Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Cat and the Bear first crossed paths thirty years ago—but neither of them was aware of the other back then.

Gaetan had been a witcher on the road for the last three months. That was plenty enough time to sober up from the drunken feeling of freedom every new witcher would feel, left alone on the open road with so many possibilities—now, Gaetan was just pissed. People had tried to rob him twice already, his mother had been insulted fourteen times and a group of villagers tried to bargain the price for their own contract, like they were at the fucking market.

Being a witcher sucked, decided Gaetan. He could not wait to catch up with the caravan of the Cats a couple of months later  and put that shit on the side. He would also punch Joël in the face as soon as he saw him, because that prick promised him that “yes of course you’ll have a blast, there’s nothing like your first year on the Path!”.

Fucking liar.

It was the end of the summer. The days were long and unbearably hot, the sky filled with dark clouds, growing bigger every day, but they would still not break and people were getting desperate for a storm. Gaetan was resting at an inn near Novigrad, called The Cunny of the Goose. He had yet to see a goose, but the wine was fresh, and the customers were not too bothering. It was too hot to do anything anyway, even fighting. His last horse was dead too, caught by drowners a couple of days before, and Gaetan did not have it in him to walk under the sun all day.

So, like a lazy cat, Gaetan would spend most of his days napping in every shadow he could find, half-naked like the other patrons because even their own clothes were too much to bear. In the evening, he tossed a line in the pond near the inn, damping his feet in it while trying to catch his dinner—the innkeeper agreed to fry and salt any fish caught for free if the meal was shared. They were simple days, not much to do and not much to worry about since he had enough coins in his purse.

He was bored as fuck.

The Bear came the same night as the sky finally broke. The storm had been growing all day long, rumbling and darkening the land. Soon, torrents of rainwater started running from the sky, soaking everything, while men and beasts were welcoming it with nothing but relief. Gaetan himself found it easier to breathe now that the air was not dry and burning. The day after, he would  go on the road again. 

Gaetan was still debating between going to Novigrad to find a new mount, and maybe a contract along the way, or heading back South directly and see what would come to him first, when the Bear arrived.

Like most Witcher’s Schools, Bears had not a very good reputation. It was maybe a bit better than Cats, who were the bottom of the basket, and Vipers, but still—

Gaetan had heard his share of stories about the other schools during his training times. Bears were savages. Lone and dangerous, even for their own kind. Built like trees and mountains, more beast than man.

“One time I saw a Bear ripe a man’s head with his bare hands,” Axel said once—but Gaetan doubted it was true, because in all the years they had known each other, Axel had not said one true thing ever .

Joël warned him too about encountering other witchers on the Path. “It's simple: If it’s a Griffin, it’s a prick but too stupid to do anything to you. A Viper? Don’t turn your back on them, but I think they are all dead by now. Wolves are annoying and judgy, but eh— I guess they’ll leave you alone.”

“What about Bears?” Gaetan asked. Joël gave him a long look.

“If you meet a Bear, don’t talk to them, and don’t approach them. If you have the same contract as them, leave it. They are kinslayers—I mean, we can be too, but for the right price. They would do it because they are pissed off or even for fun. Those guys are fucking nuts.”

Gaetan was not aware of the Bear at first. He was in his room, if you could call it that, checking his backpack and how many potions he had left. He would hear the main door downstairs open and close sometimes, but he paid no mind. He listened to the rain pouring outside, enjoying the fresh air.

When he came down, the innkeeper darted a wary look in his direction, which warned Gaetan immediately that something was off. He went to the man, his chin up and his hand on the dagger at his belt. His steel sword was on his back, as always.

“Something wrong?”

“No Sir, just… Please, I don’t want trouble. You were a good and quiet customer until now, so I—”

“No reason to change that,” Gaetan interrupted him, not liking where this conversation was going. He tilted his head, like a curious cat. “Unless you have something to tell me?”

“It just—if I have to host two witchers here, I just hope it will not bring any troubles.”

Gaetan blinked. “Two?”

“Ay, Sir. A young fella came here not even an hour ago. Thought he wanted to find shelter from the storm, but he just dropped some coins, said he needed to let his horse here while he was finishing a job and left again, not even bothered by the rain and the thunder.”

“What job?”

“Didn’t say, Sir. But he had a medallion like yours. Only—his was a bear.”

Shit. Gaetan did not really want to cross paths with one of these now. Joël had specifically warned him about it. Not that he thought he could not survive an encounter like this, Bears were like, big and fat, right? So probably not as fast as him. But also, Gaetan was not really looking for a fight right now, not coin-free at least.

He did not remember seeing a contract on the board outside of the inn when he came, but maybe the Bear was coming from Novigrad and had found his work there. Gaetan relaxed. The Bear was out anyway. Pretty stupid of him to go outside now, in the dark and the storm too, and without his mount even, but it was not like it was Gaetan’s problem. 

He would go in the morning, like he had planned. He knew the Bear was around and so he knew to avoid him. Hell, maybe that idiot would die tonight on his stupid contract anyway.

“Don’t mind it,” Gaetan finally said to the innkeeper. “Pour me a drink.”

The night went on smoothly. Gaetan drank half a bottle of wine, won two rounds of cards against patrons, and kept glancing at the door now and then, in case a witcher would burst through it. But the Bear did not return.

In the morning, at first dawn, Gaetan grabbed his things and left the inn. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world fresh and soaking. Before going though, out of pure curiosity, Gaetan went to the stalls attached to the main structure and glanced at it. 

There were currently a donkey and two horses—one grey mare with a pink nose peeled from old age and a rusty looking piebald. Gaetan eyed the saddle on the mare’s stable door. Good leather and fine work. He took a step toward it and inhaled, immediately recognizing the scent of some way too familiar herbs and oils. It could have been his, he would not have made the difference.

Not certain if he was satisfied or not, Gaetan turned and left, turning his back to Novigrad. Fuck the city, the South it was.

He had barely made a mile when he saw him. He was coming from the opposite direction, walking toward the inn.

First, Gaetan smelled blood. A lot. Then he raised his head to look at the Bear.

From all he heard about them, his first thought was that there was no chance this guy was from that school. He was too lanky, made only of legs and bony shoulders. Gaetan was almost disappointed, he expected a giant-like kind of man but this guy—no, kid really, he looked even younger than him—was almost more Cat-looking than him.

Then he noticed the medallion, dangling on the Bear’s chest. The almost imperceptible twitch in the Bear posture once he noticed Gaetan was checking him. Then his eyes—the ones of a witcher of course, cat-like, but cold like a steel sword, and probably just as sharp. Eyes literally calling Gaetan.

Go on, the Bear’s eyes screamed. Say something, anything. I dare you.

“Those guys are nuts,” Joël had said, and it was coming from Cats, notoriously famous for being the most deranged witchers around, psychopaths even some would say—stupid folk, liars, they know nothing . Gaetan understood why.

That Bear was soaked in whatever-he'd-killed blood, probably still sore from his fight, a fresh cut on his face—but if Gaetan had wanted a fight with him, he would have given him without even blinking.

Gaetan did not say anything. He did not touch his sword either, no matter how much his fingers hatched for it while his entire body was screaming that danger was near. That would have triggered the Bear immediately.

The Bear and him crossed paths without breaking eye contact. Then he was in his back and Gaetan in his and just like that, the world breathed again.

Gaetan wanted to turn, to look at the other, but his instincts knew better. He kept going and tried to forget about the Bear.

He met him again a decade later.

Toussaint was a nice enough place. Good weather, good wine, good coins. Gaetan stopped in Flovive, a little village, right after completing a contract—a human one. 

A lady, with too much money to know what to do with, wanted someone to take care of one of her lovers who was getting a bit too persistent and threatened to start rumours about her and tell everything to her husband. Gaetan was around, doing some jobs in the region for a couple weeks now, when she approached him. She did not even look at how much was in the purse when she dropped it in his hand, asking for something “quick and discreet”.

The job was done easily and would cover for his oils and supplies for at least two months. That was why he was taking more and more of those kinds of jobs, like his peers. He knew other schools, especially Wolves and Griffins, looked down on them for being assassins and not just traditionalist monster hunters, but come on—a guy gotta eat. 

Cats were not blood-thirsty, like tales wanted to portray them. They were survivors. They always had been. If someone destroyed their keep, they went nomads. TIf they needed more recruits to ensure more witchers, they took them all in, even elves and girls. Not enough monsters or coins to survive? They killed people. It was as simple as that. Adapting themselves to a world that did not want to make a place for them. Witchers unable to do that would die and disappear, eventually.

His pouch fat with coins, Gaetan allowed himself some rest, before going West to try and catch up with Schrödinger, who was probably near the coast, as usual for them at this time of the year. He did not need another job for the moment, but that did not stop him from looking at the board, out of habit. 

Nothing caught his interest, but noticing him, a woman busy with a broom under the inn’s porch called after him. “You are not lucky, if you had been three days earlier, there would still be a job for a witcher.”

Gaetan glanced at her. Auburn-haired woman, with a golden ring on her finger and an apron at her waist—the innkeeper herself, or his wife. Probably a family business. He turned to the woman.

“Job not needed anymore?”

“Ay, someone finally took care of the Tufo’s Beast. Been months without anyone taking it and now witchers come every day! At least you’re good customers, not drunkards with no coins.”

Raising an eyebrow, Gaetan wondered if it was maybe Schrödinger who decided to come this far, looking for jobs. Back in the caravan, they both had agreed to meet at the end of spring in the South to do some hunting together—a stupid tradition that started five or six years before because of a bet, but both refused to lose against the other or just give up, so here they were.

One way to find out.

“And where can I find that witcher?” Gaetan asked. 

The woman, not even looking up from her sweeping, pointed a finger toward the river. “Saw him going this way. Out of the village, on the bank, there is a little hill. Been spending a lot of time there since he returned from the vineyard.”

Gaetan hummed. Could be Schrödinger indeed, they loved to nap out in the sun anytime they had the chance. The sun was warming his neck and there was a little wind. Perfect weather for some lazy time. He nodded toward the woman to thank her and headed that way. 

It was not Schrödinger.

The witcher was indeed napping, arms crossed behind his head, and likely not expecting to be disturbed. There was a leather journal resting across his torso and he was wearing a simple lin shirt, not his full set of armour. He also had no boots on. Swords were at hand-reach though—he was resting, but not being dumb.

Gaetan tensed when seeing a witcher he did not recognize, but he kept going anyway. The remains of a fire were near him, as well as an empty bottle with a faint smell of booze. When he was only a couple of feet from him, the witcher opened his eyes, glancing at him. Then blinked, slowly. Gaetan could not see his medallion, hidden under his shirt. But the witcher seemed weirdly familiar.

He had not met a lot of witchers from other schools. A Wolf, once, or more like his body since he had been freshly dead and Gaetan was here to take his contract out of his hands and finish it. And a Griffin, a prick named Lohan with a pretty face that could not make up for the sword stuck in his ass.

“Well, well—” the witcher said, his voice low and sounding a bit monotonous. There was a bloodied bandage around his arm and right hand. “Was not expecting to see a Cat around here. What do you want?”

Gaetan found himself unsure of what to say, feeling a bit disappointed that it was not Schrödinger, but also curious. He shrugged. “Heard about a witcher staying around. Thought you were someone else.”

“If you’re here for the contract, already did it.”

“I heard that too.”

The witcher straightened up, still glancing at Gaetan. His medallion dangled around his neck, allowing the Cat to finally get a look. A Bear pendant. 

Shit.

Gaetan tensed, just barely. He was careful already when the witcher revealed to be a stranger, now he was on his guard. Better safe than sorry. 

“So, you’re a Bear.”

“Your deductions and observation skills are unmatched,” replied the other with a cocky twist of the lips.

Oh great, the Bear was an asshole. Still, Gaetan could not shake the feeling that he saw him before.

“Have we met?” 

The Bear scratched his head, messing a bit with his hair. He had blades of grass in it. “Don’t remember, did I kick your ass before?” 

Gaetan scoffed at the idea. He took a better look at him. Dark haired, he wore them short, and his neck looked freshly shaved. He was slender, with long legs, yet looked a bit smaller than Gaetan, with sharp, angular features and muscular arms. 

A nicely healed scar was crossing his nose and his yellow gaze was sharp. That was when it hit Gaetan.

“I remember you. Near Novigrad, we crossed paths. It was one of the worst summers in years.”

He had not thought much of it afterwards. Gaetan had mentioned the encounter at Dyn Marv in the winter that followed. Joel made fun of him, stating how unfortunate it would have been if Gaetan died in his first year because he pissed off a Bear. In return, Gaetan had given him a rude gesture and told him to fuck off, and two days later, it was already an old story. 

He never really thought of it after that because there was not much to say. Until then.

The Bear frowned for a second, before nodding. “Oh—oh, yeah, that rings a bell. It was my first year on the Path.”

“Mine too."

It was a strange thing, to have that in common with this witcher from another school. They were probably not the same age, although with the mutations it was always hard to say, but they were witchers for an equal amount of time.

They gave each other a curious look, something like recognition, but not exactly. More like an unspoken “ oh yeah first year on the Path sucks, right? ”.

“Anyway—”

The Bear stood up, picking up his sword in the movement.  By reflexes, Gaetan raised his hand on his back, ready to draw his own. The Bear gave him a sharp, warning look. 

“If you want a fight, come back later. I’m not exactly in a mood and I already buried a witcher this week, I’ve met my quota.”

That tensed up Gaetan even more. Kinslayers, Joel had said. 

“You killed one?”

The Bear chuckled, like it was funny. “No. I found the remains of an old mate of mine while doing the contract in the vineyard. After I finished it for him, I just gave the guy a proper goodbye.”

He gave a nod towards the ashes and the bottle, as if it was an explanation. 

Gaetan frowned. “How do I know you did not kill that witcher yourself? I heard about your school’s reputation.”

“How do I know you are not a fucking psycho that will go mental on me because you are bloodthirsty?”

Gaetan winced internally. Yeah, touché.

His hand released the guard of his steel sword. The two witchers eyed each other, the tension slowly going down, until Gaetan shrugged. He was not too proud to admit he was wrong—unless it was about Schrödinger.

“We are not all like this—maybe some were, and it was enough to give us that reputation.” 

The Bear nodded. “Yeah, well, same for us.”

There was a silence. The Bear tied his baldric across his chest and put his swords in his back. Gaetan looked down, noticing the journal that was still on the ground and took a step toward it, picking it up before offering it to the Bear. The other one looked at his hand like it was a trap, before accepting it.

“So, what’s your name?”

“…Artos. You?”

“I’m Gaetan.”

They did not shake hands nor offered to spend more time in each other’s company, but that day, Bear and Cat parted ways peacefully, wishing the other good luck on the Path. They doubted they would meet again, but after all, it was a small world.

(Gaetan found Schrödinger two weeks later. He did not mention the Bear though.)

Curiously enough, they met again not even a year later.

Gaetan was seven or so inches deep into the mud, fighting for his life. He was here for nekkers, just cleaning a cave the little bitches infested. Simple task, coin was decent enough, at least for the people that engaged him, even though they were trying to argue even before he took the contract.

Simple.

Until the chort showed up.

The fiend seemed young, probably looking for a new territory and was likely drawn by the smell of blood and rotten food the nekkers kept. Gaetan barely had time to come out of the cave before dodging the beast’s attack. 

He had never faced a chort before. He recalled Cedric had taken a contract on one, maybe five or six years before, and tried to remember what he had said about it, but apart from “it’s one nasty goat”, nothing really helped Gaetan. All he could do was to count on his training and his instincts.

The beast was wounded, but the more he cut into his tough skin, trying to make him bleed to death, the more brutal and enraged the fiend would get. Gaetan was out of bombs, since he used some to destroy the nekkers’ nests, and Igni would be a good idea if the beast would give him one second without trying to impale him on his horns.

It was not looking too good, Gaetan had to admit it. He did not have time to rest between the two fights, he was definitely not prepared to face a chort since he did not plan to go against one when he woke up this morning, and the effects of his potions were long gone, leaving his muscles sore and his head in pain.

He dodged again, slashing the chort in the heel, trying to slow him down so he could finish it. The beast roared in pain and anger and managed to kick him with its hind hooves, right in the chest. Gaetan heard something crack inside him and grunted.

That is when someone called for him. “Take cover!”

Gaetan did not think—he jumped and rolled in the dirt. He saw the bomb tracing a curve in the air and exploded near the chort’s head. The green smoke coming out of it was so familiar to Gaetan he could hug the motherfucker who threw it—Devil's Puffball, classic poison bomb. The fiend inhaled it, coughing a bit while yellow mucus started to run from his nostrils.

“Don’t just stare, finish it!”

The other witcher jumped in the action, his sword at the ready. Gaetan blinked and was right after him in a second, despite his ribs violently protesting against the movement. They flanked the chort, one witcher baiting it to get its attention and dodging its charges, while the other took advantage of the distraction to cut into it. 

Gaetan’s sword finally found an opening and he managed to finish it, slashing into the softest flesh of its belly. The chort took a final breath while its guts spread into the mud.

The Cat grunted and allowed himself to lay on his butt into the ground, catching his breath for a minute, despite it being really painful. Gods, he hated this place. And fiends. And goats. He closed his eyes, just a second.

“Alright?” the other one asked.

“Broken ribs. Give me a sec.” 

Something shifted near him—the witcher coming closer. Gaetan opened his eyes. An offering hand came to his field of vision. He took it, not proud enough to refuse a bit of help, especially after the guy jumped in the fight to save him.

A cocky smile met him. “Was not expecting to see you again—especially like that.”

“Hello to you too, Bear.”

“It’s Artos, Cat .”

Gaetan just grunted, not wanting to admit that he did not remember his name. This time, Artos was wearing his full set of armour, and Gaetan could not help but stared.

Cat’s gears were made primarily to maximise their flexibility. Light armour, great range of motion… Anything that could suit their fighting style. They needed room to be quick and agile. The grandmaster used to say that when it was first designed, it took inspiration from elven stuff. Gaetan did not know if it was true, but it always served him well.

Bear’s gears were very different. It looked like a heavy armour, going all the way down to the knee, with a quilted gambeson and plate armour spaulders, yet Artos seemed to have no problem moving with it. Clearly it was meant to endure a lot of damages without sacrificing the witcher’s mobility.

“So—” Artos started, putting his blade back in its sheath. He tilted his head toward the chort. “Were you out in the woods for fun? Or do you have a contract for this one?”

“No. I was here for nekkers.” 

“You patrons will pay for it, you think?”

“Not a chance”, Gaetan answered, not even wanting to think about it. He would already be lucky if their price didn't change when he returned. Fucking stupid nekkers.

The Bear chuckled, clearly knowing the feeling. “Well, that sucks. Can probably find what to do with it, though.”

Gaetan raised an eyebrow. “You have something in mind?”

“There is a travelling alchemist, currently resting south of here. He will probably offer you some coins for the beast. How about this, I’ll help you cut it in pieces and show you the way to the village, and we share?”

The proposition was unexpected, but not unfair. Gaetan did not have any plans for the chort, he was ready to take a trophy from it and go on his way to just collect the pay for the nekkers. He just wanted to leave this stupid forest and this stupid Redania. 

The season had not been very good this year — he had two new scars on his back, a steel sword in desperate need of repair and very little coin left. Winter was closer every week and he wanted to hurry toward the next reunion place for the caravan, so he could put his swords away for a couple of months and forget about this year on the Path.

Artos’s idea would actually be a nice turn of events for this fucking day—but Gaetan was still wary. He had nice offers before, and blade on his throat right after it.

“What’s the catch? Why do me a favour?”

“I’m not doing you anything, I’m offering to share since we killed it together. We are not much left, and you have not pissed me off yet, so better to stick with each other. But if you prefer—" The Bear gave him a look. A dangerous one. “I can also finish you now and walk away with your stuff and the chort.”

It was Gaetan’s turn to snort, even though he knew he did not have the advantage here. “Like you could.”

Artos did not even bother to answer. He just gave Gaetan the same look he gave him the very first day their paths crossed, one that started to become strangely familiar. Gaetan pinched his lips together.

Joel would probably tell him it was a very bad idea to trust a Bear, but fuck it—besides, Joel was not here, and now Gaetan had more encounters with Bears than him anyway, so he was the new expert on the subject.

“Fine, just let me pick my wages first.”

They carved the chort together, cutting off its head and getting their hands dirty with the fiend’s blood. Artos’ horse was not far, so they packed what they could on its back — it was not the grey mare Gaetan had saw the first time, but a bay gelding that did not look too accustomed with the smell of blood and death, for it rolled its eyes when they approached.

Gaetan’s own horse was back at the hamlet that hired him, not too far away. They walked there and Artos waited near the entrance for him to collect his coins at the alderman’s house. 

Of course, the villagers tried to argue about the price.

“So, we thought, since, you know, they say winter is going to be hard this year, and we don’t have much, so maybe—”

“Pay me up”, Gaetan cut the sweating alderman “winter would not have been a problem for you if you had not hired me, since you would all be dead before it. So, pay up .”

The man exchanged a look with the other villagers. Gaetan knew what he looked like right now, knew what they were thinking. He added:

“I have a friend outside. A witcher friend. If I don’t come out in five minutes, with my coins, he’ll burn this place.”

The alderman’s wife gasped and put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. One of the villagers moved to the window, looking outside. Gaetan knew he could see Artos there, with his swords in his back and the chort’s head attached to his saddle, blood still dripping from it. The man turned away from the window and nodded towards the alderman.

The alderman abdicated. He tossed the pouch at Gaetan’s feet. “Take it, you damn mutants can choke on it.”

He could have said something. He could have insulted him, scared him, made him bleed. But what was the point? It was always the same story, always the same look. He was tired, annoyed, and wanted to leave those miserable people. 

Gaetan picked up the coins and turned his back on them. “Always a pleasure.”

He rejoined Artos, taking the reins of his own horse. The Bear raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He knew, obviously, because it was the same for every of them. They mounted their steed and left the place without a word, nor a glance towards the villagers that had gathered in their back, angrily looking at them.

Artos kept his word. They rode for a couple of hours, before arriving at a new village, just after dusk. They barely talked, Gaetan tired and clutching his ribs, looking forward to sleeping in a bed and just waiting for his body to do the job and heal. At one point, Artos simply asked Gaetan the name of his horse.

“Tabby.”

That made the Bear chuckle. “You are such a fucking cliché of yourself.”

“I bet you called yours Grizzly or some shit”, Gaetan had answered, a bit offended even though it was true. They said nothing after that, but the silence was not uncomfortable.

The village was called Brunwich. It was small, but pretty, and comfortably settled around a lake. The alchemist had a wagon, stationed a bit outside of town, near the upper mill, with a goat attached near it and Gaetan had a feeling it was not his day, eyeing the harmless creature like it was another fiend he wanted to cut in half. They found the owner of both the goat and the wagon inside the latter.

It was a gnome, presenting himself as Barnabas Beckenbauer, and who corrected Artos promptly, saying he was more like an inventor, or even a “discoverer of the infinite world’s wonders” — Gaetan rolled his eyes at this. He needed a drink, a bath, and seven hours of sleep. Artos, on the other hand, seemed pretty amused by the gnome. Gaetan had noticed that the Bear often had this particular half-smile on his lips, a bit cocky, like he was perpetually mocking people, when not threatening them.

“And how much for this world’s wonder would you offer?” Artos asked after they showed Beckenbauer the chort’s remains.

The gnome's eyes opened wide. “Oh woah—that is one big goat for sure!”

Beckenbauer talked a lot and to Gaetan’s opinion, he was annoying. But he did pay them for the beast, quite interested in it and already planning to bring it to Oxenfurt Academy.

“A pleasure doing business with you! Have to say, it is not common to see two witchers together, I’ve heard you work alone usually. Are you a hunting pair?”

The said witchers glanced at each other. Gaetan shrugged and took his share of the crowns, already leaving—the gnome seemed ready to make conversation all night. 

He had time to hear Artos answer: “More like brought up together by an opportunity.”

They left, going back to their horses. There was a silence. It was dark and the logical thing would have been for them to go stay at the inn. Gaetan needed to tend to his wounds. But they had not officially talked about it—the “after” selling the chort. 

The Cat hesitated. Since the other witcher was not hostile, he did not really mind the company, especially after Artos had helped him. But he was not about to ask him to stay either.

Once again, the Bear seemed not to care, just doing his thing. He turned to Gaetan. “You comin’? I need a drink.”

Gaetan’s shoulders relaxed, just a bit. “Best thing I’ve heard all day.”

The Bear simply chuckled.

The inn was busy already when they got there. Bards were performing and they had gathered quite the crowd, too busy drinking and enjoying  themselves to pay attention to the witchers. Gaetan and Artos managed to find a table in the back, away from it. They ordered a round of beers and some food, asking for a room as well.

“Don’t have any left, sorry,” the innkeeper said, without looking at them nor being that sorry. “The troupe took almost all of it and I gave my last to a couple of travellers just two hours ago. Can let you sleep in the barn though. Half-price.”

“This day is the fucking worst”, Gaetan muttered in his drink after the innkeeper left. 

Artos glanced at him. Gaetan hated how he looked amused by everything all the time, mocking everyone, and even more because he knew the other look the Bear could give—the one who gave Gaetan chills, that made his heart beating faster and all his senses tensing at the danger. He kind of wanted to see that look again.

“Could be worse,” Artos’ voice raised a bit, to make himself heard over the singing and the music. “You could be dead.”

“At least my troubles would be over.”

The cocky smile returned to the Bear’s lips. “True.”

They fell into an easy conversation after that, talking a bit about their last hunts and mostly about being a witcher in general. That night, Gaetan learned a couple of things: how Artos got his scar on the nose—a siren in Ard Skellige; how he did not like Kaedwenian dark beer and that he was brought to the Bear’s keep so young he did not have a single memory of anything from before.

In return, Gaetan told him what he could remember about his sister and how he visited her once without her knowing he was here, and he admitted he never learned to play gwent yet and was more a classic dice poker type of guy.

After three rounds of drinks and two plates of beef stew, they retreated towards the barn. Artos asked the innkeeper for a tub of hot water and gave him a darker look when the man started to complain about it.

Once alone, the Bear dropped the small tub in front of Gaetan and gave him a nod. “I'll let you do it, gotta pee. If you need help for your back, call me.”

He exited the barn to wander in the back, which Gaetan was thankful for. Most witchers did not like to be seen by another potential predator while licking their wounds. He took his top off, hissing when the leather of his armour brushed against his ribs. He took a look at it—the whole area was dark and purple, and he could feel the warmth of it even without touching it. With a sigh, Gaetan picked up a clean-enough cloth and started to wash his wounds.

Artos returned some moments later. He glanced at Gaetan, eyeing his bare torso quickly to take note of the fresh injuries. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’ll survive. Riding will just be a bit painful for the next few days. Would be better with a potion, but I’m out.” 

Artos nodded. He went to check on his horse, patting it on the neck before going back to their rudimentary settlement for the night. The witcher took his heavy, armoured-mantle off, with the ease of someone who did it numerous times.

Once settled on his bed roll, he turned his attention toward Gaetan. The Cat watched him, from the corner of his eye. He had a look at the other’s stomach while Artos was changing, just enough to notice the soft-looking flesh and a burning scar. In his mind, Bears were hairier, but Artos curiously seemed to have not much hair on his body, not even facial hair. That made him look pretty young.

“So, what are you going to do after that?” the Bear asked while trying to find a comfortable position to lay in the straw. 

Gaetan grunted. “Probably heading toward the caravan, so I can put this terrible season behind me.”

“Can’t be worse than the year Kaz—my brother—almost died and ended up nursed by a baron’s daughter who wanted to marry him so bad she poisoned his food to try to keep him ill and by her side.”

Gaetan raised his eyebrow, not sure what was the most surprising between the story itself or the fact that Bears would refer to each other as brothers. But he guessed that most things that were said about this school were a bit exaggerated—or that Artos was just different.

“Sounds… stupid. Witchers are resistant to poison.”

“Yeah, but the food was good, so he stayed anyway for a couple of months, to indulge her. Then she tried to make him bark and follow her around with a leash, so he decided it was time to go.”

That made Gaetan scoff. “This guy is an idiot too, then.”

There was a smile on the corner of Artos’ lips. He was clearly fond of this Kaz. A part of Gaetan wanted to ask about it, but he figured it was not really his business, just like his own relationship with Joël was too particular to be correctly described.

Silence stretched a bit between them while they were laying down five feet apart from each other, but Gaetan knew by his breathing that Artos was not asleep yet. He looked up—the ceiling had holes and he could see a bit of the sky through it. The night was calm and clear, it was peaceful. His ribs still hurt like shit, and he knew his own breath was a bit erratic.

Eventually, Gaetan fell asleep.

When he woke up at dawn, Artos’ horse was missing and the Bear was nowhere to be found, but there was a freshly brewed Swallow next to Gaetan.

Witchers can live very old, they just don’t because witchers don’t die in their bed from old age. So, at some point, for them, a year or ten don’t mean much.

Still, a couple of decades passed before Gaetan and Artos crossed paths again.

The year was 1264 and the North was only starting to recover after the First Northern War. Cats had been busy the last few years, because war was always a good time for assassins with no care for politics nor taking a side. It was some lucrative years, to say the least. Gaetan himself had never made that many coins, and he had been on the Path for thirty years now. Still—war was a shitshow, and many things had changed during those years.

The slaughter of the Bears, for example.

Gaetan had thought about Artos a bit, during those years. He would not say they were friends, because that would be ridiculous, but it was kind of nice to have an acquaintance from another school—something like a distant cousin, maybe? Every time he was on the Path and would hear about another witcher around, he would ask if it was a lanky lad with dark hair and a scar across the nose, just to be sure.

He did meet Lohan the Griffin again, when they accidentally took the same contract on a giant—still a prick, but noble enough to split the payroll in two.  But no Bear. Gaetan wondered if Artos was dead, but it seemed unlikely for someone like him.

Then he heard the news.

It was the first winter since the war was declared. Dyn Marv caravan was nestled in the Kestrel Mountains, away from the main front, offering the remaining Cats some rest. They were sitting around the fire, sharing stories of their year and news from all around the world, as usual. Then Schrödinger said:

“Did you guys hear about the Bear Witchers?”

Gaetan tilted his head, his attention picked before he could think of it. He knew Joël had noticed his movement too, but the older one did not comment on it.

Cedric sniffed, almost mocking. “Oh, yeah. Fucking tragic.”

“What? What did they do?” Gaetan asked.

“Apparently there was a pogrom”, Schrödinger started to explain. “Mobs from Riedbrune came to their keep, with other surrounding villages. They destroyed the school and everyone there. Bears are done.”

“Some are probably still alive. The ones not at the keep would have avoided it”, Aiden commented from inside the caravan.

Gaetan did not say anything. He tried to visualise witchers with the same look as Artos, killed by mere peasants. Sounded like a lie. But he knew it was not. 

Joël gave him a look, asking him a silent question that Gaetan ignored. Instead, he turned toward Schrödinger.

“Do we know how many died?”

The other Cat shrugged. “From what I’ve heard, all the kids and the witchers that were with them.”

“They still train youngsters?” Aiden asked, picking his head out. Gaetan did not comment, but he knew it already; Artos had mentioned it last time, even if he also said they had fewer boys every year.

“Not anymore,” Cedric chuckled, earning himself a couple of dark looks, from Gaetan but others too. 

Joël, who was the oldest and still treated some of them like they were undisciplined kittens, intervened: “Be respectful. This is never good news for witchers when they kill some of us. We know that too well already.”

“Oh c’mon—Bears are assholes. You know what I heard? They sucked at their job and that’s why people went mad over them. If you can’t even kill monsters properly, you’re no good then. Simple as that.”

“Cedric, shut up.”

Silence fell over them for a second. Gaetan did not mean to be so harsh in his tone, but he was pissed, and he was not sure about what exactly. Cedric gave him a strange look, a bit offended because usually, Gaetan was more tolerating with his temper.

Aiden came outside, drawn by the mood, still with his two blankets draped over him since he hated the cold. He was the one to speak again first. 

“What’s going on with you, who took your mouse?”

“He is worried for his little Bear”, Joël answered before anyone else could, earning himself a bad glance from Gaetan.

“Shut up—”

“What? No way, Gaetan is it still about that Bear guy who helped him like twenty years ago? What was his name again, Arthur?”

“Artos. And you are all a bunch of assholes.”

Cedric laughed, and it was a bit cruel. Brothers were mean, after all. “Aw, don’t be mad, kitty. Your big bear is probably dead, yeah so sad I know, but so goes the life of witchers—”

“He is not dead,” Schrödinger interrupted.

Everyone turned their attention toward them. The Cat blinked, like it was old news and obvious. How they managed to always know everything about everyone was still a mystery for the rest of the Cats.

“What do you mean?” Gaetan asked, and he hated that the thought actually lifted his mood.

“Don’t know if it’s still the case, but your Bear survived the attack. Because he came some months after to take his revenge on the villagers. It was a massacre. He slaughtered all the men and some of the women too. The Slayer of Riedbrune they call him in the area now.”

“And we are the psycho killers…” muttered Aiden in his breath.

“Gloom”, Cedric commented. “How do you know that?”

“I crossed the region not even two weeks after the massacre. No wonder the people there were hostile toward me.”

After that, the conversation moved to something else, and everyone quickly forgot about the Bears and the Slayer of Riedbrune. Except Gaetan. It bothered him for a couple of days and even when he tried to think of something else, his mind would go back to Artos, wondering where the witcher was, and what he was doing.

The fall of the Stygga Citadel, the former lair of the Cats, happened long before Gaetan was born. None of the actual members of the School actually came from it, the castle was an old story, a warning even. It served as a reminder of what the world thought of them. The former Grandmaster and founder of the Caravan, Gezras of Leyda, was a myth too, and died more than a century before Gaetan became a witcher himself.

Fucking old tales and nonsense, Gaetan thought. He had no admiration nor blind fidelity to the ancient figures of their school and their teaching. Those were the witchers from another age, a golden one for their species. Now, witchers were butchered in their own lair. And one day, there would be none of them left, and Gaetan was looking forward to that day.

In the meantime, he guessed he would keep doing what he was good at: killing things. Gaetan wondered if Artos, wherever he was, was feeling the same.

And then, on a chill spring morning, the two witchers ended up face to face again.

Gaetan rarely went to Skellige—it was cold and damp and people there were so much about honour and stuff that Cats fitted badly among them. But when some merchants from Kerack expressed their wish to hire him for a round trip to protect their ship from monsters of the sea and pirates, it was an offer hard to turn down.

The first part of the journey went pretty well—they faced an attack from sirens, but Gaetan took care of it, even slashing one in half while it dived toward him, which earned him the respect of the whole crew. They arrived in Kaer Trolde’s harbour after two weeks and the merchant had shaken hands with Gaetan, asking him to wait ten days and meet them back here for the return’s travel.

He was not looking for anything in particular. It was raining, like almost every day in Skellige. He was not even thinking about Artos, just making his way towards the local inn. Then his higher sense picked up the smell of blood and sweet, the subtle familiarity of it, he heard the cheers and the way too familiar sound of knuckles connecting with soft flesh.

Gaetan lifted his head, taking a quick look at the crowd forming a circle around two fighters. Insular were fond of that kind of entertainment so it was not really an odd sight. He glanced at the men inside the circle.

One of them was a man with broad shoulders and a braided beard, a fine product of the islands. The other was a familiar witcher, with a loose shirt on and blood running from his nose. His angry eyes were locked into his adversary’s, and if he could cast his Signs from it, no doubt Artos would have done it already.

Gaetan stopped and turned toward them without even thinking, unable to look somewhere else even if he wanted to—he did not.

Artos’ opposant was not looking good at all. The man was twice his size and his weight, but ecchymoses were already starting to flourish on his face and bare shoulders, and when he spit some blood and saliva on the ground, Gaetan noticed he was missing a tooth.

The man clearly did not care about his state—either he was delusional, or just stupid. He called for Artos. “C’mon you cat-eyed bitch! You’re so tiny, I’ll break you in two!”

The provocation did not work. Artos blinked, slowly, and cleaned the blood coming from his nose with his thumb. The other man, angry and probably drunk like a good Skelliger, ran toward him.

It was over in less than ten seconds. Most people probably did not understand what happened, except for Gaetan, who saw everything. Artos dodged his opponent’s blow, went under his arm, and punched him twice, fast, in the fat of his exposed belly, then hit him with his leg under the knee and just had to make way while the man was falling. The witcher gave a final elbow blow on the back of the neck to ensure that his opponent would not get up again. 

He did not. The man fell on his face and stayed in the mud. Everyone went silent, while Artos turned and broke the circle of spectators to go to another man. He offered his hand.

“My money.”

It was not an ask. The man fumbled a second, then gave him a pouch. Artos took it and he was about to leave when his eyes fell on Gaetan. The two witchers looked at each other for a second, not saying anything. Then Artos raised his chin.

“You look like a wet lost kitten.”

“And you look like shit,” Gaetan answered without missing a bit. He saw the faint shadow of an amused smile on the Bear’s lips.

Artos pointed toward the inn behind him. “Want to grab a drink?”

Gaetan nodded. They moved inside, away from the rain and the chill wind. It was crowded and busy, even if it was only an early afternoon. Artos ordered a bottle to the innkeeper but invited Gaetan to follow him toward the rooms to the back rather than to sit at a table. He was renting a small but private one apparently, and the conversations of the patrons in the main area became a muffled sound once they closed the door.

The Bear’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Gaetan looked at the room. A bed, a small table with only one chair and a bucket of water on it. Artos took the latter as well as a clean-enough linen and washed his face promptly, cleaning the blood under his nose. Without waiting to be invited to do so, Gaetan sat on the chair, taking his swords off.

“So— what are you doing here, Kitten?” Artos asked, without looking at him.

“Don’t call me that. I was just escorting a merchant ship here. Waiting for them to return to the continent once they’ll be done with their business.”

The Bear nodded slowly. “Not bad. Must be good coins.”

He put the towel away, passing a moist hand in his hair to push away a strand. They were a bit longer than last time Gaetan saw him, not freshly shaved, and it looked like it annoyed him. Gaetan was still looking. He spoke without really thinking.

“I heard about your School.”

Artos went still and the atmosphere in the room became heavier. Gaetan wondered if the Bear would attack him for that. It was something so personal and they were not even friends—or were they? He did not know, he did not have many friends.

What Gaetan knew was that when he heard that Artos was still alive, he was relieved. That must have counted for something, for mutants like them.

“I’m sorry it happened to you, Artos. I sympathise, really.”

Gaetan was sincere. He did not know he had those kinds of emotions still in him, and yet—

The Bear turned his gaze toward him. The light in the room was low and so their eyes were almost glowing in the semi-obscurity of the tight space. Gaetan found it strangely comforting, every time Artos looked at him, with eyes mirroring his own. It was not like the other Cats. It was different, somehow.

“Anyone else who would say that to me,” Artos answered in a dull voice “I would tell them to fuck off and probably punch them. But—from you, it’s… Well, I guess I can tell you mean it. And you know.”

“Yeah. I know.” 

Gaetan’s tone was softer than what he knew he could sound like. It reminded him how he would speak to his little sister, long ago. She was the only clear memory of his childhood he had, of the before the Cat School and being a witcher. He remembered how he clung to their time together when he passed the Herbs. Her smile, her laugh.

Artos' smile was very different, yet it was one that Gaetan found himself searching for.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered, even though he was not sure if he could be of good comfort for the Bear. 

Artos shook his head. “Not really—not now, at least.”

“Then, what do you want to do? You already did a number on that guy outside, but—“

Artos scoffed, amused and clearly a bit proud of himself for that. Then he gave Gaetan that look. 

“Do you want to fuck?”

The Cat blinked, slowly.

Did he think about having sex with Artos before? Of course. He had some heated dreams about it already, and it had helped him to fantasise about the Bear witcher more than once when he was jerking off during his lonely nights. 

It was only normal—they were both witchers, so it was only with their kind that they could find lovers who would match their stamina, the sometimes-weird kinks and who would not freak out about their bodies since they had the same.

Gaetan was confident that Artos thought about it too before and also that he found him attractive—something that pleased Gaetan a little. He liked Artos too. Hell, they were probably both thinking about it the last time they met, and did not do it because of Gaetan’s wounds, and the place, and the timing, and whatever else.

But now— now they had time, literally nothing else to go or to do, and a real bed. So Gaetan answered:

“Sure.”

Artos’ lips curved with satisfaction, and Gaetan found himself in the expectation of it too. It was not romantic, but they were not exactly the type anyway. He took his boots off. When he was about to raise himself from the chair, Artos’ hand  stopped him. The Bear was standing there, in front of him, his legs brushing Gaetan’s knees.

“One thing, though—”

Gaetan raised an eyebrow, waiting, but Artos did not add anything. Instead, he extended his hand, palm open. The Cat mimicked his gesture, and Artos’ fingers took his, before guiding them between his legs. Gaetan held his breath with hunger, then surprise. t was not what he expected.

His eyes met the Bear’s, who shrugged.

“Yeah. I’ll rather warn you now, so we are not both disappointed later.”

Gaetan blinked. “So, are you—? I mean, I didn’t know Bears also took—”

He did not finish his sentence, not sure of how to finish it. He was surprised, but just because he did not notice. Schrödinger was something in between genders themself after all—he was just surprised that the very traditionalistic Bears could be tolerant too.

His words were misinterpreted anyway, for Artos’ hand on his became a claw, his nails digging into Gaetan’s flesh, warning him. His eyes were burning. That look, again. Gaetan found himself thirsty and hell if it was not telling something about his own kinks.

The Bear leaned toward him, his voice heavy with danger as he spoke softly near his ear.  “Let’s be very clear, real quick. I’m a witcher and I’m a man. If the only difference between you and me is your dick, believe me, I can take care of it right now so we’re even.”

And that turned Gaetan on. He was not even ashamed to admit it. Every instinct in him was telling him to fight the threat, but he would be lying if he said he did not like it.

There was no way he was telling that to anyone, ever. Not even Joël.

Artos stood back up. He probably had noticed the effect his words had on the Cat, and as always when he had the upper hand, he looked pleased with himself. The two witchers looked at each other for a second.

“So—is it a problem?”

“No,” Gaetan answered with a low, raspy voice, before raising himself up and kissing Artos.

Gaetan was not necessarily interested in sex in general. He rarely went to brothels, preferring not to pay for it because coins were precious, but was not again a good fuck from time to time—it just that he did not like to do it with strangers. Call it paranoia or good instincts, but you never know when someone is actually looking to kill you or steal from you, and he had killed enough people to know that they were more vulnerable when naked and half-asleep.

He did it with Joël a couple of times. Nothing too unusual for witchers to develop this kind of intimacy, especially when you spend months together in a tight space with not much to do. Joël was older, had experience and they knew each other for years, so it was an easy pick. He did it with Aiden too, just once though, and they were half-drunk. But in the end, it was something that would rarely happen. But when it did, it was easy and nice.

Artos was neither easy, nor nice. He fucked like he fought, with confidence and a build-up anger that was on the verge of overflowing every moment. He liked to be in control and was ready to fight for it, he would bite Gaetan then kiss him like he was his salvation… It was intense, but it was fucking good.

It was messy, though. They tossed their clothes, leathers, and diverse steels on the floor, made it to the bed—it was too small to welcome two men in it, but they managed, even if it was not perfect. Artos knocked his head against the wall once, swearing against this shithole, while Gaetan almost stabbed himself on one of the Bear’s daggers that they forgot to remove from the bed.

They argued without words about who would be on top, almost knocked their teeth while kissing, and their breaths became erratic as they found their rhythm. Artos’s fingers traced every inch of Gaetan’s back, like he was trying to map an uncharted territory. Gaetan thrusted inside him and Artos’ nails started digging in his flesh, forming red lines on it. Their hips meeting together, like it was the easiest thing to do.

They came almost at the same time, collapsing on each other, covered in sweat and other fluids, breathing heavily. Gaetan’s nose was buried in Artos’ neck, near a maybe too enthusiast love-bite he left there, that started to turn purple. It was nice.

After a moment, Gaetan muttered, his voice muffled since his mouth was still against salt-flavoured skin: 

“I did not try to offend you or assume you were not a man, earlier.”

“I know, it’s okay,” Artos answered. A couple of seconds passed, then he added: “I was raised like any other boys at Haern Caduch, so the question of my identity was never one for me. I’m not different, I just fuck differently.”

A chuckle escaped Gaetan. “That’s a good way to put it. You should meet Schrödinger, one day. They would like you.”

They stayed in bed for the rest of the afternoon. They shared embarrassing stories about their comrades while drinking their bottle of wine, traced each other scars on their naked skin while trying to guess how they had them. They fucked again, this time with less haste.

Artos did not talk about what happened at the slaughter. He did not need too — if the Bear witcher was still acting like a cocky prick, something had changed in his eyes, and Gaetan could tell he was comfortable with him only because of their previous encounters. Had they met for the first time now, Artos would have probably tried to fight him.

Gaetan did not pry—he respected the other man's privacy. Besides, witchers were not very good at empathy. But he was not entirely an asshole and well, after this afternoon, it would be lying to say he did not care at all for the Bear. So, he stayed, since the other one did not ask him to leave, and he distracted him from those dull memories.

Once it was dark, the hunger drove them outside the room, to retrieve food. They ignored the wary looks the other customers gave them to go sit in a quieter corner of the tavern. They shared a meal made of salty bread, dry meat, and a hot broth to soak the bread in.

“So—” Artos started, chewing on his food. “You said you were stuck here for a moment?”

Gaetan nodded. “Ten days at least, until the ship goes back to Kerack.”

“Got something to do while waiting?” 

The Cat shrugged. He was not really interested in waiting at Kaer Trolde the whole time, he was not particularly fond of the place, or harbours in general—too wet and smelly to his taste.

“Probably gonna try to find work in the area, so I don’t get too bored.”

“Want to come with me?” Artos offered, and when Gaetan raised a curious eyebrow, he added: “I took a job cleaning an old sawmill, apparently something killed the workers. I’m betting on a leshen.”

“Yeah, not so rare in those places, since the islanders still stupidly honour them like those things are gods,” Gaetan mocked, still bitter thinking about his last incursion on the Islands—that was the first and last time he made the mistake of killing a monster before making sure someone would pay him.

Artos slurped his soup loudly, directly from the bowl, with little manners. Like he was raised by bears , Gaetan thought with amusement.

“Well, they still need to cut wood and make boats, so I’m heading there anyway. It’s probably a whole day's journey there on foot. So, you want to tag along or not?”

Gaetan frowned a bit, suspicious because of old habits. “And we would share the coins? Pretty generous of you, don’t tell me you think you cannot take the leshen alone, I would not believe you.”

Artos scoffed, like he just said something funny. “Of course, I can fucking take it alone. I’m stronger than you.”

“Doubt that—”

“But,” Artos added, pointing his half-chewed piece of bread on Gaetan—who looked a bit offended, “I think we can do it faster together. Besides, you’re not so bad company and I bet we can share some techniques and tricks. So, why not?”

Gaetan couldn’t argue against that. They already fought together once, after all. He still had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that someone wasn’t trying to screw him. But Artos was not someone—he was a witcher. And his friend.

So, he raised his glass and clinked it to the Bear’s one, a smile on his face. “Better not be raining while we hunt, then.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you, Kitten.”

“Fuck off.”

The letter was written in ancient elvish. It was an old trick for Cats to communicate without the risk that the first fucker passing by would be able to read sensitive information about them or the school. It was well written, in Joel’s characteristic pretty and cursive handwriting, despites the poor state of the paper. The letter started like this:

Gaetan,

It's over.

When he received it, Gaetan was in Rivia. The letter had no date on it, so Joel could have written it a week or two months before, there was no telling. He read it once, then sat down, and read it again, trying to wrap his mind around the words.

Soldiers have taken the school. They killed Axel and Cedric. As for Schrödinger, well, I can't say for sure - might be alive, might be dead. 

He pictured it in his mind. Axel and Cedric, two strong and healthy witchers, dead. Axel and his mythomania tendencies, his soft eyes, and that odd habit to pick flowers from places he killed people or monsters and keep them dry in his journal. Cedric, his awful temper and dry comments, the way he would laugh like a maniac in a fight, but also his ethery touch when he would come and put a blanket on your shoulders when you were on watch duty.

And Schrödinger—no. They were probably alive; they were too smart to be killed.

Bounties have been put on your head and mine. Avoid cities and the high roads. Don't attract any attention.

Joel had left no indication of where or how to find him. Gaetan knew why—it was over. The School was done and so were the Cats. It was not safe to meet for the moment and they had more chances of survival if spread across the continent.

There were no indications about the other members either. Lexandre, Aiden, Jad… Gaetan could only assume they were not present at the moment and were also on the run.

He did not know what to do. He did not know if he was sad, angry, grieving, … A part of him wanted to go and try to find Joël despite common sense, to figure out their next move together, but to do that he would first have to find the remains of the caravan and track him from there, and it was a stupid thing to do, especially if there was a bounty on them.

The Second Northern War had started some months before and travelling safely was a luxury those days. Gaetan had too little information about who was after him, but he did not have to worry too long about this, for they found him just a couple of weeks after receiving the letter.

It was late fall. Gaetan was trying to cross the border, to put some distance between him and the conflicts. He had no destination in mind, since he had no place to go for the winter and was vaguely betting on the South to try and find Schrödinger there, if they were alive. He never made it there.

There were six men, all well-armoured and armed with crossbows and swords, but with no colours on them. They did not say anything, they just tried to ambush him on the open road. Gaetan could recognize gold-thirsty mercenaries when he saw some. Joël was right, they were after them all.

In a moment of loose-temper, frustration, and some basic survival instincts, Gaetan killed them all. It was a massacre, with blood everywhere and dismembered bodies all over the road. The Cat was the only one left standing, breathing heavily, but not unscathed. 

He had been hit a couple of times. One bastard especially, managed to shoot him with a crossbow, and the bolt was still in his shoulder. Gaetan knew he could not take it off by himself, and that he needed help. The wound was bad, his bone crushed by the hit, and a vague nausea feeling was taking over. He wondered if it was poison, or just the pain and the loss of blood that made him feel that way.

There was nobody on the road and as far as he could see, there were no dwellings around. His horse had fled, frightened away by the mercenaries. Gaetan rummaged through his belt-pouch and managed to find a golden oriole potion, which he gulped in one go to help shrug the hypothetical poison off, at least. Then, he clenched his jaw and started walking. With some hope, he would reach civilization before dying and someone would help him.

Gaetan did not know how long he walked, he just vaguely remembered that at some point, he was walking, and then everything went dark. 

For a minute—an hour?—he thought he was dead. Or at least, it would not be long anymore and really, it was tempting. Then, he heard someone call his name.

“…tan! Gaetan! Fuck, c’mon Kitten!”

There was only one person that would call him that. But it made no sense—why would Artos be here, now? He was probably hallucinating. Gaetan tried to speak, to open his eyes, but he had no strength left. 

He gave up on the dark once more.

Later, he managed to hit consciousness again for barely five minutes. He did not know the time, the place, or how long he had been out. He just knew it was warm and there were hands on his forehead, gently caressing his shaved skull. There were voices, two or three at least, but he could not make up the words they were saying.

It felt safe, curiously, so Gaetan did not try to fight when sleep came to take him again.

The next time he woke up, he was on a moving wagon. He was well tucked in blankets and on a bed of straw, but he had no fucking idea what was happening, so he panicked and tried to raise up. His body immediately protested, and a burst of pain erupted in his left-side.

“Easy, you will need some time to recover from that one,” said a familiar voice.

Grimacing, Gaetan tried to lift his head, slowly. Artos, while apparently driving the wagon, turned to him and offered him a crooked smile.

“What the fuck happened?” Gaetan managed to ask, sounding weaker than he wanted to.

“Well, you tell me. I was leaving Angren, calling it a year, when I crossed paths with a running horse, full equipped and all. I caught it and when I followed its tracks, I found you, lying on your face on the road. For a minute, I thought you were dead.”

A faint chuckle escaped Gaetan. “Yeah—me too.”

At this point, it was not luck, but destiny. If Artos had not found him… Gaetan scoffed, his throat dry. A couple of seconds later, Artos was giving him a flask of water, helping him drink from it. It felt like the most delicious thing Gaetan ever tasted. 

Once he was hydrated, he asked again: “What happened after?”

“I’ve taken you to the nearest village, trying to find a healer. There was none, just an old woman who knew her herbs a bit. We took the bolt off your shoulder. You slept for two days before the fever broke and since I had to move on, I’ve taken a cart and here we are.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Well, I can either drop you at the nearest city—which would be Kagen, but you’ll need more time to heal from that wound. Or I can take you to Haern Caduch.”

Gaetan raised an eyebrow. The Bear Keep was supposedly in ruins. Artos seemed to guess his interrogations, for he smiled a little.

“Bears are stubborn. It took time and a lot of money, but it’s starting to look like a real place once more.”

“Why?”

It was Artos’s turn to glance at him with a questioning look. Gaetan cleared his throat. Fuck, he hated feeling that weak.

“Why did you return there? It was destroyed, you could have gone anywhere—”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever called a home. I’m not gonna abandon it just because a bunch of assholes tried to scare us. The best thing to do was to repair it. Some Bears did not come back, it’s their choice. I made mine.”

He did not suspect Artos to be so dedicated to it. Gaetan just lost his “home” too, and many comrades in it. He was feeling many things, but the thought of rebuilding the caravan did not cross his mind, not even once. Witchers were an endangered species, and it was probably for the best.

He let his head fall back, closing his eyes for a second. He thought about Joël, Schrödinger, wherever they were. It would probably be best to let Artos drive him to town, rest there until he could ride, and then—then, whatever could happen. Or…

Gaetan opened his eyes. The sky was grey and the autumn-air was a bit fresh. Artos had turned back his attention to the road.

“Fine, take me there.”

*** 

Haern Caduch was probably a good representation of Bears—it sat on a mountain, tall and proud, while facing the elements with a stubbornness similar to its inhabitants. Gaetan wondered how some common folk found it, for it was well hidden. As they travelled along an almost invisible mountain pass, Artos guiding the horses with confidence, he told him how the Bears blocked some other paths with controlled-avalanches, just to ensure that they were even more hidden than before.

There was light and it smelled like smoke when they arrived, meaning some witchers were already there. Artos jumped off the cart, taking the reins of his own horse—a black mare named Banshee that he seemed very fond of, seeing how he would whisper in her ears. Gaetan could walk but he still needed support, so he waited for Artos to help him—weirdly, it was not as humiliating as he thought it would feel.

He heard the tapping sound of wood on stone and turned his head, looking up to the stairs that led from the inner courtyard to the castle. A tall witcher with a salt-and-pepper beard was looking down at them. He had a wooden leg, but Gaetan didn’t let it fool him—this man was a veteran, and probably still very dangerous.

“That’s Haraldr,” Artos said, coming back to offer him his arm as support. “The headmaster—well, I never call him that, can’t get used to it.”

“You mentioned him before. He’s the one who found you,” Gaetan nodded, muttering his answer while still looking at the older witcher.

The headmaster did not come to greet them, instead waiting for the two of them to climb the slippery stairs, waiting at the front of the two doors of the keep, like a guardian. The man was impressive, bearing his years on the path on his face and body.

“Artos,” he welcomed his former student with a formal nod, despites his eyes being on Gaetan only. “What do you bring?”

The younger Bear offered him a smile. “A guest. This is Gaetan of Gelibol. He's—”

“A fucking Cat,” Haraldr finished for him.

Gaetan did not respond to that. He was used to being trash even for other witchers. Prejudices lived long. Artos, however, sighed, impatiently.

“He’s a friend. I offered to let him stay for winter. He was injured on the path.”

Haraldr grunted. Something told Gaetan it was not the first time Artos did something that annoyed the old man.

“We are not a fucking inn, Artos. The point of rebuilding and returning here was to be left alone .”

“C’mon old man, don’t be a dick. He’ll behave, and so will you.”

Master and student glared at each other for a second, having the same kind of silent conversation that Gaetan used to have with Joël, having known the other for so long that looks were the same as words for them.

Finally, the Headmaster sighed, and turned away.

“He is your responsibility; you keep an eye on him. I don’t want him wandering around. And the other rooms are not ready, so you keep him in yours,” he grunted before disappearing inside.

Artos gave an encouraging smile to Gaetan, who was starting to wonder if coming here was really such a good idea. Nevertheless, he let Artos escort him inside, entering the Bears’ lair.

It was an odd winter for Gaetan. Bears were not used to having other witchers as guests and those around gave him looks when they discovered his presence. Along with Artos and the Headmaster, three others returned to the keep for wintering: a tall guy named Amerin that did not talk—Gaetan learned he was mute—and the two brothers of Artos that he spoke of before: Kazimieras and Rorik.

“Two more are still in office, but even before the attack, they would rarely come back,” Artos explained one night.

“You are more than I thought,” Gaetan answered, and it was true; he knew Artos’ brothers were still alive since he told him last time, but he did not pry too much on his dead ones, feeling it was a bit too sensible.

“Doesn’t mean much. Haraldr can’t go on the Path anymore, Leufroy is a piece of shit, and we see Ivo maybe once every decade.”

The brothers of Artos piqued Gaetan’s curiosity. They were as the Bear had described them: Kazimieras was loud and chatty, while Rorik was broad like a bear and behaved like one. Them and Artos were bantering all the time when they would reunite in the main room to play cards in front of the fire and drink homemade beer. 

They welcomed Gaetan among them, Rorik reluctantly and Kaz with an inappropriate interest and some flirting allusions that Gaetan did not understand at first.

“Yeah no, he wants to sleep with you,” Artos confirmed one evening when Gaetan asked, thinking he got it wrong. “And yes, I think he still talks that much even in bed. Can show you where his room is if you’re interested.”

“Not really.” The Cat made a face, which made Artos laugh. 

They themselves had not slept together again. The thought did not really cross their mind and with Gaetan’s injuries… But they were sharing the bed since it was warmer this way. Neither of them seemed to mind anyway, it was not like they committed themselves in a relationship and the platonic intimacy seemed to please them for the moment. It was enough.

(They did sleep together again on a particularly cold morning, after Gaetan was completely healed. Kazimieras made fun of them during breakfast and Artos threw an egg at his face to make him shut up.)

Then, spring came.

Snow was still covering the lane leading to Haern Caduch, but the sun was warm again and the birds started singing. And witchers would soon go on the Path again.

One afternoon, Gaetan and Artos were out on the little mountain trail behind the keep with the horses, to help them loosen their legs after the winter. Artos’s mare was snorting and shuffling, asking to gallop already.

“You should exchange her, she looks like a nightmare”, Gaetan commented, his own chestnut horse being perfectly civil while the black one was putting on a show.

“Not a chance. Banshee is the horse I have been looking for my whole life, she is perfect.”

The answer was expected, since Artos had told him that the mare was both a payment for a job and a present from a man he saved nearby Zerrikania’s borders. He had her since she was a clumsy untrained filly. Despites the horse's terrible temperament and attitude, the Bear was very fond of her.

“Don’t know who he loves most; his sword or his horse”, commented Kazimieras one day, before punching Gaetan on the shoulder, which earned him a dark look “if you want him to favour you, you should try neighing!”

Gaetan was looking forward to leaving this man behind him and never seeing him again—Kazimieras was the most exhausting person he met. Speaking of it…

“Are we leaving soon?” he asked Artos. 

The Bear eyed him, while restraining his mare. “We? Not leaving my side anymore, are you, Kitten?”

“Stop it,” the Cat cutted, slightly annoyed even though he was more than used to Artos’s snarky comments and surnames.

The Bear snorted, but complied. He turned his head toward the valley, still white from the last snow. It was amazing really, to see how much at ease Artos was here, how he looked relaxed and at home in those mountains, despite the hard conditions. Probably because he had no memories of before the keep — for him, everything started here.

Gaetan did not know the feeling. He was taken away from his childhood home at the age of eight, and the Caravan never settled in one place in particular for him to feel at ease there. He was at home on the road, and that's all.

“Next week, yes,” Artos finally answered, after a minute of reflection. “If the weather complies. I’m just waiting for Rorick to leave first and clear off the trail—it’s his turn this year. We can then take the Theodula Pass, leading south-east.”

“Now, who’s using ‘we’?” 

They exchanged a look, then a smile. It was not like they had not made allusions to it before. They had already worked together more than once and they’d just spent months together. And curiously, they were not really in a hurry to get rid of the other.

“It’s almost insufferable to see how good you two match”, Kazimieras had commented once, while they were sparring together—Gatean had just managed a blow on Artos, who was shaking his head like an offended dog.

Back then, Gaetan had shrugged the comment away, because he did not really care. Except he did. It was easy to move with Artos, to be in his company, sometimes in complete silence for hours without discomfort.

Witchers did not travel in pairs, they worked alone. But when the company was appreciated, it could happen for them to share some weeks or months together, just for a season…

Gaetan smiled, and if it was a bit soft for a monster-killer, he could not see it himself anyway. “So, east uh, why not. To Toussaint?”

Artos’ smile matched his. “To Toussaint.”