, pup, I am the furthest thing from deprived,” Aiden murmurs.

Sasha blushes, but he smells pleased, too, so Aiden is going to call that whole conversation a win. And - Sasha should know that Aiden knows how brave he is.

“I’m impressed,” he murmurs, and Sasha gives him a startled look. “Facing a fear like that is damned hard.”

Sasha looks down at his hands. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with far worse things -”

“Shush,” Aiden says gently. “Firstly, it isn’t a contest. Second, I told you, Witchers aren’t brave; being fearless isn’t the same thing at all. And third -” he hesitates, but Sasha has more than earned such vulnerability. “Even Witchers can be affected by things that hurt us badly. I find spiders very discomforting.”

“Spiders?” Sasha asks, looking up at him in obvious surprise.

Aiden shrugs. “I don’t remember it - thank f*ck - but I’m told a nest of arachas attacked my family’s caravan when I was very young. They’re big ugly spidery things; they skitter just like the little ones. Something about that must have stuck in my mind.”

“Oh,” Sasha says. “Gods. I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been. Did - did a Witcher save your family, and claim you as a Child of Surprise?”

Aiden blinks. It’s a perfectly logical question. “No,” he says gently. “No. That…would have been better.” He grimaces when Sasha blinks at him. “The arachas didn’t kill my family. Axel did.”

Sasha’s jaw drops. “What?”

Aiden sighs. “So I don’t remember this. Cedric and Axel told me about it when I was…somewhere in my early twenties, I think. But they had been contracted to guard the caravan, and when the arachas attacked, one of the other guards tried to shoot at them, missed, and hit Cedric. And Axel…” he trails off unhappily.

“Went mad?” Sasha guesses quietly. Aiden nods. “Oh,” Sasha whispers. Aiden waits for him to pull away, horrified by this proof of the danger of spending time with a Cat, but Sasha just nestles closer, tucking his head under Aiden’s chin. “That sounds awful,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Aiden curls around him. “I don’t remember it,” he admits. “Which is almost certainly all to the good. If they hadn’t told me, I would have gone on assuming I was orphaned by monsters, not Witchers.”

“You seem to have forgiven them,” Sasha ventures.

“Yes, well.” Aiden shrugs. “They’re my family, too - the closest thing to parents I can remember having. And unlike the bastard who hurt you, pup, Axel didn’t choose to murder my kin.”

Sasha makes a thoughtful noise. “Witchers care a great deal about choices.”

“Yes.” Aiden shrugs again. “So many of ours were taken away.”

“That makes sense,” Sasha says slowly. “And it says much for your compassion, that your response to that is to try to give people more choices, instead of taking them away in revenge for what was done to you.”

“Sweet pup,” Aiden marvels. He can’t remember anyone ever accusing Witchers of being compassionate before. “You are a godsdamned treasure.”

Sasha blushes again, but he smiles and tucks his face against Aiden’s throat, finding comfort in Aiden’s presence, and that - gods, but that’s worth more than all the gold and jewels in the world.

*

A week or so after Shrike’s arrival and the mess which followed, Aleksander gets to dinner to find a white camellia at his usual seat, and Aiden practically vibrating with excitement. Aleksander takes a moment to admire the flower and tuck it into his tunic-lacings, to Aiden’s obvious delight, before kissing his Cat’s cheek and asking, “What’s toward?”

“I have a surprise for you,” Aiden says gleefully. “You’ve got time after dinner before your class starts, right?”

“About two hours, yes,” Aleksander says, unable to keep from grinning. Aiden is adorable when he’s this excited.

“Come up to the Mantikittens’ rooms with me when we’ve eaten, then?” Aiden asks hopefully.

“Of course,” Aleksander says. He’s very curious now.

He follows Aiden up to the Manticore hall once the meal is over. Ada opens the door to the Mantikittens’ suite when Aiden raps on it, but not very far - just enough that she can peer out and give Aleksander a bright, mischievous grin. “Close your eyes!” she begs. “It’s a surprise!”

Aleksander laughs and does so, putting a hand over them to make sure he can’t peek. Aiden puts an arm around his shoulders to steer him into the room, and guides him to sit down on the rug. One of the Mantikittens snuggles in close on Aleksander’s other side, and he can hear the other three giggling and whispering. Aren chuckles, a soft rough sound.

“Alright!” Ada chirps - ah, she’s the one cuddled against him. “You can look!”

Aleksander lowers his hand and opens his eyes.

There is a stunningly beautiful wooden chest on the rug in front of him. He thinks the wood might be mahogany; it’s polished to a glorious sheen. There are half a dozen little drawers set into it, each with a silver knob, and the top looks like it should open as well. Aleksander reaches out, awed and delighted, to touch the gleaming silver latch.

“Go on, open it!” Zia blurts. She’s wiggling slightly, eyes wide and eager. It’s very sweet to see her so enthusiastic about something that isn’t violence.

Carefully, Aleksander opens the top of the chest, and gasps. Inside, in beautifully arranged trays that clearly can be lifted out on elegant metal hinges, lie a neatly organized array of every sort of drawing material Aleksander could desire: charcoals and pastels, little bottles of jewel-bright inks, pots of oil paint, brushes in every shape and size. Speechless in delight, he opens one of the drawers to discover that it holds heavy paper; the second drawer holds thinner paper bound together at the top to make a sketchbook.

He realizes he’s crying quietly when Aiden makes a worried little sound and reaches up to touch his cheek. “Pup?”

“It’s - this is -” Aleksander stops and takes a deep breath, sniffling a little. “This is perfect.” It’s exactly the sort of kit he’s always wanted, and never dared buy, lest his father disapprove or his courtly companions mock his artistic pretensions.

“I asked Serrit to get everything an artist could possibly want,” Aiden admits. “I don’t even know what half of this is.”

Aleksander sniffles again and grins. “I will have to thank her profusely.” He lifts one of the trays out, admiring the smooth motion of the hinges. “Is this dwarf-make?”

“Probably,” Aiden says, grinning. “I’d flip it over to check for a maker’s mark but I think that would mess it up a bit.”

“Don’t you dare,” Aleksander laughs.

“Would you try it out?” Elena asks, looking hopeful. “I don’t know what half of those are, either!”

Aleksander smiles at her, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of a hand. “To be perfectly honest, I am not expert with most of these materials, though I am definitely looking forward to trying them out. But let me see what I can do.” He takes out the sketchpad first, and one of the charcoal pencils. He’s mostly gotten used to drawing with someone watching, since all the Mantikittens enjoy doing so, and they are flatteringly enthusiastic about it.

Aiden drapes himself over Aleksander’s shoulder, and Ada leans close on his other side; Maja and Elena and Zia cluster together as close as they can get without blocking his light. Even Aren leans forward in his chair.

The charcoal doesn’t behave like ink, and it takes Aleksander several tries to remember how to use it - charcoal, at least, he has worked with before - but once his fingers recall the knack of it, he knows exactly what he wants to draw.

He cleans his fingers carefully on a handkerchief before he takes out one of the sheets of heavy paper and spreads it on the top of the chest. A thought occurs to him, and he checks the third drawer, finding to his pleasure that there are paperweights there, lovely little silver things in the shapes of sleeping cats. Aiden makes a tiny startled sound.

“I’m going to have to do something really nice for Serrit, gods damn. Or possibly for Gweld.”

“Why Gweld?” Maja asks as Aleksander puts the weights on the paper’s corners, rubbing his thumb happily over the smooth curve of a cat’s back.

“Betcha he was the one who thought of making them look like cats,” Aiden explains. “Because he’s a complete sweetheart, if utterly daft.”

“Daft?” Zia asks.

“Well, he’s in love with Serrit,” Aiden says, as Aleksander starts to draw. “And she’s the stabbiest Viper of the whole School - and I’m a Cat, we know from stabby.” He hums. “She’d probably like you, o stabbiest of Mantikittens.”

Zia laughs.

Aleksander grins, but doesn’t look away from the paper and the charcoal in his hand. The birds are taking shape beneath his fingers.

Aiden and the Mantikittens keep bantering as Aleksander works, but they fall silent at once when he sits back and puts down the charcoal. “Oh!” Maja breathes. “Oh, look!”

Aleksander wipes his fingers again, looking at his work with what he thinks is pardonable pride.

A broad-winged eagle soars at the top of the page, with a kestrel following behind it and a little to the side, as birds will when they fly in formation. At the bottom of the page, a heron stands in tall reeds, looking in mild surprise at the chaffinch which has chosen to perch on the very tip of its beak; a nuthatch is clinging to the heron’s leg as if it is the bark of a tree.

“It’s us,” Elena says delightedly. “Our birds!”

“Where’s you?” Zia demands.

Aleksander blinks.

“What’s your favorite bird?” Ada asks.

Aleksander hesitates. The proper answer is an eagle, or a swan, or some other noble and valiant creature. But - “To be perfectly honest,” he admits, “I’m very fond of sparrows. They’re so fierce and cheerful. If you’re sure you want me to add one?”

Maja nods firmly. Her sisters mimic her.

“Do,” Aren rasps.

Aleksander picks up his charcoal again, and carefully draws in a sparrow perched on the tip of one of the reeds, fluffed up round. Then he wipes his fingers one more time and tips the page so that Aren and the Mantikittens can see it properly.

“Oh,” Elena breathes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Damn,” Zia agrees admiringly.

Aren hums. “Needs a frame,” he says, and gives Aiden a rather pointed look.

“Needs a - oh! Oh, yes, I could make a frame,” Aiden says, sounding delighted. “It would be my pleasure.”

Aren nods. “Hang it there,” he says, pointing to a spot above the mantel. All the Mantikittens nod and chorus enthusiastic agreement.

Aleksander is entirely too pleased at the idea of his work being cherished enough to display.

Aiden promises to bring the chest of art supplies over to Aleksander’s rooms, and Aleksander takes his leave of Aren and the girls and heads for his classroom feeling entirely delighted with the world. Not even having all the trainees sniff the air and then grin at him when he comes in is enough to dampen his good mood.

*

“So,” Aiden drawls that evening, as they’re getting ready for bed, “what bird would I be, sweet pup?”

Sasha gives him an adorable baffled look. “I suppose you really aren’t much of a pheasant.”

“No; I might be vain enough but I think I’m a little less edible,” Aiden agrees, chuckling.

Sasha, to Aiden’s not-very-well-hidden glee, blushes bright pink and says, “Well, I don’t know about that.”

Aiden has to cup Sasha’s face in his hands and kiss him for that, because his sweet pup is getting bold enough to make dirty jokes, this is marvelous. Very tame ones, yes, but still! Sasha laughs against Aiden’s lips and kisses back with flattering enthusiasm. “And would you like to eat me up, then, sweet pup?” Aiden murmurs as the kiss ends.

Sasha goes even pinker. “I. Well,” he says, and looks down at his hands, fidgeting uncomfortably. Aiden frowns.

“Pup?”

“I was wondering,” Sasha says, in a very small voice, “if you - I mean, we’ve, ah, you’ve taught me about hands, and, and mouths, and - and I know Milena and Jaskier quite enjoy actual intercourse -” He smells nervous and lustful in about equal measure, which is both endearing and a little worrisome.

“Shh,” Aiden murmurs, kissing Sasha’s forehead and cheeks and the tip of his adorable snub nose. “Darling Wolf-hearted Aleksander, are you asking if I want to f*ck?”

“Yes?” Sasha whispers, still not looking up to meet Aiden’s eyes. “I - Jaskier said it doesn’t have to hurt, and I - I don’t want you to be shortchanged in a lover -”

“Shh,” Aiden purrs again, and pulls Sasha close, curling himself around his sweet pup when Sasha buries his face against Aiden’s throat. “Alright. Three things you need to know.”

Sasha makes a soft sound to show he’s listening.

“First thing: anything we do together should not hurt. Ever. If it does, we stop. I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you, pup. You’re - you’re precious to me.”

Sasha makes another soft sound, and kisses Aiden’s throat, and the scent of warm honey intensifies around them. “And you to me.”

“Sweet pup,” Aiden coos, and kisses Sasha’s head. “Second thing: if we never f*ck, that’s fine. I am not being shortchanged. I have you in my arms, in my bed; I am allowed to kiss you, and cuddle you, and bring you gifts, and call you mine. That’s enough and more than enough, and always will be.”

“Oh,” Sasha breathes, and then pulls back enough that he can look up and meet Aiden’s eyes. “I am, you know. Yours.”

“And I am yours, Wolf-hearted Aleksander,” Aiden says softly. “My beloved Sasha.”

Sasha goes up on his toes and kisses Aiden again, and Aiden sinks into the kiss, getting rather distracted from his train of thought. He only recaptures it again when they’ve somehow managed to move to the bed, and he’s flat on his back with Sasha sprawled over him and his hands up under Sasha’s tunic, stroking over the soft skin of Sasha’s unscarred back.

“Third thing,” he says into Sasha’s eager mouth, and Sasha makes an adorable grumpy little noise and pulls back far enough to look down at him. “No, this is important, sweet pup; I think I’ve forgotten to be clear about something again, and I’ve gotta stop doing that.”

“About what?” Sasha asks, frowning slightly in confusion.

“If we f*ck, Wolf-hearted Sasha, if that’s something you want and not just something you think you ought to give me -” Aiden waits for Sasha’s nod - “then honestly, my preference would be for you to be the one f*cking me. I like it better that way.”

Sasha’s expression of blank shock would be funny under other circ*mstances; it’s honestly a little funny even now. “You would - you would want me to - but -”

“But?” Aiden prompts.

“But you’re - well. Larger, and older, and stronger,” Sasha says sheepishly. “And a Witcher.”

“And absolutely none of that matters a whit,” Aiden says firmly. “People like what they like. I happen to like getting f*cked, when I can trust the person doing it.”

“And that won’t -” Sasha bites his lip and hesitates. “It won’t cause you problems among the other Witchers?”

“The only problems it will cause me are Lambert teasing me about limping while we spar, and then I’ll get to tease him about having dirt on his trouser knees every morning, and - well. It’s not going to be a problem, no.” Aiden grins. “There’s a decent number of Witchers who prefer being the sheath to being the sword, and an even larger number who like both. I can name some of ‘em, if you like.”

Sasha blushes hotly. “Please don’t.”

“Spoilsport,” Aiden teases, grinning. To his delight, Sasha sticks out his tongue cheekily.

“Anyway,” Aiden says. “That’s my preference. We can try it the other way if you really want to, but given my druthers, sweet pup, I want you in me.”

“Oh,” Sasha says, eyes very wide. “I - um - let me think?”

And then he tucks his head under Aiden’s chin, hiding his face again. Aiden chuckles and strokes his back, delighted that even when it’s Aiden himself who has confused him, Sasha is taking refuge in Aiden, is trusting him to be a place of safety and of comfort. He was telling the absolute truth earlier. If Sasha never wants to f*ck, but he still lets Aiden have this, have Sasha warm and trusting in his arms, it will be enough and more than enough.

However, whatever Sasha is thinking, it’s definitely making the smell of lust a lot stronger with every passing moment, and Sasha’s lovely prick is distinctly growing harder against Aiden’s hip, which does suggest that Aiden might be getting very lucky indeed, if not tonight, then at some point in the future.

Finally Sasha takes a deep breath and pushes himself up again so he can meet Aiden’s eyes. “You already know I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, voice shaky but clear. “But if you want to teach me this as well, I -” He hesitates, bites his lip, sucks in another deep breath. Aiden wants to kiss him ravenously. His brave Sasha, his Wolf-hearted pup. “I want to learn. Not because of - of obligation. Because you are the handsomest man I’ve ever seen and I want you.”

“Pup,” Aiden breathes, and pulls Sasha down for a kiss, because how can he not? “Marvelous Wolf-hearted pup, glorious beautiful Sasha.” He rolls them over, peppering kisses over Sasha’s face. Sasha laughs, stroking his hands through Aiden’s hair and kissing back eagerly.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, grinning, most of the nervousness gone from his scent and replaced with pure lust and sweet honey.

“It most certainly is,” Aiden purrs, and kisses him again.

*

Aleksander isn’t entirely sure what to expect once he’s admitted that he wants to try being - being the sword to Aiden’s sheath, and he still isn’t quite recovered from his surprise that Aiden prefers being the receptive partner. In Tretogor, that would be absolutely inconceivable; no man who wished to call himself a man would spread his legs for another, and to imply such a thing of any man of honor would be a dueling insult indeed. Aleksander was willing to accept that, as he knows full well he is weaker and less manly than any Witcher in Kaer Morhen, but it was still a terrifying proposition. And now - well, now it isn’t terrifying, or not in the same way. Now he just needs to worry about doing something wrong, and somehow hurting Aiden.

He must stiffen or make some noise at the thought, or maybe it’s just something in his scent, because Aiden pulls back and blinks down at him worriedly. “Having second thoughts, pup?”

“No,” Aleksander says hastily. “I just don’t wish to do you harm.”

“Oh!” Aiden grins and kisses the tip of Aleksander’s nose. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”

“Good,” Aleksander says, and relaxes. “So, ah - how -”

“Well, first we finish getting undressed,” Aiden laughs. “And then - hm. Would you feel more comfortable, this first time, if I ride you?”

Aleksander imagines how that might look - Aiden sitting across his hips, golden and gorgeous in the candlelight, sunshine-yellow eyes glowing as he smiles down at Aleksander - and feels his prick throb in his smallclothes. “I would like that,” he says weakly. Aiden’s grin gets toothier. Hungrier, Aleksander thinks, and surprises himself yet again by how much he likes knowing that he can make his Witcher look like he wants to devour Aleksander whole.

“Lovely,” Aiden purrs, and leans down to kiss Aleksander again, then rolls off the bed entirely and starts tugging off his clothing with flattering speed. Aleksander follows suit, folding his clothing neatly and setting it aside on a chair.

He’s not entirely expecting Aiden to sweep him up in his arms and deposit him back on the bed, looming over him with a wicked grin. “Can I suck you first, sweet pup?”

“Ah,” Aleksander says, blushing. “I don’t know if I can last, if you do.” Aiden’s mouth is very talented, and Aleksander is still not grown accustomed to the pleasure of it, and cannot hold off his peak for very long.

“You’re young,” Aiden says cheerfully. “I suspect you could go again afterwards - and you might well last longer the second go-round. Up to you, though.”

“Ah,” Aleksander says again, slightly bewildered, but - he is young enough that two peaks in a night are not out of the question (and from what Jaskier has said, if he remains Aiden’s lover for any significant length of time, he may well end up capable of more than that), and Aiden is certainly inspiring enough that Aleksander doesn’t think he’ll have any trouble growing hard again. And that way he won’t have to worry as much about peaking too soon and disappointing Aiden during the actual coupling. “I - yes, if you like?”

“Sasha, I am never going to turn down being allowed to get my mouth on you,” Aiden purrs. “Except maybe if I’m toxic from potions, or bleeding out. And possibly not even while bleeding out.”

“If you are bleeding out you need to get healing,” Aleksander says, as sternly as he can while stark naked and flat on his back in a bed.

“Yes, darling,” Aiden lilts, and kisses him.

And then he eels down the bed, pressing kisses to Aleksander’s chest and stomach as he goes, until he’s breathing hot against Aleksander’s straining prick. Aleksander rests one shaky hand on Aiden’s hair, stroking his fingers gently through the loose curls.

“Alright, Sasha?” Aiden asks, looking up at him. His pupils are very wide and very dark, and he licks his lips as Aleksander meets his eyes.

“Yes,” Aleksander whispers, and then has to grab at a pillow and muffle his moan as Aiden licks a stripe up his prick and then swallows it down without any hesitation at all.

Aiden draws away just far enough to murmur, “Nobody can hear you but me, pup, and I like your sounds. You don’t have to hide them.”

Blushing hotly, Aleksander lets the pillow fall to the side, and when Aiden takes his prick into his mouth again, the whimper Aleksander can’t stifle echoes a little from the room’s walls. Aiden makes a low, pleased sound in reply.

Aiden is braced on one arm, but his other hand roams over Aleksander’s body, stroking and squeezing and petting distractingly, and Aiden’s hair is soft and pleasant under Aleksander’s hand, and Aiden’s mouth is so hot and his tongue so clever and -

Aleksander falls over his peak with a rather embarrassingly loud moan, shuddering as Aiden’s hand spreads over his hip to hold him in place as Aiden swallows around him.

Aiden leans back at last, licking his lips and grinning as he looks up, and before Aleksander can find any sort of coherency, Aiden wraps one clever, callused hand around his prick. Aleksander makes a rather high-pitched noise of surprise. It feels good - Aiden’s hands always feel good - but also it’s so much, so soon after his peak. He can’t quite decide if he wants to thrust up or pull away.

“Delicious Aleksander,” Aiden purrs, shifting up the bed until he can kiss Aleksander softly. “f*ck, you’re perfect, pup.”

“You are very good at that,” Aleksander says weakly.

Aiden wiggles his eyebrows and leers cheerfully. “Lots of practice! Though it certainly helps that you’re entirely lovely, and I want to eat you all up.”

Aleksander blushes. He definitely isn’t used to the way Aiden is so vocally appreciative of his presence and his appearance. It’s very flattering, though.

“Now -” he breaks off, shuddering, as Aiden’s hand moves in a slow, twisting stroke. “Now what?” he manages to strangle out.

“Now you get a choice, sweet pup,” Aiden purrs. “If you’re still amenable to f*cking me.”

Aleksander nods, blushing. He might have just peaked, but the thought of Aiden sinking down onto his prick is…well, inspiring.

“Lovely. Then here’s the choice: do you want to watch me get myself ready, or do you want to open me up yourself?” Aiden gives Aleksander a bright grin. “Either’s fine with me.”

Aleksander swallows and licks his lips. “I don’t know how,” he says carefully, “so perhaps it would be better if you demonstrated?”

“Sensible pup,” Aiden laughs, and kisses him softly before rolling away to fumble in the drawer of the bedside table. “Aha!”

He rolls back holding a small jar of something, which he puts down carefully next to Aleksander’s shoulder, and then rises up on his knees and swings one leg over so he’s straddling Aleksander’s hips, grinning brightly down at him. Aleksander reaches down, feeling very daring, to rest his hands on Aiden’s gorgeous thighs. Aiden’s grin widens.

“Watch, pup,” he purrs, and picks the pot up, uncorking the lid and dipping his fingers in to bring them out dripping with some sort of oil.

Aleksander bites his lip and watches.

*

Aiden takes a deep breath. “Right,” he says. “So, for future reference - in case you ever want to do this yourself, on either of us -” and f*ck, the image of sprawling out on the bed and having Sasha open him up on those clever ink-stained fingers is a good one - “you want plenty of slick, you can get it in the storerooms - all the alchemists make it, it’s safe for humans and doesn’t go sticky, but olive oil will do if you’re not at the keep, or a couple other things - and nice short nails, and then, well -” he shrugs and puts his hand down between his legs. “I know what I’m doing, so I can start with two.”

“And it doesn’t hurt?” Sasha checks anxiously, hands petting at Aiden’s thighs in a very distracting manner.

“No,” Aiden promises, shivering a little as he presses his fingers in. It’s been a little while since he did this, but he still knows the trick of it, still remembers how to relax and open and curl his fingers just so to find the spot that - “Ah! f*ck, there’s - there’s a spot, in men, it feels f*cking good -”

Sasha’s eyes are huge. “It does?”

“It does,” Aiden grins. “And I promise you’ll know when your prick hits it, pup.”

Sasha blushes. It’s adorable. Aiden gestures to the jar of slick. “Get your fingers wet,” he suggests.

Still blushing, Sasha obeys, and a moment later one tentative fingertip is brushing against the rim of Aiden’s ass. “It won’t be too much?” Sasha checks.

“Your prick’s bigger than three fingers,” Aiden points out. “And I’m definitely looking forward to that. Go on, sweet pup, you won’t hurt me.”

Sasha bites his lip and nods. Aiden spreads his fingers apart a little, and Sasha’s finger slips in easily. Sasha makes a little startled noise.

“Just like that,” Aiden murmurs. “Just like that, pup. A little deeper, and then bend it, like you’re calling someone over - f*ck!”

“There?” Sasha asks, eyes enormous.

“I’m teaching you to throw knives,” Aiden says a little wildly. “If you’ve got aim like that it’s a damn waste otherwise.”

Sasha lets out a sputtering little laugh, and his finger strokes gently over that spot again. Aiden shudders and whines.

“This is much more pleasant than throwing knives,” Sasha murmurs. “Gods, Aiden.”

Aiden tries to smirk and can’t quite manage it through the shivering pleasure. “I could - could argue that throwing knives is a pleasure of its - oh f*ck - of its own,” he gasps, “but gods, pup, I keep forgetting you’re a damn quick learner, if you keep that up I’m going to - ah! - going to -”

“Do,” Sasha whispers. “Please, Aiden?”

And, well, how is Aiden supposed to refuse a plea like that from his sweet pup? He twists his hand until he can shove a third finger into himself, hissing a little at the slight burn, and Sasha strokes over that spot again, and everything smells like lust and honey, and Sasha looks so pleased -

Aiden wraps his free hand around his prick and gets one good stroke in before everything comes together to bring him over his peak with a shuddering moan. His spend looks almost decorative against Sasha’s skin, he thinks dazedly as he catches his breath.

“Sweet pup,” he murmurs, drawing his fingers out of himself and bending down to kiss Sasha gently. Sasha’s hand falls away, too, to rest on Aiden’s thigh again. Sasha smells far too good wearing the smell of Aiden’s spend. He smells like Aiden’s.

And by the time they’re done tonight, Aiden will smell like his. The thought makes Aiden shiver and kiss Sasha harder. He wants that more than he has dared to admit to himself.

“Alright, pup?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Sasha says, shaky but definite, and when Aiden kneels up again and reaches down, Sasha is gloriously hard and hot against Aiden’s hand. Aiden dips a little more slick out of the jar and strokes it over Sasha’s prick, laughing softly when Sasha gasps and shudders.

“Aleksander,” Aiden purrs. “My sweet pup. Ready?”

“I think so,” Sasha says, and Aiden leans down to kiss him one more time, quick and sweet, before kneeling up and guiding Sasha’s prick into place and sinking down, slowly and steadily, moaning aloud at the feeling of being filled. Sasha’s fingers dig into Aiden’s thighs and he makes a strangled noise deep in his throat.

Aiden comes to rest against Sasha’s hips, and grins down at his lover. “Good?”

It takes Sasha a moment to gather his wits enough to respond; he has a beautiful look of dazed pleasure on his face, and his scent is all lust and honey, thick enough that Aiden can taste it on the back of his tongue. “Very good,” he says. “It’s - gods. You’re so hot.”

Aiden chuckles. “Guess that would be a bit overwhelming,” he agrees, and shifts a little; Sasha whimpers. “Gonna ride you now, pup. Put your feet flat on the bed, it’ll help with the angle.”

Sasha nods, eyes enormous, and obeys. Aiden groans softly. f*ck, f*ck, it’s been a while and it’s never been Sasha, never someone he loves -

He starts slowly, rising and falling just a little, keeping to an easy pace that he could sustain for hours, though he doesn’t think either of them will last that long. And to his delight, after a few moments, Sasha starts to match his movements, thrusting up slightly as Aiden sinks down.

“Perfect, pup,” Aiden croons. “f*ck, that feels good -” He shifts the angle a little, and then a little more, and then - “f*ck!” The shout rings off the walls.

“There?” Sasha asks, sounding delighted.

“Right there,” Aiden confirms breathlessly. “Right - f*cking - there -”

Sasha’s hips meet his again, and Aiden yowls his pleasure to the thankfully soundproofed walls.

*

Aleksander stares up at Aiden and wonders if this is some sort of glorious dream. Aiden is even more beautiful than he had imagined, like this: his skin gleams in the candlelight and his head is flung back to bare his throat and his hair falls over his shoulders in messy ringlets, and he moves more gracefully than any dancer or acrobat Aleksander has ever seen. He is lovelier than any painting or sunset could ever hope to be. Aleksander could stare at him for hours. And the sight, glorious as it is, pales next to the sounds Aiden lets fall from his mouth as he finds the angle which lets Aleksander thrust up to hit whatever that spot is which apparently gives such ecstasy. And then, of course, there is the feeling of Aiden’s body hot and slick and yielding around Aleksander’s prick, which is like nothing Aleksander has ever felt before, so good it’s overwhelming. He can’t think about anything else, can’t find any space in his head for worry or self-consciousness; all there is is this single perfect moment.

Aleksander feels like he’s drowning in pleasure, and he never wants to come up for air.

“Sasha,” Aiden moans, moving faster now, and Aleksander does his best to meet each thrust, feet braced firmly against the bed, distantly grateful for the weeks traipsing up and down Kaer Morhen’s endless stairs for the new strength of his thighs. He pries one hand from its death-grip on Aiden’s leg and moves it shakily to wrap around Aiden’s still-hard prick - witcher stamina really is quite amazing - and Aiden whimpers, shuddering, and wraps his own hand around Aleksander’s to hold it in place.

“Just like that, pup, f*ck, so good -”

Aiden tilts his head down and meets Aleksander’s eyes, and the expression on his face - lust and hunger and adoration, so clear that even Aleksander cannot misinterpret it - winds Aleksander as thoroughly as a punch in the gut.

“Sasha, my Sasha,” Aiden gasps. “My Wolf-hearted Aleksander.”

“Aiden,” Aleksander whispers, staring up at his Witcher in awe and delight. “My Aiden.”

And it’s that - those words, that claim - which makes Aiden’s mouth fall open on a shout of pleasure as he peaks. Aleksander makes an astonished little squeaking noise as Aiden’s body tightens around him, clenching in rippling waves, and cannot help following Aiden over his own peak, hips juddering up helplessly against Aiden’s weight.

Aiden folds down, slowly, giving them both time to get their hands out of the way, until he’s sprawled atop Aleksander, and kisses him with gentle thoroughness. Aleksander strokes Aiden’s back and hair, not quite able to stop touching him; Aiden leans into the caresses, making low pleased noises into the kiss. “Well now, sweet pup,” he purrs when their lips part, smiling down at Aleksander with aching tenderness. “How was that?”

“Astonishing,” Aleksander says. “And marvelous.”

“I like ‘marvelous’,” Aiden chuckles.

“And - for you?” Aleksander ventures. He’s pretty sure Aiden enjoyed that, but the little niggling worry is starting to resurface past the ebbing pleasure.

“Absolutely f*cking glorious,” Aiden says, grinning. “You feel good in me, pup, and you did a beautiful job.”

Aleksander can feel himself blushing, which is a little foolish but he can’t exactly control it, after all. “I’m glad,” he says, choosing to ignore the heat in his cheeks.

Aiden kisses him again. “Sweet pup,” he murmurs. “Let me get us cleaned up, and then I can cuddle you to my heart’s content. Or at least all night, which isn’t nearly long enough but will have to do.”

Aleksander laughs and does his best to help as Aiden untangles them and wipes them both roughly clean and puts the jar of slick away - thankfully they haven’t overturned it. They settle into the bed again, Aleksander draped halfway over Aiden the way they’ve both decided is most comfortable, and Aleksander tucks his head under Aiden’s chin. Aiden scrubs his chin against Aleksander’s hair to make him laugh.

“My sweet pup,” Aiden murmurs. “My Wolf-hearted Aleksander. Lambert promised I’d find a Wolf of my own one day, to match his Cat, but you are more wonderful than I had imagined.”

Aleksander blushes again. “I didn’t think I’d ever have someone I could love like this,” he admits softly, curling closer, Aiden’s arm heavy and warm and comforting across his back. “Or a place I could be just…just Aleksander.”

“Just Aleksander is enough for me,” Aiden says softly. “You’re enough, Sasha. Enough and more than enough.”

Aleksander sighs and relaxes, nuzzling against Aiden’s throat. “And you are…everything I never dared to want,” he replies. “My Aiden.”

“Yours,” Aiden says, sounding very contented indeed. “My Sasha.”

“Yours,” Aleksander agrees, and falls asleep so joyful he feels like he might overflow with it, safe and home at last in his beloved Cat’s bed, and arms, and heart.