Chapter 42: Lambert's Past
POV: Adam
The morning after Valentine's celebration found Lambert stationed on Kaer Morhen's highest battlements like a gargoyle carved from regret and unprocessed trauma, his weathered hands gripping stone while his golden eyes studied mountain peaks that held memories he'd never learned to release. The witcher's usual caustic humor had evaporated overnight, replaced by silence that carried weight beyond simple contemplation.
Something's wrong. Lambert's never this quiet unless something's seriously wrong.
Adam approached with careful steps that announced his presence without demanding immediate interaction, understanding that whatever had triggered this withdrawal required delicate handling rather than direct confrontation. The morning air carried scents of snow and possibility while winter wind whistled through stone that had witnessed generations of similar moments.
Drunk. He's actually drunk. That's impressive given witcher metabolism.
The empty bottle beside Lambert's boots spoke of someone who'd spent hours working to achieve intoxication that his mutated constitution actively resisted, alcohol consumption that represented serious commitment to avoiding whatever thoughts sobriety insisted on providing.
He wants to talk. Otherwise he wouldn't be somewhere I'd find him.
"Family," Lambert said without preamble, his voice carrying the particular roughness that came from combining liquor with subjects people preferred not to examine. "Had a family once. Before the mutations, before the training that killed most of the other boys."
Confession. This is confession, not casual conversation.
The story that emerged painted pictures of childhood that had ended with monsters destroying everything that gave life meaning, parents and siblings reduced to scattered remains while seven-year-old Lambert hid in root cellar until professional rescuers arrived too late to save anyone but him.
Brutal. Training that killed most candidates, designed to create survivors by eliminating everyone inadequate.
"Forty-seven boys entered the Trial of Grasses that year," Lambert continued, his golden eyes reflecting morning light that made old pain look fresh. "Six survived. Forty-one died screaming while the mutagens rebuilt their bodies into something that might be strong enough to kill the things that killed their families."
Six survivors out of forty-seven. Those are terrible odds.
"The humor, the anger—it's armor," Lambert admitted, his voice carrying honesty that alcohol had made possible. "Easier to be caustic than process what survival actually cost. Easier to mock everything than acknowledge that some wounds never heal properly."
Armor. Using personality as protection against trauma that conventional therapy couldn't address.
Adam listened without judgment while Lambert shared details that formal histories couldn't contain—the texture of loss that shaped every subsequent decision, pain that transformed children into weapons through processes that claimed most candidates as acceptable casualties in war against supernatural threats.
My turn. He shared, now I need to share something equivalent.
"I lost everyone too," Adam said, offering edited truth that honored the spirit of confession while avoiding details about system-granted powers and interdimensional travel. "Different circumstances, but the same result. Waking up alone in a world that suddenly felt too large and too dangerous."
Understanding. Mutual understanding of what survival costs when everything else is taken away.
The conversation that followed created bond that went deeper than casual friendship, recognition that they'd both learned to carry weights that would have crushed people who hadn't been forced to develop supernatural strength through necessity rather than choice.
Brotherhood. This is what brotherhood feels like when it's forged through shared trauma.
"I've been too harsh with her," Lambert said as their discussion evolved from personal history toward practical application, his voice carrying realization that came from examining his own behavior through lens of newly acknowledged motivation. "Ciri. I've been harsh because I don't want her to suffer like we did."
Protection through preparation. He's trying to protect her by making training brutal enough to prepare her for reality.
"Balance," Adam said, understanding the philosophy but recognizing its limitations when applied to someone whose circumstances differed from witcher candidates. "She needs to be prepared, but trauma isn't the only teacher. Fear can paralyze as easily as motivate."
Different approach. Lambert's experience with violence from position of weakness could be valuable.
The discussion that emerged revealed perspectives that formal training couldn't provide—techniques that ignored honor in favor of survival, methods that acknowledged reality of fighting opponents stronger, faster, and better equipped than yourself.
"Dirty fighting," Lambert said, his voice carrying approval for concepts that knightly training would reject. "Techniques that work when you're outmatched and honor is luxury you can't afford."
Mentoring. He could mentor her in aspects of combat that royal training wouldn't cover.
"She needs that knowledge," Adam agreed, recognizing that Ciri's future would include conflicts where conventional sword work wouldn't be sufficient. "Not as primary approach, but as backup when everything else fails."
Teaching her to be ruthless when survival demands it. Sometimes protection requires comprehensive education.
The drinking contest that followed was exactly as disastrous as human metabolism versus witcher constitution predicted it would be, Adam's consciousness departing somewhere between the fifth and sixth drinks while Lambert remained disappointingly sober despite consuming quantities that should have been fatal.
Terrible idea. This was a spectacularly terrible idea.
The hangover that claimed the next day proved legendary even by fortress standards, Adam's body rejecting attempts at consciousness while his brain insisted on reminding him that challenging supernatural drinkers to alcohol contests violated multiple principles of intelligent self-preservation.
Dying. I'm actually dying. This is what death feels like.
Ciri's reaction to his suffering provided exactly zero sympathy and maximum amusement, her laughter echoing through chambers while she offered water and absolutely no regret about his decision-making process.
"You challenged a witcher to a drinking contest," she said, her voice carrying the particular satisfaction that came from watching someone learn valuable lessons through applied stupidity. "What did you think would happen?"
Justice. This is justice for my hubris.
But despite the physical cost, the evening had accomplished something that weeks of normal interaction couldn't achieve—earning respect through willingness to participate in cultural traditions despite certain defeat.
Legendary story. This becomes story they'll retell for years.
[Experience Gained: 100 XP]
[Status Effect: "Legendary Hangover" - 20% penalty to all stats for 24 hours]
[Relationship: Lambert +20 (now 50/100 - true friendship)]
[Relationship: Ciri +5, Eskel +5]
Two days later, sunset painted Kaer Morhen's training yard in shades that made ancient stones look younger than their centuries while Adam watched Lambert work with Ciri on techniques that prioritized survival over ceremony. The instruction emphasized adaptability over tradition, teaching her to fight like someone whose life mattered more than reputation.
Ruthless. He's teaching her to be ruthless when circumstances demand it.
The lessons covered eye strikes, joint manipulation, using environment as weapon—all the methods that formal sword training considered beneath proper warriors but which could save lives when honor became liability.
Protecting her. We're all protecting her, but from different directions.
Looking at Ciri's face as she absorbed instruction that would have horrified her grandmother, Adam understood that preparation sometimes required learning things that peaceful circumstances would never demand.
Ready. More ready than yesterday, approaching ready enough for what's coming.
The friendship forged through Lambert's vulnerability had provided perspectives that conventional training couldn't offer, understanding that survival often required abandoning principles that luxury and safety made possible.
Brotherhood through trauma. We're building something stronger than casual alliance.
Winter wind carried scents of approaching change while ancient stones held warmth that spoke of sanctuary that might prove temporary as larger forces shifted beyond mountain barriers.
Together. All of us together, stronger through shared understanding of what protection really costs.
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