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Chapter Text

*MAJOR SPOILER ALERT*

End spoilers for The Witcher 3 ahead

Author’s Note: This story takes place after the so-called “bad ending” of The Witcher 3, where Ciri dies. There are a few changes to it, though. First, Geralt doesn’t die, obviously. Secondly, he didn’t make any of the “bad” choices throughout the game which cause the ending where Ciri dies. Basically, he did everything he could to save Ciri, but she died anyway. That should be everything you need to know to get going. I will be posting a chapter a week, probably on Fridays. I hope you enjoy and make sure to leave a comment to let me know what you think! Any feedback is appreciated!

UPDATE: The full story is now up!

Prologue

It had been five years. Five years since Ciri was lost to the White Frost. Five years since Geralt had spurned Yennefer and Tris, turning them away. Turning away anyone he might once have called friend or family. He couldn’t face them. Not after what had happened. He could barely face himself.

He hadn’t known where to go from there. Hadn’t known how to piece his shattered life back together. There was nothing left. All that remained was anger, hatred. And he let it consume him, let it turn outward.

Geralt had gone to the swamp pursuing some kind of retribution, as if it could fix the hole in his chest. As if it could bring Ciri back. He had slaughtered the crone. And butchered everything else. The bog had run red with blood, the air misted with it. Geralt had risen out of the marsh like some yellow-eyed demon, covered from head to toe with blood and viscera and flesh. Yet even that had not slaked Geralt’s bloodlust. But there was nothing left to eviscerate, no more victims for him to slay. He’d left none alive.

Broken and devastated, Geralt had departed Velen. Left his former life behind. He couldn’t stay any longer in a place where he saw Ciri around every corner, heard her voice in every crowd. He had gone, seeking the answer to a question beyond his grasp. An answer he still hadn’t found.

The burden of Ciri’s death was a boulder laid upon his shoulders. For the first few months, it had crushed him under its immense weight. He had barely been able to function, his life hollow and empty. Over the years, though, Geralt had come back to the world. He had learned to carry the load. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t toss it aside. It was still there, still threatening to overwhelm him if he let go for even a moment. Now, he had grown so used to its presence that he had forgotten it was there, blind to its existence, but still bound to its burden. Nothing came of Geralt’s ignorance but pain and frustration.

And, in the furthest reaches of Geralt’s consciousness, still lingered that inexpressible question. One that seemed destined to remain unresolved to the end of Geralt’s days.

Chapter One

Geralt was tired of the world. More accurately, tired of everyone in it. The time of the witcher was fading. Geralt had seen it coming for a long time now, but it didn’t make it any easier. It used to be that monsters roamed the world in droves, terrorizing towns to the point of desperation. Witchers could find plentiful work back then. People would pay top dollar to be rid of their monster problems. Back then, everyone knew a witcher’s place in the world. They may still have been feared or reviled, but at least everyone knew a witcher’s worth.

Now, as monsters grew more and more scarce, and witchers became less and less necessary, Geralt was lucky to find work at all, let alone a job that paid what it was truly worth. Just the other week he had taken a contract on a young leshen. It had killed several women that had gone to pick herbs in the woods—and the search parties sent to find them. Fifty crowns had been the agreed upon price. Fifty. That was half of what Geralt would normally ask, but he had needed the money and he could sense that the village elder was about to send Geralt on his way without striking any bargain at all. It ended up not being too difficult of a beast to conquer so Geralt wasn’t too upset by the time he returned with its head.

But when Geralt threw the severed head at the elder’s feet, the man avoided Geralt’s gaze, shuffling his feet. Geralt demanded the money. The elder said they had none—nothing close to the asking price anyway. Fifteen crowns is what Geralt ended up walking away with and that was only after he had practically shaken it out of the man’s pockets. He had ridden out of that village trembling with rage, hand itching to reach for his sword, to end that miserable man’s life. In the end, he had deemed it not worth the hassle.

It’s not like that man hadn’t done what every other person would have—fleeced Geralt out of the money he was owed. Geralt wasn’t even sure why he bothered anymore. He supposed it was just plain habit. He was a witcher. That was the only thing he had ever known.

And that’s not to say that everyone cheated Geralt out of money. Occasionally, a contract would come along where the issuer was truly grateful for what Geralt had done and generously forthcoming with the reward. Those were few and far between, however. Geralt couldn’t even remember the last contract he had taken that he had been paid promptly and, more importantly, in full. Had it been a year? At least. Maybe fifteen months.

Regardless, Geralt kept chugging along, wandering aimlessly in the dreary world. He was done with it. Done with the liars, the parsimonious bastards that would have him risk his life for nothing in return. Why was he bothering to save these people? Were they really worth it? It had taken months, years, but Geralt finally had his answer.

No, they weren’t.

The leshen had simply been the last brick in a tower of deceits that had finally come crashing down over Geralt. The next town he came to, he was going to find the nearest tavern, drink himself into a stupor, and just forget about the world and everyone in it. Ignore the pleading cries from miserly tongues.

And so, with only two crowns left to his name, Geralt pushed on through the mid-afternoon, guiding Roach down a small path in one of the easternmost areas of Velen. The entire area was wooded. So much so that he had hardly seen the sun. Only the villages and main roads were wide enough to spread the trees and allow full sunlight to reach the ground. It was a region he was largely unfamiliar with. Only because of his self-imposed exile was he even in the area. Though this was the closest to any sort of familiar territory he had been in a while.

It was late winter in Velen. Late enough that the trees had regained their full breadth, but there was still a bite to the crisp air. Spring Equinox was fast approaching and celebrations would begin soon enough. Geralt would make sure he was well away from civilization when that occurred. The mere thought of such festivities soured his mood.

Now he picked his way along a small, but well-used trail that snaked through the trees. By early evening, Geralt could smell wood smoke. A town was nearby and it both excited Geralt and disgusted him. He was ready to fill his body with as much alcohol as he could buy. But that also meant dealing with people. And that was something he was not looking forward to.

Despite his misgivings, Geralt drove onward, reaching the village within an hour. It was a large settlement, built in an enormous clearing in the trees. It looked as though they had cleared many of those trees themselves over time when more space was needed. Small plots of farmland wove into a patchwork of color to Geralt’s right, on the southern end, small huts dotting the land every so many acres. To Geralt’s left was the village proper, the main street down which Geralt now rode teeming with people of all ages going about their daily lives.

Men and women bartered and exchanged wares at door fronts. An old woman sat knitting contentedly on a doorstep while another braided yellow flowers into a young girl’s hair. Dozens worked the fields while others swept porches, hung laundry, butchered, forged, cooked, sewed, played, and frolicked. Geralt even glanced a young couple stealing away to the privacy of the forest. The bustling hive barely noticed as Geralt passed which, frankly, was odd. Geralt was used to being eyed with at least wary caution if not downright hatred. He was used to the hushed whispers and furtive glances that crept along in his wake. But here there was nothing. Here there was…acceptance, joy. As if nothing could shatter the harmonious atmosphere of their little world.

Geralt honestly didn’t know what to make of it. And it almost grated on him more than those thinly veiled affronts would have, like some manifestation of fate were trying to cheer him up when all he wanted to do was brood. Geralt grumbled to himself as he pushed on, only to find a gaggle of children darting in front of Roach, squealing with laughter at whatever game they were playing. Roach planted her feet in the ground, throwing Geralt onto the horn of the saddle. Grinding his teeth, Geralt silently cursed the little urchins, watching them clear the road to the South where they ran straight into an old man who stopped them and told them off for their recklessness. Good, Geralt thought as he met the old man’s gaze. The man dipped his head marginally at Geralt—an apology, he supposed, or, at least, as much of one as he would get.

With a sneer, Geralt touched Roach’s sides with his heels and continued on his way. It didn’t take him long to find the local tavern. The Split Oak, a sign read out front, a large tree split down the middle by lightning pictured above the words. The lintel was made of a raw piece of blackened wood, charred to the point where it shone like glass.

Geralt dismounted and tied Roach to a hitching post out front.

A black cat darted across Geralt’s path as he stepped toward the door. It hissed and growled, its hackles raised, but Geralt shooed it with a twitch of his boot. At least that was normal.

As Geralt crossed the threshold, he found the tavern mostly empty. He had beaten the evening crowd. A plump barmaid strode over to him as he settled himself at a table near the window, facing the door. It was an old habit of Geralt’s. He always liked to know of any threats as they entered. He had been blindsided too many times by people who didn’t appreciate the presence of a witcher in their midst.

“How much will this get me?” Geralt asked the woman, flashing his coin.

“A couple of ales. Or a plate of chicken and vegetables. Not enough for both, I’m afraid,” she answered sympathetically, wiping her hands on a rag at her waist.

“Course not,” muttered Geralt under his breath, glancing out the window. The shadows were elongating in the fading light and people seemed to be wrapping up their business. The taproom would soon be swarmed by laborers weary from their daily toils. Geralt turned back to the expectantly waiting barmaid. “I’ll take the ale.”

“Coming right up.” She smiled and left, sliding the remainder of Geralt’s funds from the table. A minute later she returned, skidding a frothing mug in front of Geralt, then leaving him once more to attend to something in the oven, telling him to holler when he had finished and she would top him off.

Taking a swig of the foamy brew, Geralt relaxed back into his seat. It was good ale. Full-bodied and strong. Not the watered down piss most taverns tried to swindle to their customers.

The tankard steadily emptied as more and more people trickled in, the room humming with chatter and raucous laughter. Halfway through his second filling, Geralt was just starting to feel a pleasant warmth spread to his extremities when the barmaid appeared at his side again.

Great, he thought. She was probably there to kick him out. No use wasting a table on someone who couldn’t pay their worth in staying. Let alone a witcher. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

He was about to open his mouth to tell her that he would leave when he was good and done with his drink when she produced a plate of roast chicken and set it in front of him. The browned skin glistened with juices and the roasted carrots and potatoes that filled the rest of the plate beckoned with their enticing aroma, reminding Geralt of just how hungry he was.

At the confused and ravenous look on Geralt’s face, the barmaid spoke, gesturing at the food. “A gift. From our village headman.”

Geralt took in the words with a cynicism only a witcher could know. He wasn’t about to be dragged into something and he knew all too well the ploys of those looking for cheap labor. “Am I supposed to believe this is just from the kindness of your headman’s heart?” Geralt gave the woman a skeptical look that seemed to have no effect on her. “I’m not some moron to be lured in by a delicious morsel and then reeled into doing a job for a pittance of its actual worth. So just take your food and leave me be.” He shoved the plate violently to the table’s edge and turned his attention back to his ale.

The woman, unaffected by Geralt’s aggression, responded by shoving the plate just as violently back to where she had placed it originally, sending a couple of the potatoes rolling across the table. “The food is a gift. Eat it or don’t. It’s yours either way.” With that, she turned up her nose and went back to the counter to pour several more mugs of ale.

“Wait!” Geralt half stood, calling after her with his free hand in the air. But she firmly ignored him.

Geralt growled as he sank back into his seat. He stared hungrily at the delicious platter of food in front of him, arguing with himself as to whether he should eat it. Loathe as he was to accept such favors, knowing full well what always followed, Geralt decided he might as well enjoy the food anyway. Geralt skewered a golden potato on his fork, his stomach tugging at him and gurgling its encouragement.

Then a voice called out just as Geralt stuffed the bite into his mouth. “Bertha’s not accustomed to anyone turning down her food, I’m afraid.”

An elderly man stepped out of the shadows near the door. Geralt eyed him as he approached, though he couldn’t quite make out the man’s face until he dropped into the seat opposite Geralt, his features now lit by the full light of the lantern on the table.

It was the man from the road, Geralt realized; the one that had reprimanded the children. He looked even older in the dramatic light of the tavern than he had earlier, the light striking harsh shadows down the deep lines across his skin. He had to have been as old as Geralt, though obviously Geralt looked the younger of the two due to his mutations. Rich, greying hair, almost as white as Geralt’s, hung down the man’s back in elegant braids and honey-brown eyes held a depth of knowledge that could only come with age and hardship. Yet somehow there was also a youthfulness in the man’s eyes that made him seem as though he could live another fifty years, beyond any reasonable lifespan.

It wasn’t hard for Geralt to guess the man’s identity. “I suppose you’re the one I should be thanking for this meal.” Geralt raised another forkful in mock gratitude, his tone flat yet acerbic.

“No need to thank me,” the man stated, a genuine smile lighting his eyes. “A weary traveler always deserves a hot meal at the end of the day.”

Geralt studied the man’s face with a hint of annoyance. He didn’t deign to respond.

But the headman didn’t seem deterred by Geralt’s iciness. With a knowing look that made Geralt’s lip curl, the man continued. “I’m Tesrin. I’m the founder and leader of this little village.” Tesrin paused, waiting expectantly with eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

Geralt wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of a response, but he also wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible and could sense that Tesrin would most certainly be the more patient of the two. So he grumbled out a reply. “Geralt. Of Rivia.”

Still smiling warmly, Tesrin nodded acknowledgement. “Pleasure to meet you, Geralt. What brings you to our—”

“Look,” Geralt cut in sharply, “I know what it is you’re after and I’m not doing you or anyone in this town any favors because you thought you could butter me up with dinner. Let me finish my meal in peace and I will be gone before morning.” Tucking into his chicken with new fervor, Geralt dismissively ignored the old man.

Tesrin did not seem offended by Geralt’s outburst, but neither did he leave. Instead he answered Geralt with a sincerity that only stoked Geralt’s ire. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean for the offering to mislead you. And you are welcome to it and a room for the night regardless of how this conversation ends. All I ask is fifteen minutes of your night.”

Not quite knowing why he was bothering, Geralt reluctantly sighed and nodded his assent, unable to fully bring himself to verbally acquiesce.

As if the fifteen minutes were a deadline Tesrin meant to keep, he launched immediately into his request. “A man has gone missing. Mikel is his name; fair hair with blue eyes and a nose so crooked from a horse kick to his face in his youth that it’s impossible to miss. He’s one of our best hunters here in the village. A few days ago, he went out to check his snares and didn’t come home. He hasn’t been seen since.”

Curiosity piqued despite himself, Geralt asked, “Has anyone checked the area around his snares? Wolves might have gotten him. Or maybe a bear.”

“Two of the other hunters went looking for him. His snares were empty, but there was blood on them, as though he had emptied them himself. Yet there was no sign of what had been caught. Or of Mikel either. But these reports must be taken with a grain of salt. As proficient as they are, the other hunters in town do not excel at tracking. They prefer to lure their prey in. Mikel is our tracker. He may very well have left a trail the others did not see.”

“And so I’m to find him and bring him back in one piece I suppose.”

“I know you witchers have heightened senses that far exceed any normal man’s. When I saw you on the road today, I knew you were our only hope at finding Mikel.”

Tesrin spoke as if he had firsthand knowledge of the capabilities of witchers, which Geralt found odd. “From what I can tell, no witcher has ever set foot or even been mentioned in this village, judging by your people’s reactions. How is it that you know what we can do?”

“I have lived here a long time, yes. But not my whole life. I wandered the world quite a bit before settling here and have had my share of adventures to show for it. I travelled with a witcher briefly in my youth. School of the Cat. Best tracker I’ve ever seen. He could spot a single deer hair or a single rabbit track fifty yards away. That was the most well-fed I’d ever been on the road.” Tesrin rubbed his belly appreciatively and then gestured toward Geralt. “And judging by your age, I’d say you have a fair bit more experience than that young man did.”

“That doesn’t mean that there would be anything left to find,” Geralt countered morbidly.

“Perhaps not. But I could not live with myself if I did not do everything in my power to bring Mikel home safely. He has a family, a wife and two young daughters. They are all beside themselves wondering where he is. It has been all I could do to keep them out of the forest themselves. It is too dangerous out there for them, but you look like you can handle yourself. And you would be paid handsomely for merely trying.”

Geralt scoffed. “If I had a crown for every time I’ve heard that, I would be living in Emhyr’s palace.” He turned his attention back to his plate.

An amused smile lit Tesrin’s face. “Three hundred crowns.”

Geralt choked on the piece of potato he had just forked into his mouth, coughing and sputtering until he washed it down his throat with what remained of his ale. He had expected Tesrin to say thirty crowns. Maybe fifty if he were really feeling generous. But three hundred? He had once taken on a pair of nesting griffins for less.

Incredulously, Geralt asked, “Why would you offer that much just for me to track down a missing man?”

“I could offer less if you’d prefer,” Tesrin jested. At the look of disbelief still plastered on Geralt’s face, Tesrin grew serious. “We are all family here.” Geralt’s eyebrow raised, but Tesrin help up his hand to forestall the comment Geralt was about to make. “Not literally,” Tesrin said with a small chuckle. “In the absence of a true one, this village and all its inhabitants have become my family. I would give anything to keep them safe.”

“But how could his family possibly afford such a sum? Most villages can barely scrape together fifty crowns altogether.”

“I am offering the reward out of my own coffers. I told you that I traveled the world. Well, I amassed a large quantity of coin as I did so. Enough for me and quite a few others to start a life here. With enough left over for a rainy day should we ever need it.”

“If you have so much coin, then you’ll pay me four hundred.” Geralt didn’t think for a second that Tesrin would agree. Three hundred was absurd as it was. Four hundred was just asking to be thrown out, which, honestly, is pretty much what Geralt wanted. Then he could be on his way and forget about this place. He was better off leaving now and not wasting his time finding some lost hunter. When it came right down to it, Geralt highly doubted that Tesrin would pay anyway. He would be like every other village headman that had stabbed Geralt in the back. Geralt added another condition to his terms just to put the final nail in the coffin. “And I want half upfront.”

Smiling pleasantly, Tesrin simply said, “Done.” Then he produced several medium-sized sacks from under his belt that clinked heavily when he set them on the table.

Geralt did a double take at the word and then the coin that now sat in front of him. He was lost for words. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. His eyes roved over the burlap bags and then wound their way up to Tesrin’s face.

At the baffled look on Geralt’s face, Tesrin offered another dose of earnest sincerity. “Find Mikel, Geralt. Please.”

The next day, Geralt left at dawn, setting out in the direction of Mikel’s snares, a bag laden with provisions strapped across his back. He had left Roach at the stables of the tavern, Tesrin promising that she would be well looked after until Geralt returned. Tracking was too delicate an art to go clomping through the woods on horseback, destroying any trail. Geralt was better off on foot, even if it did slow him down.

It took him all morning to get there. He came across the site just as the sun reached its zenith and cast stark shadows from the canopy above, mottling the forest floor below. Geralt finished the hunk of bread he had been eating and dusted the crumbs from his fingers as he leaned down to examine the snares.

There was relatively fresh blood on both of them and the surrounding ground, but the snares were set. They had caught something and then been reset. The other hunters had been right in that regard. But if that were true, then where was the prey? And Mikel?

Geralt searched the ground and found a curved indentation in the bed of leaves. Mikel had set his bow there when he checked the snares. There were clear signs of Mikel’s presence, but the other hunters had trampled the area too much for Geralt to glean anything useful. Then, a few yards further out, Geralt found a lead—wolf tracks, two or three by the look of them. A human footprint followed. The wolves must have eaten the catch in the snares and ran off. Mikel, proficient as he was at tracking, would have seen the tracks and must have decided to go after them. They were likely to come back after all, now that they knew the location for an easy meal. And if Mikel had young daughters, then he wouldn’t have wanted wolves prowling so close to his family.

The trail was easy enough to follow, at least for Geralt. Sometimes he took for granted how easily he could track. How obvious signs to him were missed completely by most others. Following the tracks the wolves and Mikel had left, Geralt wound ever northward, pausing only occasionally when the trail was unclear.

The forest morphed by the hour. What started out as younger trees and thick vegetation gave way to an ancient deciduous forest. Spotty crabgrass and blankets of moldering leaves were the only vegetation covering the ground. The towering trees loomed high over Geralt’s head, the dense canopy making Geralt feel like he were in some kind of outdoor great hall. It was an area untouched by man. There were dangers here that someone like Mikel would be unprepared for, Geralt was sure of it. And as the afternoon turned to evening, the chances of finding Mikel alive dwindled.

Then Geralt smelled it—blood. He abandoned the trail and ran a couple hundred yards toward the scent. Turning around a massive trunk, Geralt spotted two dead wolves lying in pools of blood, arrows piercing their sides. Circling the carnage, Geralt tried to piece together the scene before him.

One wolf was taken down by an arrow straight through the heart. It must have been Mikel’s first shot. Then the other wolf had attacked. Mikel had gotten off a shot, but it hadn’t killed the beast immediately. Now that Geralt got closer, he could smell something else too—human blood. Mikel had been bitten. But he must have somehow fended off the wolf and taken another shot to down it for good. But then where was Mikel?

In ever widening circles, Geralt sought evidence of Mikel’s whereabouts. It was difficult to distinguish because of the large quantity of blood and the fading light, but Geralt finally managed to single out a faint trail that led away from the battle, to the South. Judging by the amount of blood forming the trail, Mikel had been badly injured. About fifty yards further, Geralt came across Mikel’s bow. It was covered in bloody handprints and even a few bite marks. But still no sign of Mikel.

Night fell, however Geralt continued on, his pupils dilating to their fullest to capture any last vestige of light. Out in open country, Geralt would have had no problem seeing throughout the night. But under the dense forest canopy, the darkness soon became all-encompassing. Just as it was becoming too dark to see, the trail abruptly ended at the edge of a sizeable clearing. Although, it wasn’t truly a clearing Geralt realized. The trees were just so enormous that the gaps between them were getting larger, the canopy still impenetrable. There was nothing left of the trail near the base of one of the arboreal giants, no footprints, no blood. No Mikel. It just…stopped. And Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. It was like Mikel had vanished into thin air.

Mystified, and without any clear direction, Geralt decided he would be better off starting again in the morning. That he might be missing something in the gloom. Staying close enough to the trail that he could find it again, but not close enough that he would risk altering it, Geralt laid down on the forest floor and went to sleep, senses ever alert for what could have taken Mikel.

Just in case it came back.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Vibrations rumbled through the earth in the twilit hours of dawn. Geralt’s eyes shot open, his mind instantly awake, his hand already reaching for the swords he hadn’t bothered unstrapping from his back. Sliding his silver sword from its sheath, Geralt eased into a crouch, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Something was coming. Something big.

A sharp snap sounded across the clearing from Geralt—a large branch breaking under a lumbering foot. Geralt focused in on its direction, straining to glean any more clues as to the beast’s identity. At the same moment, the forest went silent, all other manor of being conceding the territory to its true master. In the vacuum of sound, Geralt could hear the rustling of leaves drafted into the beast’s wake. Then deliberate, powerful breaths. It was scenting Geralt, pinpointing his location as Geralt was striving to do the same.

Then it appeared.

Through the hazy mist of dawn came an enormous fiend. It was larger than any Geralt had ever seen or heard of, at least twice the size of a typical male. The fiend was black as midnight, with a blaze of white running down its chest and up around its neck. The collar met at its shoulder blades where the white shot out in a scruff of longer hair. Massive ivory elk antlers adorned its angular head, a third eye situated directly between the set. It set its feet as it moved into the open, head held high displaying the starkly contrasting shock of white across its broad chest. Its nostrils flared as its eyes locked onto Geralt.

Geralt was both awed and cowed by its majesty. This beast had probably wandered the land far longer than Geralt himself. Longer than any other fiend in existence. Was this what had taken Mikel? Geralt didn’t think so. It just didn’t make any sense. A fiend that large would have left a clear trail. It couldn’t have been anywhere in the area or Geralt would have seen the signs. It was just regular bad luck that it happened upon Geralt now.

The fiend stood majestically across the clearing, sides heaving in time with its powerful breaths, the mist eddying around them as the air was forced from its massive lungs. Geralt wished he wouldn’t have to slay such a noble creature. But he knew from the moment their eyes met that there was no escape. The fiend knew something had invaded its territory. Something not quite human. Something dangerous. And it would not let such a threat go unchallenged. Geralt would have to kill it.

Or die trying.

With one last snort, the beast let out a mighty roar and charged straight for Geralt. Ready for the assault, Geralt judged his timing, factoring in the beast’s great speed. He was shocked by how much distance it had covered in so short a time. It was only a few yards away in a matter of seconds. Geralt sprang into action.

As the fiend came upon Geralt, he ducked under its antlers and rolled from underneath its belly to the side between its front and back leg, all the while swinging upward in an arc toward its flank, where the skin was weaker. A fiend that large was bound to have extremely tough hide. But Geralt didn’t expect the hide to be as resilient as it turned out to be. Coming up to one knee, Geralt glanced up at the end of his sword. It hadn’t even drawn blood. And the beast seemed more annoyed than anything else at the tiny scratch its prey had delivered.

The fiend turned and pounded up to Geralt at a slower pace this time, its rotting teeth showing in a feral snarl, swiping out with its paw once it drew close enough. Geralt was forced to hastily backstep out of its reach then struck out at the fiend’s hand as it passed. But the coarse hair growing there proved too thick and the blow glanced off without biting in.

Geralt didn’t let the lack of success fluster him. He moved in, ducking another blow and thrusting up into the soft flesh where arm and chest met. The following cry told Geralt he had finally hit home and warm blood trickled down onto his head and shoulders.

The fiend reacted with lightning speed. It skipped backwards and struck with its uninjured arm, landing a blow that knocked the wind from Geralt and sent him flying. Before Geralt could even comprehend what had happened, he was crashing into the forest bed. He transformed the landing into a roll and recovered, throwing himself to his feet to ready for the next hit.

The fiend was angry now.

It was coming at Geralt from seemingly every angle, striking with all four feet and antlers. It had shown its strength and speed. Now it was showing its agility. Geralt was barely able to keep up with it. Barely able to dodge out of its way before it struck again. He couldn’t even begin to think about retaliating. After a minute or so, Geralt was starting to slow. Dread was creeping into his gut. Due to the fiend’s size, Geralt had to put an immense amount of effort into each leap. Twice as big, twice as far to dodge. He wouldn’t last much longer at this.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Geralt came out of a roll just a foot too short. He managed to rotate as he stood, almost avoiding the beast’s antlers. Almost.

The very tip of the ivory stalk caught one of the leather plates covering Geralt’s shoulder and tore it clean off, slamming Geralt into the ground at the same time. Geralt grunted with the force of the hit, but he gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet. Shockingly, the fiend wasn’t coming at him again. It must have tired of Geralt constantly evading him because it was standing stock still maybe ten yards from where Geralt now stood with sword raised. Eyes narrowed, Geralt waited and watched. A heartbeat later, the color drained from his face when he realized what the fiend was up to.

It was summoning its power with its third eye. It would stun Geralt, daze him. And Geralt would be powerless against it if it succeeded. He wasted no more time, racing for the fiend’s head. Nimbly sidestepping the fiend’s swinging antlers, Geralt plunged his sword straight into the eye in the middle of its forehead. Blood spurted into Geralt’s face and a piercing shriek shook the trees.

Once again unable to predict the injured fiend’s reactions, Geralt found himself swept up in its antlers, desperately hanging on to keep himself from being impaled. It took every ounce of strength to keep himself in place, the fiend doing its best to dislodge its attacker. Not knowing how to get himself out of his current predicament, Geralt started lashing out wildly toward the beast’s face whenever he could manage it. One such attempt scored a gash across the beast’s snout, just above its nose. But Geralt had had to reach further than he had meant to accomplish the feat and his grip on the antler failed him. The fiend flung him across the clearing with a mighty whip of its head.

Arms wheeling, Geralt tried frantically to salvage the unceremonious dismount and land without breaking anything. He partially succeeded. He landed on his feet, but one leg got caught underneath himself before he could bend his knees and tuck into a roll. He felt his left ankle twist as it snagged into the pliant earth, his knee overextending as he toppled over the top of his leg. Snapping his leg up out of the ground, Geralt caught himself before he fell forward, taking a few limping steps to slow himself to a stop. His ankle throbbed miserably each time it took his weight and Geralt could feel his boot tighten around it as it began to swell. It was badly sprained at the very least. But Geralt had bigger problems at the moment.

The fiend was livid. Blood flowed freely down its ruined face. A face that was already surging for Geralt, barely a yard away by the time Geralt had turned. He acted purely on instinct, knowing that he wouldn’t have had time to dodge even if his leg were fully functional. Geralt sent a flash of Igni at the fiend’s head, hoping against hope that it would be enough to at least send the beast veering off course.

Either the fiend didn’t have much experience with fire or it truly did not expect Geralt to muster any sort of retaliation because it went into a full-on panic. Once more showing its masterful agility, it stopped dead and swiveled directly in front of Geralt, kicking out at him with both back feet. Geralt attempted to backpedal, but his ankle crumpled underneath him and he fell onto his back.

The stumble actually ended up saving Geralt because the fiend kicked right over the top of him. Unfortunately, Geralt was now fully underneath the fiend and he could only watch as its foot came crashing back down onto Geralt’s lower leg, snapping through the bones like twigs. Geralt’s cry cut through the lightening sky as agony spiked up his leg and somehow spread to his core. One of the bones had speared through his calf, dragging into the ground when Geralt rolled to his side.

The fiend was off across the clearing, still battering at the flames engulfing its face.

Geralt reached out with clawed hands toward his mangled leg, breathing stilted with pain. Some sort of sixth sense kept track of the fiend’s movements while Geralt fought against the pain. He didn’t know how or why, but something had him struggling to stand—an inborn instinct or ingrained training drill reasserting itself in Geralt’s time of need. Using his sword to balance, Geralt dragged himself up onto his good leg, groaning through clenched teeth as the lower half of his left leg dangled and brushed the ground. He could barely see straight, shaking with the effort of keeping himself together.

Gathering himself, Geralt peered across the clearing to find the fiend staring him down. Nostrils flared underneath a singed and still smoldering face, delicate trails of smoke curling up past its antlers. It took in the scent of Geralt’s blood, of his defeat. Baring its teeth, it swiped the ground in powerful strokes, sending dirt and decaying leaves flying into its belly. It knew it had won and was savoring every moment.

For his part, Geralt steadied himself, shoving down the pain to come up with some kind of plan. His options were severely limited. He had no chance of fleeing. He would have to face the fiend where he stood. This would be his last stand—possibly of his life. But he wouldn’t even be able to wield his sword effectively on one leg. Certainly not to the level of skill he would need to defeat the mostly untouched fiend.

All of the possibilities ran through Geralt’s mind in an instant. He was running out of time. He would just have to go with his gut. A rapidly forming idea settled into his mind. It was an absurd idea. A dangerous one. But it was the best shot he had. Quite frankly, the only one.

Then the beast charged.

Marshaling every bit of strength he could, Geralt reeled back, pulling his sword over his head, and, heaving himself forward, flung his sword end over end toward the encroaching fiend, nearly losing his balance in the process. With a half hop forward, Geralt righted himself and, not a second after the sword left his hands, sent a tidal wave of Aard flooding right behind it. He watched the sword tumble through the air, the fiend completely oblivious to the threat. Geralt was confident in his throw. He knew as soon as he had released that he had aimed true. He just wasn’t sure that it would be enough to stop the beast.

Just as he had intended, the sword struck home. Right in the center of the fiend’s third eye.

But it only served to enrage the beast further as it lodged into its face. It wound up on its haunches, preparing to jump, to hurl itself the last remaining yards to Geralt’s position. And Geralt would be powerless to stop it, to avoid it. The fiend’s front legs were just leaving the ground, its hind legs springing out behind it.

Then the wall of Aard crashed into its face, driving the sword deeper, burying it to the hilt. The beast’s body went slack, its eyes rolling into its head. The sword had pierced its brain, killing it instantly.

But Geralt’s ordeal wasn’t over, he quickly recognized. The fiend had already gotten itself off the ground, had already fired itself like a bolt from a ballista. Its momentum would carry it straight into Geralt, most likely impaling him with its antlers. Geralt could only watch as the hulking mass careened toward him, falling through the air. But as the body approached the ground once more, the head dipped down, the heavy antlers catching in the dirt, pulling the head around to the side.

The turn of events was both a blessing and a curse. The good news was that Geralt wouldn’t instantly be gored and crushed to death. The bad news was that the rest of the body was now swinging around the front end like a pendulum and would reach far enough to bash into Geralt in its arc. And Geralt would offer about as much resistance as a fly would to a paddle.

There was nothing he could do.

“Shit,” Geralt swore to himself before doing the only thing he could to save himself some damage. A fraction of a second before the fiend hit, Geralt shielded himself with Quen. It lessened the battering ram of a blow, but Geralt still went hurtling through the air, the mist swirling in to fill the void he left in his wake. Then Geralt’s back flattened against a tree, breaking through the remaining strength of the shield. Something cracked in Geralt’s core and all breath was driven out of his lungs as he dropped face down to the ground.

He was barely conscious. Everything was numb, even his leg. The slightest bit of panic told him that his spine could have been what he had felt crack inside him. But any sort of coherent thought was becoming harder and harder to develop. Eyes fluttering, Geralt tried to raise himself onto one arm, but failed. Utterly spent, Geralt collapsed into the dirt. And let unconsciousness claim him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

A distant noise tugged at Geralt’s consciousness. It eddied incomprehensibly inside Geralt’s mind, growing louder and louder. Before he even realized he was doing it, Geralt was listening to that sound. Lethargically, he recognized the sound as voices—two of them. Still half numb to the outside world, Geralt remained unmoving, not even opening his eyes as his mind took in the conversation.

“…can’t believe it, Os. Do you s’pose he really killed that thing?”

“Looks that way. But it seems the beast sure did him in good.”

Muted footsteps followed the voices nearing Geralt’s prone body. By the sound of them, the two men were only a few feet away now. Geralt went to open his eyes, but couldn’t seem to lift his eyelids. He could only breathe in a quasi-state of awareness, not yet conscious enough to act, only observe.

“Holy shit! That bugger’s still alive!”

“Ain’t no way anyone could survive a monster like that, Hal.”

“Look at him! Look! He’s still breathing.”

A moment of silence passed and Geralt drew in another choppy breath.

“See! I told you this one weren’t dead,” the man named Hal exclaimed, proving his point.

“Guess you were right, Hal. Looks like it’s our lucky day. The chief’s gonna be pretty pleased with us after this. It’s been a long time since we’ve had fresh meat.”

Geralt’s heart dropped at the words, a surge of adrenaline rushing out to his body. But he kept still, knowing that he couldn’t fight these two, whoever they were. Surprise was his only ally.

“We’re bringing him back? Why would we go back there? Are you forgetting that they kicked us out?”

“I ain’t forgetting nothing,” Os shot back angrily. “What’d they kick us out for? Eating our fill? Drinking maybe somewhat more than we should have? Having a little harmless fun with the bodies before dinner? It was an overreaction. And we’ve been out here on our own for weeks now, eating nothing but rotting scraps. We bring this guy back alive and we’ll be in their good graces again.”

“I don’t think so, Os. They was pretty angry.”

“You don’t know nothing, do you? This is how things go. They send us away for a while so’s we learn our lesson. Something about suffering for your crimes or some such nonsense. Then, when everything’s died down a bit, you bring’em something they can’t refuse.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Of course it does. Who’s got the smarts, me or you?”

“You?”

“Sure as shit it’s me. You’re thinking too much about this whole thing. And thinking ain’t really your thing.”

“S’pose not,” Hal responded dejectedly.

“But that’s why we make such a great team,” Os countered, seemingly to bolster the other man’s spirits. “Ain’t no need for you to think when you got me to do the thinking for you. And I got you to back me up. Right?”

“Right,” sounded Hal more confidently.

“So don’t you worry about it. They’ll be welcoming us back with open arms when we deliver this pretty little morsel. You’ll see.” Os paused, waiting for what must have been a silent agreement from Hal. “Now tie him up quick, before he comes to.”

Little did they know that Geralt had been preparing. During their argument, he had inched his eyes open, just enough to make the men out. Both were thin and wiry, scrawny even. Though that would make sense if they had been forced out on their own for the past few weeks. The one named Os was a little taller than his compatriot who was squat and stout in stature. Not fat, just more thickly framed than Os was. Both had the same mousy, unkempt, matted hair and brown eyes with somewhat the same facial structure. They could have been related, it seemed to Geralt. Cousins, maybe. Hal carried no weapon that Geralt could see, but Os had some sort of crude club held loosely in his hand, the head of which was resting on the ground.

When Geralt was sure they weren’t looking, he crept his left hand down to the knife at his hip. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach his sword without them noticing. Besides that, he wouldn’t even have had the strength to draw his sword, let alone wield it on the ground.

Geralt kept his breathing as steady as he could, but it was getting harder and harder as pain flooded back into his body. The bottom portion of his leg was sitting at a right angle to his knee. He could practically see the underside of his foot with his leg bent only slightly at the knee. Waves of shattering pain radiated from the bones piercing through his flesh. At least he knew then that he hadn’t been paralyzed. Especially once he could feel his ribs grating with every breath. Breaths that became more and more uneven, yet completely unnoticed by the bickering men.

Holding himself in check, Geralt waited until a beefy hand reached down toward him. Then, knife held in a reverse grip, he lashed out violently in a wild arc, slicing off several of the man’s fingers. The blade may have been small, but it was razor sharp. As the man’s shrieking filled the air, Geralt recoiled into himself, letting out his own groan of pain as his ribs ground together with the sudden movement.

“What the?!” The man named Os came charging forward just as Hal fell to his knees, clutching the hand now gushing blood.

Before Geralt could register Os coming toward him, Os swung his club into Geralt’s face, throwing him onto his back. Blots of light popped in and out of Geralt’s vision, effectively blinding him for a few seconds. Even when the lights cleared, Geralt’s vision did little more than blur in and out of focus, his mind mimicking the action. He unsteadily raised his knife out before him, mustering whatever meager defense he could. But Os whacked his hand to the side with the club, knocking the knife from Geralt’s lackluster grip. Geralt battled his rapidly blackening sight. Os towered over Geralt, raising his club over his head, ready to bash the consciousness from Geralt in one final blow. Eyelids drooping, eyes already rolling, Geralt cursed his luck, not wanting to believe that this was how it would end. And all for some stupid hunter.

Why had he agreed to come?

Suddenly, a thwack sounded above Geralt and something warm sprayed onto his face. At first, he thought it was his own blood, spilled by the crushing blow of the club, the handle of which Geralt only now recognized as a human femur, bound to a head of smooth stone and reinforced by bits of leather and sinew. But when no new sensation of pain spread from his temple, Geralt took in the blood-soaked arrow protruding from Os’ chest. His mouth moved wordlessly right before his eyes rolled and Os crumpled to the side, next to his friend.

Terrified, Hal searched for the source of the arrow, his head frenetically whipping side to side like a bird’s. Too much in a daze, Geralt couldn’t lift his head to mirror the search. Hal must have spotted the attacker because his eyes stopped darting and zeroed in on something in the distance. He raised himself and ran, still clutching the two and a half fingered hand with the other.

Another harsh thwack sounded followed by a short cry. Then silence.

Geralt was fading. The blackness that he had been fighting was slowly winning the battle of attrition. Sprawled on the forest floor, breaths coming in rough gasps, Geralt sunk down into himself, his mind drifting away, not knowing if his savior had come to his aid out of benevolence or selfishness. Not really caring. He had no strength left to fight.

A figure appeared in Geralt’s blurred vision, apparent to him only by the fuzzy silhouette against the brightening sky, a few long rods—arrows—peeking out over one shoulder. As his eyes grew heavy and the world disappeared, Geralt’s only thought was that he hoped the man would give him the courtesy of a quick death.

But, based on Geralt’s experience, he wasn’t really counting on it.

Geralt awoke to utter, blinding pain. Someone was pulling on his injured leg, bones crunching and muscles twisting as it was maneuvered. His eyes shot open and Geralt made to defend himself, but he was so weak he couldn’t even raise himself up. Howling, Geralt beheld the man fiddling with his leg. The man seemed shocked at Geralt’s reaction, but did not stop what he was doing. Then the man grabbed the bone extruding from Geralt’s leg and snapped his leg back straight.

Geralt dropped like a stone before he could even scream.

Geralt startled awake, his eyes snapping open and his breathing frantic, ready for a fight. But there was no one there.

And there was no pain. None at all.

Coming to that realization, Geralt’s breathing gradually eased, confusion moving in where panic had once resided. He was lying bare-chested in a plush bed, a soft blanket covering him. Geralt raised himself onto his elbows, so weak that he could barely do it. He threw the blanket off the side of the bed and stared down at his leg, fully exposed since Geralt was wearing nothing but his undershorts. It was completely healed. Geralt gingerly moved his leg, ready for the pain to come charging back. But there was nothing. And as he stretched his back, Geralt discovered that his ribs were healed as well.

It was some sort of magic. It had to be.

Not quite knowing what was going on, Geralt decided to investigate his surroundings. He was in a large hall made of stone. It reminded Geralt of Kaer Morhen in its design, though it wasn’t nearly as large. In one corner stood the bed Geralt currently occupied, tucked under a set of wooden stairs that wound around to a balcony situated overhead. There was a small table laden with books next to the head of the bed. On the other side, a packed bookshelf and a mahogany wardrobe lined the wall past the foot of the bed. To the right was a dark corridor, but the angle from the bed was such that Geralt couldn’t see any more than that, though it seemed like an entryway. On the opposite side of the room was a long dining table with well-worn benches along either side. Strange bits and baubles covered most of the table along with stacks and stacks of loose papers. A sizeable kitchen was situated behind the dining table, though most of it, too, was enveloped in clutter. The rest of the space was filled with boxes and crates of all sizes.

Geralt’s eyes alighted on his swords leaning up against one of the larger crates a few feet from the bed, his armor, trousers, and knife lying neatly across the top, his boots placed together on the stone floor. All traces of blood were gone and his trousers had even been patched where his bone had cut through the fabric.

Geralt’s head swam as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, exhaustion dragging heavily on his body. He felt like a lead weight. He braced his hands on the edge of the bed, letting his head hang for a moment while he focused on his breathing.

“You’d better take it easy. That was quite the beating you took.”

Geralt started at the words, not realizing that someone had entered the room. His head must have been too fuzzy to have heard the footsteps. Now aware of the man’s presence, Geralt yanked his head up to locate him. It was the man that had been messing with Geralt’s leg.

Pure instinct had Geralt jumping from the bed, reaching for his swords, his body remembering only the pain the man had caused and not willing to subject itself to the torment once more. But Geralt’s legs collapsed underneath himself and he crashed to the ground, only just catching himself before smashing his face into the stone.

“Hey, take it easy!” the man called at Geralt’s reaction, rushing forward toward Geralt.

Geralt couldn’t make it to his swords so he shot a blast of Aard at the man. It would have been imprudent to use Igni. If the books and papers caught fire, Geralt wouldn’t have had the strength to escape, even if his attack felled the man. Either way, it mattered not in the end. Geralt made the motions with his fingers, but nothing came forth. He had no power within himself to draw from. His meager attempt at defense ended up looking like a weak swipe at the man’s outstretched hands.

“Stay back!” Geralt improvised when all he had left were words.

The man backed off a step, holding his hands up in a sign of surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Panting with the effort, Geralt leaned up against the bed, a harsh edge tinting his gaze.

The man held a hand out to Geralt as an offering of help, moving slowly, like someone trying to calm a wild horse. “Please, let me help you. Let me explain.”

Geralt wasn’t sure if he could trust the man, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Lacking the energy to even lift his own hand in response, Geralt merely nodded his head. At that, the man carefully made his way to Geralt and gently assisted him back onto the bed, setting Geralt so that he could sit up with his back against the wall.

“What did you do to me?” Geralt asked breathlessly, his head leaning back against the cold stone, arms drooping limply by his sides. He could finally take in the features of the man before him. The middle-aged man was slightly taller than average with a lean, but muscular build. Short, unkempt brown hair stuck out at all angles on the top of his head and dark brown eyes met Geralt’s with an innocence and concern that pacified Geralt’s mistrust.

“It’s a side effect of the healing, the exhaustion.” The man pulled up a short crate next to the bed and sat atop it. “I’m sorry, by the way. About earlier. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I honestly didn’t think you would wake up.”

Still not quite sure what to think about the man, Geralt answered with a slight tone of accusation. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

“Let me start from the beginning.” The man raised his eyebrows in a silent request for permission. When Geralt dipped his head in consent, the man began his story, speaking deliberately as though wanting to make sure Geralt understood. “I was out hunting in the forest when I heard voices—two of them. They were arguing about something, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I was curious, though, because I don’t see many people pass through these woods. I turned toward the voices just as someone screamed. Thinking someone had been hurt, I started running, making my way toward the commotion. I found the three of you just as that man bashed you across the head. Then he stood over you like he was going to kill you. I didn’t know what was going on, but I couldn’t let him murder you like that. Without thinking, I shot him through the chest. Then the other man ran and I was afraid he was going back to some camp nearby to bring more men so I stopped him. You were in pretty bad shape at that point. You were barely lucid. I brought you back here to heal you. But by the time I got you here, you were nearly dead you had lost so much blood. I feared that you were beyond help.”

“And you thought causing me more pain would somehow help me?” Geralt cut in angrily.

The man, unfazed by Geralt’s anger, continued. “Like I said, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m a mage. And healing magic is my forte. But I had to set the bone before I could heal it, otherwise it wouldn’t have healed properly, and you probably would have ended up crippled. I figured you were going to stay unconscious through the whole thing. When you woke up, I had no choice but to finish what I had started. If I didn’t heal you immediately, you would have died.”

“If you healed me, then why do I feel like shit?” There was no anger in Geralt’s words this time, just a need to understand what was happening. The man’s story made sense. And Geralt didn’t doubt that he was a mage. He had already guessed that magic had played a part in his miraculous recovery.

“It’s from the healing. I supply the magic, but the body that is being repaired must supply the energy within itself. It’s the reason I can’t treat major injuries on myself. At least not as major as I could treat on someone else. I drain twice as much energy performing the spell on myself than I do on another patient. Most of the time, it isn’t this bad for the patient. The effect on you is especially concentrated because of the extent of your injuries and because you had lost so much blood beforehand. I can restore your body back together, but I cannot return any lost blood to it. You just need to rest. You will be as good as new in no time.” Smiling up at Geralt, the man added, “I’m Kallis, by the way.”

“Geralt of Rivia.” The words came out somewhat slurred. Even speaking was a chore in Geralt’s current state. Kallis must have sensed it in Geralt’s demeanor because he stood and eased Geralt flat onto the bed as Geralt unknowingly leaned toward the pillows.

“Rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

But Geralt had fallen asleep before he even hit the mattress.

Geralt groggily opened his eyes the next morning to see Kallis already seated at the dining table, reading a withered book as he picked at a loaf of fresh bread. The smell of yeast in the air sent Geralt’s stomach lurching.

As Geralt pushed himself up, Kallis took notice and greeted Geralt warmly. “Good morning, Geralt.” Kallis closed the book he had been reading and stepped around the table to make his way toward Geralt. “Come, eat. You must be starving.”

With an arm around Kallis, Geralt progressed shakily toward the table. He was still weak, but not nearly as much as he had been the day before. When Geralt seated himself at the table, Kallis produced another loaf of bread from the oven and placed it in front of Geralt. A plate of cheese and a few apples followed shortly after. Not wasting any time, Geralt dug in greedily. Kallis simply flipped open his book to the page he had marked, content to let Geralt eat his fill.

As he ate, Geralt glanced around him at the papers scattered everywhere. Some were lists of ingredients for some herbal remedy or another. Others were step by step processes for medical treatments; things like removing boils, setting broken bones, and even one that detailed amputating a leg. The vast majority of the papers, however, were medical diagrams. Bones, muscles, tissues, and organs were all labeled and described next to hand-drawn sketches of highly accurate and gruesome detail. Kallis must have been serious about his healing wherever he learned it because he had quite the library. Even now, he was perusing a book titled Medical Mysteries Vol. III: Catriona.

Luckily, Geralt was not bothered by such things and tucked into his meal wholeheartedly, despite the potentially upsetting pictures surrounding him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen everything pictured there anyway. He had certainly amputated enough extremities and disemboweled enough men to know what the inside of a body looked like.

Once everything in front of Geralt had been devoured and Geralt felt renewed life return to his body, he turned to Kallis. “I guess I owe you an apology. And my thanks. For saving my life.”

Looking up from his book, Kallis waved his hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it. I was a healer in the city once. I came out here to get away from the noise and distractions so I could further my studies,” he said, gesturing to the volumes around him. “But I do miss it. I became a healer to save lives. I’m glad that I was able to do so again. What were you doing in those woods anyway? I saw your sword in that monster. Did you truly kill it on your own?”

“Yes. But only just. I was sent to look for someone. There’s a small town to the South. One of their hunters, a man named Mikel, went missing. I followed his trail through the woods, but it just ended in the middle of nowhere.” Geralt stared at the table, going over the details in his head. “It didn’t make any sense. He just vanished without a trace.” Giving up on the problem for a moment, Geralt raised his eyes to Kallis. “I had stopped for the night when that fiend found me and attacked. I barely managed to kill it. But not before it crushed my leg and then flung me into that tree.” Geralt huffed, shaking his head. “It’s just my luck that two cannibals would show up.”

Shock widened Kallis’ eyes. “Cannibals!”

Geralt nodded wearily. “Mmhmm. I’d be dinner if it weren’t for you.”

Kallis shook his head in disbelief. “Wow. And I thought the witch was bad enough.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Witch? What witch?”

A haunted look crept over Kallis’ face. He seemed reluctant to speak, as if his words would summon her. But, at Geralt’s patient look of interest, Kallis spoke, though in a lowered tone. “There’s an estate a few days west of here. That’s where she lives. I followed a herd of deer over there a few years back. I came across the estate and was curious. It looked completely abandoned, overgrown and falling apart. As I got closer, I got the feeling that something was watching me. The feeling was too much for me. I turned to leave, to get away from that horrible place, but something blocked my way.” Kallis stared with unseeing eyes past Geralt. “She was a hideous monstrosity. The kind your grandparents warn you will come to get you if you don’t behave. I couldn’t move as she came toward me. She had put some kind of spell on me. But I don’t think she expected me to have magic. I uttered a spell that set me free and I ran like hell and didn’t look back. I don’t know why, but she didn’t come after me. Maybe she thought my magic was a threat. Maybe I just wasn’t worth the trouble. Either way, I haven’t ventured very far from this building since. Not if I can help it.”

Geralt listened attentively to Kallis’ story. If there was indeed a witch in the area, preying on innocent travelers, then perhaps Geralt had a lead on Mikel’s whereabouts after all. “Hmm,” he contemplated to himself.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking that this witch might have something to do with Mikel’s disappearance.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Kallis acknowledged. Then, seeming to realize what such an occurrence would mean for him, Kallis lowered his voice, concern for his own well-being coming to the forefront. “Do you really think she would be out this far?”

“Couldn’t say, really. I don’t know anything about her. It seems like a solid lead though. Definitely worth checking out.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Kallis warned with fear in his eyes.

Shrugging, Geralt said, “Won’t really know until I get over there.” Kallis’ description wasn’t enough for Geralt to figure out what exactly the witch was, but it didn’t sound as though she was very powerful. “This witch could be anything. A wraith, a pesta maybe. Do you remember how to get there?”

“I do,” Kallis answered reticently. “But I’m in no hurry to go back,” he quickly asserted.

Waving Kallis’ fears aside, Geralt clarified, “No need to come with me. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll find it on my own.”

“Alright…but you be careful out there.” There was concern and doubt in Kallis’ voice. He didn’t think Geralt should go after the witch. Probably thought that Geralt would likely be killed.

“Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with a lot of these cases. Nine times out of ten it turns out to be some kind of wraith.”

“And what about the tenth time?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Despite his assurances, Geralt was still wary of what the witch could be. Overconfidence was a witcher’s greatest enemy. And these woods had already proven themselves to hold many surprises. Surprises that had very nearly ended Geralt’s life. He would have to proceed with caution.

And he was beginning to think that four hundred crowns wasn’t enough.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

With another day’s rest and directions from Kallis, Geralt headed west to find the witch. At this point, Geralt had little to no hope that he would find Mikel alive. But he would find Mikel nonetheless. Even if it was just to bring news of his death. Geralt had made an agreement to do so and he would not go back on that. He had never been the one to break a contract. He refused to be. Even if everyone else did. It was one line that he would not cross.

As Kallis had directed, Geralt found the witch’s estate on the evening of the second day, having spent the night huddled against the upturned roots of a fallen tree. The mansion stood on sprawling fields encircled by a brick wall with iron fixtures spearing out of the top every foot or so. The wall was unscalable so Geralt skirted around the periphery until he found the front entrance. The gates were made of wrought iron, twisted and coiled into an ornate filigree that snaked across the frame to construct a barrier. A jumble of vines intertwined with the metal to obscure Geralt’s view inside.

There seemed to be no lock or mechanism that would keep the gates closed so Geralt decided to try his luck and pushed on one of them. Heavy rust on the hinges hindered Geralt’s progress, but he shoved into it with his shoulder and, with an echoing screech, the gate swung open. Geralt paused for a moment, waiting to see if anything would come calling at the noise. But nothing happened. Satisfied that nothing would attack for the time being, Geralt stepped across the threshold.

The air constricted around Geralt in that step, threatening to crush him, his medallion lurching at some unseen magic. Then, as quickly as Geralt had felt it, he cleared the gate and the sensation was gone. It was a barrier of some kind. But was it there to keep something out? Or something in? There was no way to know for sure. Tucking the information into the back of his mind, Geralt continued forward, traipsing up the gravel path toward the extravagant house situated on the highest point of the grounds.

Kallis had been right in his description of the place. To say it was overgrown was an understatement. The brick wall looked like nothing more than a mass of ivy and bushes in most areas, the nominal sightings of bright red the only indication that a wall stood underneath the vegetation. The grass was waist-high in some places with weeds replacing any sort of manicured lawn. Even on the gravel path were upshoots of new growth. The branches of the few trees there were grew thick and low, in desperate need of a trimming.

Yet, despite its unsightliness, there was a kind of wild beauty to it, in the wildflowers that were just beginning to bloom and the dancing of the stalks in the breeze. As though Mother Nature had claimed this site as her own garden in place of a cultivated one. It was almost peaceful.

As Geralt neared the house, he noticed strange mounds popping up out of the ground running in neat rows to either side of the path. Some were so completely overgrown that their presence was given away only by the arch in the tops of the yard-high grass over top of them. Others were merely swathed in a blanket of velvet green. There were dozens of them. And it wasn’t until Geralt spotted a shovel embedded in the ground next to a mound of freshly dug earth that he figured out what they were.

Graves.

Some had to have been there for decades. It seemed as though the witch had been busy long before Mikel had ever entered the forest. Afraid of what he might find, Geralt strode over to the newest grave. But as he drew closer, he knew instantly that it couldn’t have been Mikel’s. The dirt on top was not as fresh as Geralt had thought from a distance. It was at least a couple weeks old, if not months. The shovel, stuck in the soil at the head of the grave, seemed to be holding the next place in line. To the right was flat ground. It was as if the witch hadn’t bothered to bring the shovel back inside, knowing she would need to dig another grave in the near future.

Geralt left the perverse cemetery and traversed the remaining distance to the house. Its size and style matched the opulence of the rest of the estate. Or, at least, it had perhaps a century ago. The wooden structure was rotting and deteriorating, what remained of the paint crumbling at the slightest touch. The house, too, was laden with ivy, so much so that it looked like Mother Nature was casting her net, striving to bring the house down and return the estate fully to the wild.

Passing into the shade of the manor, Geralt padded toward the front doors. The double doors were carved of rich wood, decades of sun and weather roughing the surface and bleaching them of the dark stain that had once coated them and still clung to the outermost edges. The handle was rusty, but turned easily enough and, with a shrill creak, the door inched open.

The remaining light of day cut a swath through the wafting dust, growing ever larger until it illuminated the lavish foyer. Geralt warily entered, gauging every step. Two, three, four steps onto the once rich rug underfoot. Geralt expected to find a darkened interior, but the candles around the enormous room were all lit; from the candelabras perched on side tables and mounted on walls to the stunning crystal chandelier dangling high above, framed on three sides by the grand staircase that began on either side of Geralt and came together at the top to form a second-story balcony overlooking the entrance. Ostentatious as it was, the interior was decrepit from years of neglect. Cobwebs spanned vast gaps in the rafters and between furniture, and everything was covered in a layer of dust so thick that all colors blended into the same greyish-tan.

As Geralt crept forward, he surveyed every inch of the room, senses alert to any incoming attack. But there was nothing. Only the groaning attributed solely to old homes.

All of a sudden, the hair on the back of Geralt’s neck stood on end. He had learned that such things were not superstition, but instinct. Accordingly, he drew his silver sword from its sheath.

A moment later, a female voice echoed through the musty air. A voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, but was somehow imbued with such pain and sadness and anger that it pervaded the entire room. Geralt couldn’t pinpoint its source as it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“Leave. You are not welcome here.”

Each hissed word was drawn out to its fullest extent. It made Geralt feel like the mere sound left tainted residue in his ears with every syllable. Desensitized as he was, the timbre of the voice still sent cold shivers down Geralt’s spine. But he didn’t let it faze him. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the owner of the voice. He needed to draw her out.

“I came here in search of someone. A man,” Geralt called out to no one. “I have good reason to think he is here.”

“You are the only man here. Now get out of my house.”

Geralt expected such an answer. It wasn’t as if she would tell him if she were keeping someone captive. Or in a grave. He would need to investigate the entire estate to be sure. Whether the witch wanted him to or not.

“I’m not leaving until I search every inch of this house.” Geralt paused just before the grand staircase, where it flared out at both ends of its base. A loose, but ready grip held the sword by his side. He didn’t want to prompt the witch into attacking prematurely.

Then the house seemed to quake, a phantom wind stirring through the corridors to Geralt’s flanks.

“If you will not leave, then you will die!”

The wind gusted down the hallways, slamming the front door shut and extinguishing the flames throughout the room. Geralt was buffeted by the gale as he was thrown into darkness, the dust blown from every surface billowing into a sandstorm and decreasing visibility still further.

Not a second later, a fleet of mismatched knives came hurtling through the air toward Geralt. He heard them before he saw them, the telltale whooshing noise betraying the projectiles. It was that extra millisecond that gave Geralt barely enough time to sidestep the barrage. Even still, one particularly sharp knife caught Geralt in the upper arm. He grunted at the impact, but the slice was superficial.

He followed the knives’ trajectory with his eyes as they passed. As he watched them lodge into the front door, Geralt discerned that they were not all knives as he had thought initially. There were a few short swords in the mixture and one two-handed sword that skewered the wood right where his heart would have been.

They were the trophies of the witch’s former murders. And they were all steel, he noticed. No wonder no one had ever bested the witch. Something as clearly magical as her could only be felled by silver.

Geralt didn’t have much time to think as another volley came barreling toward him out of the haze. Ready this time, Geralt rolled and avoided the deadly trophies. But yet another round bombarded Geralt as he came out of his roll. There was no time to dodge so Geralt hastily threw up a shield of Quen, the swords and daggers glancing off to either side of him. He held the shield for a few more seconds before deeming it safe enough to let it dissipate.

The last set of missiles seemed to have been propelled with less force than the first two. It was as if the witch were already tiring, her magic depleting. Either Geralt was correct in his assumption or the witch had simply exhausted her store of knives because no more were launched at him. Instead, a breathy screech came at him from behind and he turned just in time to block away a flash of razor sharp nails. The witch vanished before Geralt could fully comprehend what had happened and then she materialized to his left to strike once more. It wasn’t until the fourth emergence that Geralt managed a glancing blow to the witch’s arm, a blow that filled the house with her piercing shrieks.

The dust was beginning to settle into a dense fog at Geralt’s feet, constantly stirred up by his movements. Geralt was turning on the spot, preparing himself for an attack from any direction. However, the witch didn’t reappear next to Geralt.

A thud drew Geralt’s attention to the upper landing. He glanced up just in time to see the witch fleeing down the upper corridor.

He had been right. Her magic was waning. She didn’t even have enough to teleport anymore. Likely her engagements with the others hadn’t lasted this long. Only his superior abilities had carried him this far. Surviving just wouldn’t have been possible for any normal man. The first blow would have been enough to finish off most men. The second enough for the rest.

Geralt gave chase up the staircase, taking the stairs two and three at a time. He sprinted down the corridor past several closed doors and peeling portraits on the walls. A small door at the end of the hallway was just swinging back closed and Geralt pelted toward it, finding a narrow staircase leading upward. It turned back on itself halfway to the top and Geralt pounded around the bend. Breathing hard, Geralt slammed to a stop once he reached the top.

The witch sat huddled in a large and mostly empty attic next to an eye-shaped window on the far side, a putrid hand stemming the flow of the blackish blood dripping from her injured arm. It was only then that Geralt could fully appreciate her hideousness. Her skin was an unhealthy grey that was rotting from her very flesh. Even with her mouth closed, Geralt could see her yellowed teeth through her cheeks. Tattered rags adorned her withered frame and milky eyes poked out from under dregs of sallow hair.

Geralt had his sword raised, ready to strike. But something about the witch stayed his hand. He had dealt with enough brutal killers to recognize one. And he did not see one before him now.

Strange. Who was this witch? And why wasn’t she fighting back? Did she think she had lost Geralt in the hallway?

The moon-like orbs rose to meet Geralt’s. “Go ahead.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, studying the witch before him. There was no anger in her eyes. Just a deep-seated despondency that roused whatever pity still resided within Geralt. This was not what he had expected when he had chased her up there. Confusion took over Geralt as adrenaline drained away.  

His sword fell ever so slightly.

“What are you?” Geralt whispered.

She responded with a voice that had a silky depth to it that hadn’t been present in the terrifying whispers she had projected earlier. “Do you not know?”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. Then he realized that his medallion had been humming ever since he had set foot in the house. He had figured it was from the witch’s magic. But now he was contemplating whether it was someone else’s radiating from her.

“You’re cursed, aren’t you?”

A slight nod of her head confirmed Geralt’s theory.

“Did you think kidnapping people from the forest would save you from your fate?” Geralt chided acerbically.

She seemed offended by the accusation. “I’ve taken no one.”

“The graves outside would suggest otherwise.”

“Anyone who has come here has done so of their own free will. I did not ask them to come here and I gave them warning to leave. They made their own choice.”

Geralt didn’t know why, but he felt like she was telling the truth. His sword lowered a fraction more. Not knowing what else to say, Geralt gave voice to something that had been bothering him. “You buried the bodies of those that came. Why?” Geralt had been wondering about that since he had discovered the graves. If she were kidnapping people just to kill them, why would she bother burying the bodies rather than simply leaving them to rot, leaving them for the crows and the wolves? It didn’t seem like something a cold-blooded killer would do. And Geralt felt like the answer would give him a better grasp on what—who—this witch was.

Remorse tinted the witch’s opaque eyes. “Every man deserves a decent burial. That was all I could give them.”

“Then why kill them in the first place?”

Upset by Geralt’s comment, the witch rose to her feet with blinding speed, but did not advance. Her spindly limbs and neck stretched her to a full seven feet where she towered over Geralt. She held her head high, which gave her an authority and poise that contrasted blatantly with her deteriorating visage.

Geralt held his ground.

“I have no desire to kill anyone,” the witch spat angrily. “Am I not allowed to defend myself? Those men came here to kill me, the hideous monster. They came to claim me as their prize. Every last one of them. Just like you.”

“I told you I came here looking for someone,” Geralt countered smoothly.

“And I told you there was no one here. No one has been here for months.”

She seemed to be telling the truth, but there was no way to know for sure. “How can I believe you?”

“If you didn’t believe me, you would have killed me already.” A pause, both knowing what she said to be true. Then, “Why are you here, witcher?”

So she did know he was a witcher. He had been wondering that as well. She had had dealings outside these walls then. Presumably before she was cursed.

“I heard stories about you. About your propensity for abducting travelers through these woods.”

“Who told you these stories? Who—?” The witch’s eyes widened in realization. “He sent you here, didn’t he?” She asked quietly. “He sent you here to kill me.”

Geralt was confused at her accusation. “What are you talking about?”

“Kallis.”

Caught off guard at hearing the name, Geralt recoiled. “How do you know that name?”

Pure loathing and disgust with just the finest bit of fear flooded the witch’s eyes.

“Who do you think cursed me?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Geralt couldn’t believe what he had just heard. How could Kallis be involved with this witch’s curse? Kallis, the man who had taken in Geralt, a complete stranger, and saved his life. How could Kallis, the dedicated healer, bring such devastation down on another being?

“You must be mistaken. That can’t be true.”

“How long have you known him?”

Geralt’s silence only confessed his lack of familiarity with the man. He admittedly had only known Kallis for a few days.

Validated, the witch continued. “I have known him for centuries.”

“Centuries? How is that possible? He barely looks older than forty.”

“Looks can be deceiving. You of all people should know that.”

“Alright, fine. So he’s older than he looks. That doesn’t prove anything.”

“He brought this fate down upon me. He cursed me for standing against him. For standing against the atrocities he committed.”

Geralt couldn’t make sense of what she was saying, it was at such odds with what he knew of the man. “Atrocities? He’s a healer. He’s worked his whole life to save people. For crying out loud, he’s still studying now!”

“Then you’ve seen what he studies. The papers?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the books and the illustrations. He must have brought quite the library from the city.”

“Those drawings are not from a textbook, witcher. They are his notes. Compiled from countless experiments performed on innocent victims.”

Geralt broke eye contact, lowering his eyes to think things through. To think back on what exactly he had seen in Kallis’ home.

The witch continued, pressing her advantage. “He thinks he is doing the world a favor. He wants to cure diseases, afflictions, plagues. Anything from aching joints to Catriona.”

Geralt’s eyes shot back to the witch at that word. At the memory it had provoked.

“And he will do whatever it takes to find the cures. No matter the cost in lives or suffering.”

Geralt’s confidence in Kallis was beginning to dissolve. Everything the witch said seemed to make sense. And it would certainly explain why such a devout healer would position himself so far from civilization. But there was still one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. And Geralt wanted to see what the witch thought about it. “Why would he save me, then? I was nearly dead when he found me. Why restore me back to health?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? And were you any lesser of a man, I would be dead. You would have finished the fight he started long ago.”

“But Kallis didn’t send me here to kill you.”

“Did he not? Who told you the stories that led you here? Who told you the lies that had you believe I held your friend captive? He manipulated you as he did with so many others.”

The realization punched Geralt in the gut. He didn’t know what to think anymore. There was still so much he didn’t understand. So many unanswered questions. He would just have to start with one. “Who are you?”

“My name is Aela. And before this form took me, I was an elf. An elven mage to be exact.”

An elf! The curse must have stripped her of her powers indeed because elves were some of the most powerful practitioners of magic. But then how had Kallis beaten her?

“What is your quarrel with Kallis? Why were you cursed?”

“It is a long story.”

“Try me.”

The witch took a deep breath. She almost seemed relieved at Geralt’s willingness to hear her story. This was probably the first true interaction she had had with anyone since she had been cursed.

Her eyes focused distantly. “I have known Kallis for centuries now, though, back then, I knew him only by reputation. His reputation as a healer was quite extensive in the city. It seemed as though he could cure anything. Everyone flocked to him, awed by his power and knowledge. And for a while, perhaps, he deserved the adulation. He saved many lives. I myself was living in the city not far from his workshop. I moved to the city because I wanted to experience the world, meet the people in it. I was content in my life.

“But then people started disappearing. No one seemed to notice but me. It was beggars and strumpets that went missing after all. People that no one would miss. I was the only one that connected the dots, that figured out it was Kallis that had taken them. I tried to go to the authorities, but they just laughed in my face. Kallis’ reputation protected him more than anything else. It was the word of an elf against that of a highly respected healer.

“Frustrated and naïve, I figured that if no one else would help me, I would just solve the problem myself. I went to Kallis’ workshop in the city. I don’t even know what I thought I could do, what I thought he would do when I confronted him. I suppose I thought I could convince him to stop, with either logic or threats. I told him that I was on to him, to stop what he was doing, and go back to healing. Or else. But we both knew I didn’t have it in me to follow through with any threats. He laughed me off. He knew. He knew I just couldn’t bring myself to harm him, even after everything he had done. He told me to run along before he got really annoyed. Embarrassed, I did as I was told. I didn’t know it then, but I was lucky he didn’t just kill me outright. I guess he didn’t see me as any sort of threat.

“After that, I didn’t know what to do. So I did the only thing I could think of. I went to the people. Most didn’t listen, but I spread the word so far and so fast that people had no choice but to take notice. Public opinion started to sway and with it, Kallis’ foothold in the city. Sensing this, Kallis took greater notice of me, of my threat to him. But he couldn’t touch me. Not anymore. Not without raising suspicions.

“Then one day, when his business was drying up and people started treating him with caution rather than adoration, he vanished. No one knew where he went. Not even me. But I knew he was still out there. I knew he was setting up shop somewhere else, that he would never give up on his work. I had to find him. I had to stop him.”

“Why? Why go after him? The city was safe, it seems to me. Why put yourself at further risk?”

Objectives were simple to a witcher. Once a task was undertaken, the course was linear—find the problem, solve it, and collect the reward. What happened outside of those circumstances was of no further value. And was sure to bring nothing but pain and suffering. Aela, it seemed, was the perfect example.

“Because he was going to torture and kill innocent people,” she answered as if it were a nonquestion. “I couldn’t stand by and let him do it. Not if there was anything I could do to stop it.”

Geralt had been like that once, had done what he could to help others. Jaded though he may have been, he had always stood up for the innocent; always placed himself in the path of evil. He had fought alongside loved ones to shape the world, to save it. Ciri had—

No.

Geralt shut the thought down before it could complete itself. What he had once felt, once cared about, didn’t matter anymore. It had only ever ended in devastation. He was done with caring. All he cared about now was finishing the next task and moving on.

Unaware of Geralt’s internal struggle, Aela continued her story. “Years later, I heard rumors of a miraculous healer. I followed them far to the South. Kallis had found a new hunting ground. As soon as I had confirmed that it was him, I alerted the authorities. It didn’t matter. I received the same welcome I had before—a door in my face. And by that time, Kallis discovered my presence. He disappeared again.

“For decades, centuries, I chased him across the continent, sometimes losing track of him for fifty years or more. No sooner would I catch up with him than he would scuttle away without a trace. I think he knew what I was. And despite my misgivings about killing, he knew that I was the more powerful between us. He wouldn’t risk facing me. Not when running away was so much easier.

“The closest I ever came to stopping him was maybe some two hundred years ago. Scattered tales and legends had begun to creep up about him in the larger cities—a powerful mage who would kidnap lone travelers and disembowel them in his lair. The versions all differed. Some called him a vampire that would feast on their flesh. Others named him a disfigured hermit that would capture and imprison someone, keeping them for the rest of their life just for the company. Of course, no one knew his true identity or would be able to recognize him on sight. It didn’t take him long to master a façade of cordiality. You’ve seen yourself how expertly he wields it.

“Unfortunately, the rumors did force him to be more careful in where he located himself and who he chose as his prey. This made it more and more difficult to find him each time. But it did give me more credibility when seeking the help of the locals, or at least a little more leeway in terms of believability. I was finally able to convince a small group of local troops to search the house he had obtained.

“A group of about twenty of us stormed his house. Inside, it was a bloodbath. A fresh corpse was still on the operating table, scalpel and forceps still inside him. We couldn’t have missed him by more than a couple of minutes. I don’t know what he was studying at the time, but he must have been close to some breakthrough if he risked staying that long.

“I think the close call put him on edge. He couldn’t risk going to the cities anymore. I searched tirelessly for almost a hundred years and could not find a whisper of his presence. Gods only know what cruelties he unleashed in his absence. And then, by some miracle, I caught the smallest hint of his whereabouts. I tracked him to the castle he currently occupies. Whether it was abandoned when he found it or he killed its former owners, I do not know. In any case, I came across this estate in my sweep of the surrounding area. It was well-populated then, teeming with life. I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started growing hungry for more victims and a large estate was perfect fodder.

“I kept my distance from Kallis, not wanting him to know I had found him. I was afraid that if he disappeared again, I would never find him. So I sought to protect those that wandered into his path instead.

“Naturally, I tried to warn those that dwelled at the estate. But they didn’t listen. They were deeply religious and were afraid of my magic. And the points of my ears. All but one. One of the stable hands heard my story, believed me. He alone saw past my magic and my race to see that I spoke the truth.

“Over the next few months, he tried to convince the people to leave, that it wasn’t safe to stay. Meanwhile, I did my best to keep stray travelers out of the forest.”

“Why go to all that trouble? Why not just go after Kallis himself? You obviously knew that he wouldn’t give up so easily if deterred or denied any victims. Plus it would be safer to stop him directly than worry about him disappearing again,” Geralt interrupted.

Aela’s eyes dimmed, shame and sadness washing over her face. “I suppose I was afraid. I didn’t know what would happen if I confronted him again. I was powerful, yes. But so was he. I was afraid to die. And I was afraid to kill.” Aela’s melancholy turned to disgust. “My cowardice cost so many lives. Had I stopped him the first time we met, countless lives would have been saved. I was young. And stupid. By the time I realized what I had to do, it was too late. And now I stand no chance against him. It would be folly to even try.”

“What happened? How did you end up like this?”

Aela sighed. “I fell in love. The young stable hand and I grew close over those months. Eventually, we promised ourselves to each other. Despite the dire situation, we were happy in the moments we had together. And then things started to go downhill. People from the estate were disappearing. My fiancé asked me to protect them, even if they did not wish for it. The family that owned the estate had taken him in when he was a small boy, when he had been orphaned by a bandit attack. Those people were many things, but they had the compassion to care for a child that was not their own. To give him a life. And he loved them for it.

“So I cast this barrier.” Looking toward the ceiling, Aela gestured in an arc above her head. “It will keep Kallis from entering these lands until the end of time. I went with my betrothed to explain this to his people. They were frightened, but I never imagined that they would do what they did that night. I told them to stay within the walls. That I would go after Kallis the next day and end his experiments. One way or another. My fiancé went with them that night to keep them from doing anything rash. Except, they must have panicked. I found their caravan the next morning. They had fled during the night. And Kallis had slaughtered them all, every last one of them.

“It was my fault!” Aela sobbed, furious. “Kallis killed them to spite me. He knew what I had done. Somehow he knew that I had tried to thwart him. I was numb when I found them, strewn across the road like carrion. Then my numbness turned to horror when I discovered that my fiancé was not among them, nor in the estate. I knew then that Kallis had taken him. Kallis knew. He knew just how to strike.

“I flew to Kallis’ castle, to the dungeons below. There I found my fiancé, chained to the wall but still alive, Kallis standing smugly next to him. After everything Kallis had done, I couldn’t keep my rage in check. When I saw him standing there, I lunged for him, ready to rip him apart. He was ready for it, though, and teleported out of the way. He appeared behind me and attacked. As he had just done, I teleported to the far side of the room. We battled in that manor for quite a while, matching blow for blow. I think eventually he realized that he wasn’t going to defeat me even weakened as I was from casting the barrier the day before. But he still had a decisive card to play. And he knew it.  

“I was so focused on gaining the upper hand that I didn’t notice Kallis’ attention shift elsewhere—to my fiancé. Kallis launched a ball of liquid fire toward him. I couldn’t stop it.” Tears leaked down Aela’s ruined face as her next words caught in her throat. “There was nothing left when the smoke cleared. Not even a wisp of ash.”

Sympathy stirred in Geralt’s chest and, in her vulnerability, Geralt could almost see past the abhorrent wretch in front of him to the true woman underneath.

“Kallis took advantage of my despair. Not by killing me. To this day, I don’t know why he didn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t. Or perhaps he thought this the crueler of the two options. Either way, he cursed me, dooming me to this fate for all eternity. With the last of my energy, I fled here, knowing I would be safe from him. And here I have remained ever since. For almost a hundred years I have rotted in this manor, my only company that of those seeking to kill me.” She looked to Geralt, whose sword was still clutched loosely in his hand.

Geralt demonstratively resheathed it. “You have nothing to fear from me. I only kill that which is dangerous to society. And though you have killed, even a dog deserves the right to defend itself when cornered.”

Kallis, on the other hand, had no such justification. Geralt would have to pay him a return visit. He had lied to Geralt, manipulated him. And that was something Geralt wouldn’t stand for. He was going to wring the truth out of Kallis and get to the bottom of this.

Besides, Geralt suddenly realized with horror, Mikel was still missing. And it sounded like Kallis was the most likely culprit. Geralt’s stomach lurched at the thought that Mikel had been right under his nose the whole time. He had to be down in the dungeons Aela spoke of. Geralt hadn’t seen any cellar or basement in his stay, but he had done little more than a cursory exploration of the place. There was nothing for it now. Geralt would have to go back.

Geralt’s subconscious must have played out on his face because Aela studied him. Then a horrified look distorted her features even further. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?” she breathed.

Geralt didn’t reply. It wasn’t as if he wanted to confront Kallis. But if he had Mikel, Geralt needed to know for sure.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance against him, witcher—”

“Geralt.”

Aela hesitated at Geralt’s interjection, then bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. “Geralt,” she corrected. “It would be suicide to pit yourself against him. Kallis is more powerful than you know.” Worry tinged Aela’s warning.

Grinding his teeth, Geralt stood in indecision for a minute, trusting Aela’s judgment, but knowing he had to do something. He couldn’t abandon Mikel to such a fate. “Could you do it?”

Aela’s eyes squinted in confusion.

“If your powers were restored, could you kill him?”

She was silent for a moment before replying honestly, meeting Geralt’s gaze. “I don’t know.”

Geralt grew serious and determined, a fire alight in his eyes.

“How do I lift the curse?”

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Geralt set off immediately from the estate, not wanting to waste any time in getting back. Aela had informed him that there was some kind of trinket in Kallis’ possession. She didn’t know what it was, she had left too quickly after she had been cursed to know exactly what form it had taken, but it was that object that was the key to freeing her. It had been created when Kallis had cast the curse and now Aela could feel its draw on her power, like part of her had been taken and held captive. Geralt’s task was simple—find and destroy the object. Then Aela would teleport in and kill Kallis.

Of course, Kallis wasn’t just going to stand by and let Geralt snoop around his house to find this object. Geralt had to keep his trust. To that end, Geralt would act as if he had killed the witch and he had come back in need of healing. Unfortunately for Geralt, it had to look as though an epic battle had taken place. Geralt couldn’t stroll in unharmed and expect Kallis to believe that Geralt had killed the witch. So Geralt had asked Aela to wound him in a few places. Initially, she had declined, but when Geralt persisted, saying that it was a necessary evil, she grudgingly agreed.

Now Geralt trudged through the all-pervading night, holding his arm across his deeply slashed chest, a matching gash running down his thigh. The wounds were severe enough to be impressive, and frankly painful, but not enough to put Geralt in any significant danger. He did wish that he hadn’t had Aela injure his leg because walking on it was really starting to grate on him. Though in the end, he supposed, the more uncomfortable he looked, the more convincing it would be.

So Geralt limped along in the darkness, with nothing better to do than reanalyze every conversation he had had with Kallis.

The man was undoubtedly a gifted healer. Geralt had seen the effects of his skills firsthand. And Kallis had said that he sought seclusion to continue his studies. Technically, that wasn’t a lie, Geralt admitted. Kallis just hadn’t been forthcoming with the full extent of his studies, and the human lives that were sacrificed to enable them.

Clearly the entire story about the witch was a fabrication, other than the location itself. No, Geralt had been played from the very beginning. And he was starting to wonder whether Kallis had even chanced upon Geralt at all. It seemed pretty unlikely that Kallis had been wandering the woods at the exact moment Geralt had been in dire need. Geralt grumbled at his stupidity. He wasn’t going to let Kallis get away with it. With any of it.

It took considerably longer for Geralt to make the return trip due to his injured leg, but he eventually strode up to the small castle Kallis had procured as his home late on the third day. Geralt hadn’t really had a chance to study it when he had left to find the witch, but now he took in its full glory and “castle” seemed a generous term. It was more the size of a small outpost. A single building made of limestone sat enclosed by a crumbling wall cut from the same stone. The building was only two stories high as Geralt had seen from the inside, though weathered crenellations protruded from the roof adding another few feet in height. Ivy draped from the sides of both building and outer wall, camouflaging the compound somewhat with the surrounding forest.

There was no cellar door on the front side of the building, Geralt noticed. He would have to wait for the right opportunity to check the back. He couldn’t risk Kallis catching him prying unsolicited.

Bringing a cringe to his face and hunching over to sell the extent of his wounds, Geralt hobbled up to the door and pounded on it. It took a minute, but Kallis appeared at the door, shock evident on his face.

“Geralt!”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I—”

“No, no. It’s no bother at all.” Kallis stepped aside and motioned for Geralt to enter. “Come in, please.” Geralt feigned a stumble as he stepped through the doorway, allowing Kallis to assist him inside. Kallis led him to the same bed Geralt had stayed in during his first visit and set him down on the edge of it.

“What happened over there?” Kallis enquired as he scurried away to sift through endless bottles scattered around the room. Selecting a bottle from among the others and grabbing a clean scrap of cloth, Kallis returned to Geralt. At Kallis’ behest, Geralt gingerly stripped off his armor and trousers so that Kallis could assess and treat his wounds. Kallis inverted the bottle over the cloth then dabbed the liquid into the lacerations. Geralt hissed as it burned. Without pausing his ministrations, Kallis commented, “I take it you found the witch.”

“I did,” Geralt confirmed. “And she won’t be bothering anyone ever again.”

Kallis stopped and glanced up at Geralt at the words, awe and just a hint of reservation coloring his voice. “You killed her? How did you manage that?”

“With a silver sword and a lot of luck I guess,” Geralt winced. He waved at his injuries. “But clearly not enough.”

Kallis shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure she’s truly gone?”

“I should think so. I burned the corpse to ash myself. I’ve never known anything that can come back from that. Unless you believe in the stories of certain types of birds that can accomplish the feat.”

Wetting the cloth anew, Kallis moved on to the next gouge in Geralt’s flesh. “Wow. I thought I would be caged here forever, afraid of what was beyond these walls.”

Geralt huffed internally at the irony in Kallis’ statement, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

Once Kallis finished with disinfecting the wounds, he had Geralt lie back on the bed. “Just relax and try not to fight it,” Kallis instructed, stretching out his hands above Geralt.

As Kallis started chanting in a language Geralt didn’t understand, the strangest sensation crept over Geralt. Painful didn’t exactly describe it. It was more unnerving than anything else. His skin itched uncontrollably as it knitted itself back together and Geralt had to fight the urge to rip his skin clean off and scratch whatever was left. It felt like there were insects crawling inside him. After a few minutes of keeping his fists clenched at his sides, Geralt was fully healed. He let out the breath he had been holding as cool relief washed over him. Then a familiar exhaustion took hold, though not nearly as acute as it had been before.

Geralt sat up, regardless, and leaned over the edge of the bed. “Thank you again.” The words tasted like sand in Geralt’s mouth, thanking such a man. “I really should be going.” Now it was Geralt’s turn to play the angler, luring Kallis into giving Geralt exactly what he wanted. He would ask for it if he had to, but doing so could potentially give himself away. Fortunately, Kallis took the bait.

“No, you can’t leave like this!” Kallis gently placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to keep him from standing. “Stay the night at least. Then we’ll see how you feel tomorrow.”

With a deep sigh and a weak smile, Geralt complied, laying back on the bed. “I suppose one night wouldn’t hurt.”

Morning came sooner than Geralt would have liked. Despite the charade he was employing, Geralt really was tired. Groggily opening his eyes, Geralt nonchalantly checked that his swords were still where he had left them at his bedside. Satisfied that they were, he raised himself onto his elbows, searching the room for Kallis. There was no sign of him.

Geralt was drowsy from lack of sleep over the past few days, but felt rejuvenated nonetheless by his slumber. He donned his clothes and swords and padded over to the table, spotting a loaf of bread and a few apples there. There was a note weighed down by one of the ripe fruits. Geralt snatched the note and the crisp apple, biting into it as he read:

Gone hunting. Be back tonight. Stay as long as you like.

How fortuitous that Kallis was going to be gone all day. That worked perfectly for Geralt. Now he wouldn’t even need to come up with some excuse to poke around.

Geralt returned the note to the table unwittingly right next to one of the loose papers strewn about, one of the lists of ingredients he had taken notice of before. He merely glanced down as he placed the note, but the writing on the list caught his eye and he looked back to further scrutinize the two sheets side by side.

The handwriting was the same. And not just similar, but identical. Geralt made his way through the other papers on the table, one by one holding them next to the note to confirm his inquisition.

So Aela had been right about one thing at least. The evidence against Kallis was certainly stacking up. And then Geralt realized morbidly that he didn’t even want to think about what Kallis had meant by “Gone hunting.” But the ultimate proof would be in finding the dungeons. And hopefully Mikel. Assuming that the hunter would even be recognizable if and when Geralt located him.

Geralt started outside the compound. He combed every inch of the periphery, testing the ground for any potential hidden trapdoors. He even closed his eyes and listened for any minute whistling of wind. The kind that arises when air moves through a small crack between two spaces of differing pressures. His search outside the wall yielded nothing. Neither did the analogous search inside of it. Not yet put off of his task, Geralt moved indoors.

However, he began upstairs because he had an accompanying task to his search for Mikel. He needed to find that trinket. And if it contained the magic Aela said it did, then he would know it when he found it. Of that, Geralt was sure. Plus, Geralt didn’t know exactly when Kallis would return. If he were early, it would be a lot easier to quickly cover up what Geralt had been doing if he were downstairs rather than on the upper landing.

The wooden steps creaked with disuse as Geralt ascended. The upper balcony was not nearly as well taken care of as the hall downstairs, and that was saying a lot considering the latter’s exorbitant state of disarray. There were three doors adjoining the walkway and only the path to the first offered any indication of use. It seemed to Geralt that Kallis had only even come up there because Geralt was occupying the bed on the main level. Now that Geralt thought about it, it didn’t even make sense that there was a space functioning as a bedroom on the first floor when there were three perfectly good ones up a single flight of stairs. But Kallis probably spent most of his time down in the dungeons. And he seemed like the type of person to get lost in his work, only straying as far as he had to in order to get some sleep. Even going up to the second level would be too far for someone like that.

Careful to avoid leaving any evidence of his presence, Geralt slunk into the first room. It was utilitarian to say the least. There was an old bed in one corner with a simple nightstand with an oil lamp atop it by its side. A dresser along the wall watched over the foot of the bed. Geralt slid open the drawers, but it was completely empty. Kallis’ things were almost certainly downstairs in the furniture decorating the makeshift bedroom there. He wouldn’t have moved them for the few nights Geralt had stayed.

It didn’t take long for Geralt to check the rest of the bedroom. He scrutinized every inch of the room, under the bed, behind the furniture, and his heart even leapt at finding a miniscule hole on the bottom side of the mattress, but it was just a simple hole. It held no secrets.

The other two bedrooms went much the same way. They were identical to the first in décor and neither concealed anything of interest.

Heading back downstairs, Geralt set about rummaging through the myriad papers, books, instruments, and crates that littered every surface. Although, Geralt couldn’t properly investigate the crates. For one thing, he had no means of opening them, nailed shut as they were. It would also take too much time to open them one by one and then Geralt would have no way to reseal them, thus giving away the fact that he had been prying. Instead Geralt delved into the mess all around, making sure to put everything back how it had been. Or, at least, a reasonable facsimile of how it had been. Though it was unlikely that Kallis would notice anything misplaced in such chaos.

Geralt still found nothing as he made his rounds. His lack of success was starting to become a little discouraging.

Careful to avoid the many bottles speckled on the ground, Geralt moved over to his borrowed bedroom. He glanced at the bookshelves. There were so many books that he would never have time to go through them all to search for some sort of secret hideaway. Not today anyway. He would just have to come back to them.

Going for the wardrobe, Geralt tripped over a bottle of some clear, viscous liquid, spilling a sizable portion of it. Geralt swore as he caught himself on a stack of crates and reached down to set the bottle upright once more. He would deal with that mess later. It was easily explainable in any case, if Kallis were to ask. Geralt was bound to trip over something in this clutter, even if he weren’t snooping.

The contents of the wardrobe were less than exciting. Just clothes for all seasons from tunics to pants to heavy furs. Geralt spread the clothes out to either side within the wardrobe, hoping that something might be lurking behind or beneath them. But he growled in frustration when there was nothing there except smooth wood.

At a loss for what to do next, Geralt turned to leave. The next thing he knew, he was falling backward, crashing into the back of the wardrobe he had left open. He had slipped on whatever substance he had spilled earlier, having forgotten it in his frustration. Geralt banged his head hard on the solid wood of the wardrobe, leaving a grimace on Geralt’s face as he cupped his throbbing head. But as Geralt recovered, grumbling, he realized something had been off about the incident.

The sound. The sound the wardrobe had made when Geralt’s head had so graciously crashed into it.

It was hollow.

Renewed spirit had Geralt bounding to his feet, heaving the heavy wardrobe away from the wall. There was nothing there. Just a solid stone wall, completely homogenous with the surrounding blocks. Stymied, Geralt placed a hand on the part directly behind the wardrobe. His hand went straight through the wall.

An illusion.

Heart pounding, Geralt brought his other hand up next to his first and spread wide his arms to find the boundary of the illusion. It was the perfect size for a door frame. Geralt took a step forward into the wall. As soon as his head passed the barrier, Geralt spied a closed wooden door another foot or two deeper. Luckily, the door was unlocked and Geralt pulled the well-oiled door open to reveal a set of stone stairs leading downward to the right.

This was it. Innocuous locales were not veiled by illusions. If nothing else, Geralt would most certainly find irrefutable proof of Kallis’ wrongdoings.

On the way down the stairs, Geralt snatched a torch hanging in a bracket on the wall and lit it with Igni as he descended. Once at the bottom, the narrow passage opened up into a cavernous dungeon turned into a medical laboratory, the area so vast that Geralt couldn’t see all the way to the far side. It was much larger than the space upstairs, at least two or three times the square footage. Examination tables with leather straps for the arms, legs, and neck were positioned along one wall. Stone pillars broke up the open space, with torches in iron brackets attached to opposing sides of each. A reflection of the organizational paradigm above, there were crates and papers everywhere and medical instruments hung from nails on the walls, far more sinister than their scattered counterparts above. Jars containing floating organs and other organic curios lined shelves along the walls and were stacked high on the few worktables spread around the room, adding to the foreboding atmosphere.

Geralt stood planted in horror at what he saw. He had believed Aela when she had told him about Kallis’ cruelty, but he couldn’t fathom the extent of his total disregard for human life until just now. There was no doubt that countless men and women had suffered and died here. Kallis wouldn’t have needed a table with straps if he were only conducting experiments on cadavers.

A nagging voice within Geralt was calling for him to end Kallis’ malevolence. And not just for Mikel’s sake, but for any potential victims in the future. The same voice had gotten Geralt killed in the past, with a pitchfork to the gut. Geralt quickly silenced it.

Stepping cautiously across the well-worn stone, Geralt moved further into the laboratory, the flickering light revealing more atrocities with each step. When he was almost halfway across the room, a voice called out from the far side, still bathed in darkness.

“Hello? Please help me!” the voice cried desperately.

As Geralt raced toward the sound, the light revealed four cages along the back wall, each big enough to enclose a large bear. Only one of them had an occupant—a blue-eyed man with blonde hair so dirty it was almost brown. Then as Geralt came up to the cage, he saw what Tesrin had described, a nose that was undeniably Mikel’s.

The prisoner leapt to the bars, pressing his face against the cold steel. He seemed wary and drawn, but otherwise unharmed, and elated to see someone who might come to his rescue. “Oh, thank the gods! I thought you were him at first. Please, you have to get me out of here!”

“Are you Mikel?” It didn’t matter, of course. Geralt would have freed the man either way, but he had to know for sure for his own peace of mind.

The man was shocked at Geralt’s question which was affirmation enough, but he said nonetheless, “Aye. How did you…”

“Tesrin sent me to find you. It’s a long story, but it can wait. Do you know where the keys are?”

“Over there.” Mikel pointed to one of the desks abutting the wall.

There were a handful of keys scattered over the surface. Geralt grabbed them all and went back to Mikel’s cage, not knowing which one opened the door. While he tried the keys, Geralt asked Mikel how he had come to be Kallis’ prisoner.

“I’d gone after some wolves that were stealing from my snares,” Mikel explained. “I caught up to them and killed them, but not before one of them bit me pretty bad. I was trying to get away, afraid that more wolves might come at the noise and smell of blood. I didn’t make it very far before I collapsed.” Mikel shook his head. “And then someone just appeared right next to me. I figured I just hadn’t heard him approach. I was pretty out of it by that point. I reached out to him, calling for help. I thought my savior had come. I knew I wouldn’t last a night out in those woods injured as I was. He came up to me with this smile on his face. He took my hand…and through some kind of magic, he brought me here, locked me in this cage.” Closing his eyes, Mikel furrowed his brow in an attempt to bring back some memory. “My memory gets a little spotty then. I think he performed some spell on me, healed my arm. He said something about wanting me at full strength, whatever that means.”

Geralt chose to remain silent at the comment. Mikel was better off not knowing what exactly Kallis would have done to him if Geralt hadn’t come along.

“I’ve been here ever since,” Mikel ploughed on, unaware of Geralt’s decided silence. “I didn’t see him for a few days. I thought he was just going to leave me down here to starve. But then he brought me food and water for a couple days in a row, though he seemed really distracted. And now you’re here.”

It took a few tries, but Geralt eventually selected the correct key and the door swung wide.

Mikel burst out of the open door like it were going to snap shut if he took too long. He turned to Geralt. “Thank you. I’m not a fool, I know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come. A man doesn’t lock someone in a dungeon because he wants to be their friend.”

“Don’t thank me, I’m just doing my job. Tesrin is the one that sent me. Thank him when we get back.”

“That may be so, but I know you risked your life coming here. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Geralt. Geralt of Rivia, witcher.”

“Thank you, Geralt. I owe you my life,” Mikel offered sincerely.

Never one for receiving praise, Geralt motioned Mikel forward. “Come on, we need to get moving. Kallis could be back any minute and I want to be as far from here as possible when he figures out you’re gone.”

Aela’s trinket would just have to wait. Right now, Geralt had a decent shot at getting Mikel home safely and, frankly, that was the whole point of breaking Aela’s curse anyway. Honestly, there would be no point in coming back at all. Plans changed. If Geralt came back, he would only be putting himself at undue risk.

That’s what Geralt told himself. Though, in the pit of his stomach festered an inkling of guilt at the thought of Aela waiting for help that would never come.

They wended their way to the door as quickly as they could. But Geralt held up a hand in front of Mikel just as they reached the bottom step.

“Wha—”

“Shhh!” Geralt ordered. He tilted his head sideways to the stairs, endeavoring to catch again what he thought he had heard a moment ago. His heart dropped as he confirmed his suspicion. Someone was whistling a tune. It was distant, but swiftly approaching. It had to be Kallis. They had maybe a minute. If they were lucky. Then Kallis would walk in and see the wardrobe pulled back, would know Geralt was on to him.

“Shit!”

“What is it?” Terror and confusion flashed on Mikel’s face at Geralt’s outburst. He wouldn’t have been able to hear what Geralt could, wouldn’t know that his captor was returning.

Geralt turned to Mikel, his words spilling out of him in a rush. “Kallis is coming. He’ll walk in any second now. Listen, I need you to stay down here while I go upstairs and pretend that I didn’t find any of this. Kallis can’t know that I’m on to him.” Mikel made to protest, but Geralt held up his hand to forestall Mikel’s interruption. Geralt knew he couldn’t last long against Kallis. Even if he could, most likely Kallis would defeat Geralt in the end and would just recapture Mikel anyway. They would have to wait to make their move. “Wait until nightfall. Once Kallis is asleep, I will come get you. We make our escape then. If we go now, we die.”

Mikel shifted uneasily, eyes pleading with Geralt to get him out.

Geralt held his gaze. “I will come back for you. I promise.” He punctuated every word, willing Mikel to understand.

The whistling grew louder. Even Mikel’s attention shot upward at the sound, close as it was.

“Stay here.” With one last look, Geralt passed Mikel the torch and sprinted up the steps three at a time. Bursting through the illusion, he shoved the wardrobe back into place. Geralt was just making a show of perusing the books on the shelf, struggling to calm his breathing, when Kallis entered the room, still whistling his little tune.

Geralt slowly replaced the book, gave himself a few more seconds to steady his breathing, then turned to greet the mage. Kallis clutched a brace of rabbits in one hand, already gutted. He set down his bow in the corner, unstrapping the quiver from his back at the same time.

As Geralt approached, Kallis held the rabbits aloft. “Found us some dinner. Not what I was hoping for, but it will make some nice stew, I imagine.”

Forcing a smile to his face, Geralt replied, “Sounds great. I’m starving.”

Kallis glanced at the table. There remained most of the food that had been laid out for Geralt. He had been so busy searching that he had forgotten to eat. “Well, no wonder! It looks like you haven’t eaten all day. Found those books too enthralling, did you?”

It took a second for the words to register. Then Geralt remembered that he had just been holding a book when Kallis arrived. “Yeah, pretty interesting stuff you’ve got here.”

Kallis turned to the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “Couldn’t agree more. But then, I own the books, so I’m a little biased,” he chuckled as Geralt let out a silent sigh of relief. “Please, don’t let me keep you. Feel free to browse as I prepare dinner. Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Thanks.”

Geralt didn’t have much of a choice now. He went back to the bookshelf and selected the first book he saw, settling himself down on the bed to pry open the aging tome. For about half an hour, he feigned reading, turning the page every now and then to keep up appearances. All the while Geralt snatched glances at Kallis as he whorled around the kitchen, pulling spices from cabinets and chopping vegetables to add to the boiling broth.

Geralt couldn’t get a read on the man. It didn’t seem as though he suspected Geralt. But then, Geralt had been wrong about Kallis once already.

“I think that should do it,” Kallis announced, adding one final spice to the pot. “Come get it while it’s hot.”

Geralt shut the book and set it aside, sliding from the bed to join Kallis at the table. Kallis doled out two generous portions of the stew into bowls. Placing the steaming meal on the table, he procured a pair of frothing mugs from behind him and added them to the feast. Geralt gratefully accepted the proffered ale.

“To new friends.” Kallis held his mug out to Geralt.

“Cheers.” Geralt obligingly clinked his own mug against Kallis’ and swallowed a deep draught before setting the brew down and tucking into the stew. It was delicious. Some of the best rabbit stew he’d ever eaten.

With a mouthful of broth, Kallis addressed Geralt. “You have good taste in books. Can’t tell you how useful that particular manuscript has been.”

Shit. What had he been reading? Geralt hadn’t even checked the title before he pulled it from the shelf. He racked his mind for anything it may have picked up on. A few words popped into Geralt’s head. Several names of wild herbs and something about pain relief. He would just have to roll with it.

“I can’t believe there are so many plants that can control pain. Pretty handy knowledge to have out in the field.” Geralt forced himself to casually take another bite.

Kallis grinned, seemingly thrilled to talk about something he was so passionate about. “Indeed. Like I said, I’ve had to use that guide quite a few times in the past. You don’t always have the potions you need readily available. Especially for house calls. Sometimes you have to improvise.”

“I can sympathize with that. I’ve had plenty of unplanned emergencies out hunting monsters. Herbology is something taught extensively during witcher training.”

“I must confess that you witchers have always fascinated me. I’ve never really had the chance to get to know one. What was it like, becoming a witcher?”

“Brutal,” Geralt answered honestly. “But rewarding, I suppose. The truth is, I’ve never known anything else.”

“Well, you certainly seem better off for it. I doubt anyone else could have taken down that monster the way you did. And definitely not single-handed. Not to mention the witch.” Kallis paused, spooning soup into his mouth. Then his head snapped back up as if hit by a sudden realization. “By the way, did you find what you were looking for earlier?”

Geralt only just caught himself before he spewed the spoonful of stew he had just slurped up all over the table. His heart pounded, but he kept his face carefully in check, allowing only polite confusion to mask his face.

“The man you were looking for. Did the witch have him?”

Swallowing his mouthful with considerable effort, Geralt took a swig of ale before responding. “No, she didn’t have him. I don’t know what happened to him. He must be long gone by now. Besides, the trail’s cold. I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for him anymore. I’ll just have to return empty-handed, I’m afraid.”

Kallis tsked. “That’s too bad. I thought for sure that’s where he would have disappeared to. I guess this means that you’ll be leaving soon then?” The mage looked truly disappointed at the prospect, like he was enjoying having some company.

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning. If you don’t mind me staying another night.”

“By all means,” Kallis granted, shrugging his bottom lip.

Geralt really was tired. The frantic searching earlier in the day and the lying for the past hour had really taken it out of him. His eyelids were even beginning to droop and Geralt blinked heavily to fight back the drowsiness that was washing over him.

It wasn’t until his vision swam before him that Geralt realized something was wrong. His arms felt like dead weights attached to his shoulders and he struggled to keep himself upright.

He had been drugged.

Geralt glanced at the stew and ale in front of him, like he could discern what he had been given by merely looking. Then he cut an accusatory glare toward Kallis, who was smiling back with a predatory grin.

“Stay as long as you like.”

Not about to give up without a fight, Geralt collected whatever control he still had to stand and draw his silver sword, throwing a leg over the back of the bench to step free of the table. But his clumsy limbs failed him and he stumbled through the maneuver, crashing face-down onto the hard floor, his sword skittering away.

“Careful now,” Kallis mocked as he stepped around the table to stop in front of Geralt, only the lower half of Kallis’ legs visible in Geralt’s eyeline. Geralt tried to push himself up, but he could barely keep his head up, his eyes open, let alone move. Then Kallis crouched down so that he came into full view, all pretense of friendliness gone in an instant. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Geralt was losing his struggle to stay conscious, his eyes dragging closed as his body went slack. Kallis’ malicious laugh echoed in Geralt’s ears as he succumbed to the darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Blearily opening his eyes, Geralt grimaced when the light was too much for them. Whatever drug Kallis had dosed Geralt with must have lingered in his system. As his eyes adjusted, he identified the source as merely torchlight. A splitting headache joined the photosensitivity, though that may have been from Geralt smashing his head on the ground.

Then Kallis appeared to Geralt’s left.

Geralt made to jump up, to attack. But his arms and legs met with leather straps. Even his neck was tied down. It was only then that Geralt appreciated his surroundings. He was down in the dungeon, strapped to one of the tables, his chest stripped bare. Again he strained against his bindings, but they were well oiled and held firm. A snarl formed on Geralt’s lip as Kallis neared.

Kallis had his hands clasped behind his back. The amiable façade he had presented to Geralt at their first meeting was nowhere to be found. This was the true Kallis. A cold and calculating front, utterly devoid of compassion. “You honestly thought you could outsmart me, witcher?” An amused huff. “I knew from the beginning that you hadn’t killed her. But I was curious as to your intent, so I decided to play along for a little while. Maybe you had simply been outmatched and were afraid to tell me, to admit your defeat. Maybe you just needed some more encouragement. Then I left to see what you would do in my absence. When you found my little secret, I knew she had sent you.”

Geralt’s face betrayed his shock. How could Kallis have known that Geralt found the laboratory? He had been so careful to cover his tracks.

“Don’t look so surprised. I knew the moment you crossed that illusion. You set off every ward I had.”

Cursing himself for his inattention, Geralt scowled as much at himself as his captor. He had gotten careless. He had been so thrilled at finding the secret door that he had forgotten about any kind of magical trap that might have been in place. Stupid, so stupid.

And now he was trapped. For Geralt couldn’t see any way out of his current predicament. Past Kallis, propped up against one of the many pillars, were Geralt’s chest armor and swords. Or, at least, his steel sword and the sheath of the silver sword. The silver sword itself was still probably upstairs where it had fallen. It made little difference anyway because there was no way Geralt could break free. Not without something sharp to cut through the bindings. Geralt considered using Igni, but he couldn’t position his hand to aim at the leather itself.

This was bad. He needed more time to come up with a plan. Come up with anything really because Geralt’s options at the moment were virtually nonexistent. He had to keep Kallis talking.

“How did you know I hadn’t killed her? She lives days away from here, how could you have possibly known?”

“Ah.” Kallis held up a finger before pulling at a fine gold chain around his neck. Dangling at the end of the chain was an exquisite amulet. Geralt didn’t need his humming medallion to alert him to the magical energy within the token, he could feel it pulsing with power. Delicate filigree wrapped the border of the golden oval shape, a large sapphire implanted in the very center. “I was wearing this the day I cursed Aela. At the time, I didn’t realize what would happen once the curse was laid. When I saw her transform into that hideous beast, this amulet began to glow. I knew at once that it was tied to her power, like a piece of her sought to latch onto me somehow. It has been irrevocably tied to her ever since. You can feel its power, I can see it in your eyes. If she were dead, I would know it. This would become just another necklace.”

Geralt ground his teeth, jaw twitching with anger. Everything had gone so wrong.

“What’s wrong, Geralt?” Kallis asked with mock concern. “What did that witch tell you? That you’d be saving the world?” Kallis slammed his hands down flat on the table, roaring with rage, the amulet swinging tantalizingly just above Geralt. “I am the one saving the world!”

“By killing innocent people?” Geralt shot back just as heatedly.

“Sacrifices must be made in the name of progress. As a healer, I have seen so much you would not understand.” Straightening, Kallis reined himself in, though still retaining a fiery venom. “When disease breaks out, how many people do you think one healer can cure? A dozen? A hundred? Yet thousands more suffer and die. I couldn’t stomach it anymore, simply reacting to a problem rather than getting in front of it, preventing it. To that end, I sought knowledge. And not the kind found in libraries across the continent.

“Morality is nothing but a restriction for the feeble-minded. I would be limited by no such bounds. I would find cures for whatever plagued the land, no matter the cost. I would discover and implement new theories and techniques without the oversite of bureaucratic hypocrites who necessitate morality, but order the slaughter of legions in petty wars.”

Kallis leaned low over Geralt. “And do you know what? They would thank me for it. For doing what was necessary.”

“You’re a murderer. You can’t justify what you’ve done,” Geralt sneered.

Taking a step back, Kallis scoffed. “You’re a closed-minded oaf just like the rest. And I tire of your meddling.” Kallis turned and strode past Geralt’s view, returning a moment later wheeling another table across from Geralt—with Mikel strapped to its surface.

Fear and guilt churned inside of Geralt. He had honestly forgotten about what would have happened to Mikel, preoccupied as he was with his own predicament. Now a gagged Mikel stared back at Geralt, utter terror dampened only by despair.

The flash of familiarity between the two was all Kallis needed to strike. “Ironic, isn’t it? That the man you were looking for was under your very nose. And now your reunion will be short lived, I’m afraid.” Kallis placed himself where both Geralt and Mikel could see him. He turned to Geralt. “Know that this is your fault, witcher. For deceiving me, for breaking into my laboratory, for trying to take what was mine. But most of all, for daring to think you could stand against me.”

Mikel was struggling against his bonds, knowing that his death was imminent. Then, as if reconciled with the fact that he was going to die, Mikel looked to Geralt, trying to speak around the gag. Only muffled gurgles came out. But Geralt didn’t need to hear the words to know what Mikel was saying, what he was pleading. His eyes spoke loudly enough.

Geralt nodded his head once in recognition of the man’s request, an apology that came out as a strangled, “I’m sorry,” following shortly thereafter.

Then agony struck.

Blinding pain had Geralt arching up off of the table, arms straining against the leather straps and face contorting with anguish. Kallis was feeding electricity into both Geralt and Mikel simultaneously, a hint of a satisfied snarl touching his lips. He was enjoying it. For all his talk of working for the good of humanity, he was no better than a common killer. He took pleasure in the suffering, greater cause or no.

Geralt had been so stupid. He should have just let things be, walked away. Now he would pay for his stupidity with his life. And just like all those that had succumb to Kallis’ hand before him, Geralt would be disposed and forgotten. It was all for nothing.

He didn’t know why he had bothered.

But amidst his own screaming, Geralt couldn’t help but feeling like he was meant to be there. Like he yet had some part to play in this exhibition. Though that kind of thought was folly, he corrected himself. He was going to die, and suffering would be his usher into the next life.

There was screaming echoing throughout the dungeon and Geralt couldn’t be sure anymore whether it was his or Mikel’s, both seemingly striving to become the loudest. Geralt didn’t know how long the assault lasted, but a sudden respite had him gasping for breath, a phantom pain lingering throughout his body. He tilted his head to the side, now feeling a dribble of warm liquid pour from his nose and ears.

Mikel was dead, deafening silence the only prayer offered for his passing.

Then Kallis spoke, taking a step closer to the lifeless body, steam rising from Mikel’s corpse. “Interesting,” he said with a tone that might suggest he was choosing what to wear for the day.

With his vision blurring erratically, Geralt watched as Kallis promptly checked for vital signs. He confirmed Geralt’s suspicions a moment later when he turned back to address Geralt.

“It seems you truly are more resilient than the common man.” Kallis stalked over to Geralt, extending his hand. “Let’s find out just how much.”

When the wave of pain drowned Geralt once more, he didn’t last long. His breathing stilted and his eyes rolling into the back of his head, Geralt passed out less than a minute later, hoping he wouldn’t wake up again.

Cursing fate for making him believe he could best the mage. For giving him a fool’s hope.

So fate cursed him right back.

Geralt awoke some time later feeling drained and achy, though not nearly as painful as he thought he should be by all rights. He knew that feeling well enough—a byproduct of Kallis’ healing.

As if on cue, Kallis approached from Geralt’s left, a tray full of bottles and some kind of metal contraption carried in his hands. Kallis set the metal tray on a low table near Geralt’s head. “I was going to kill you,” Kallis explained as he faced Geralt. “But you proved very resilient indeed. A few minutes after you fell unconscious, I admittedly lost interest in my little experiment. And then I asked myself, ‘How many times have I had the chance to study a witcher?’ In all my years, this would be the first. Shocking, I know, but there you have it.” His eyes bore into Geralt’s with a fire that could forge steel. “I would be a fool to waste such a magnificent specimen.”

Geralt gritted his teeth in return, biting back a harsh retort. Making Kallis angry would do him no good. Not when he was already subject to the mage’s every twisted whim. It wasn’t as if Kallis could be dissuaded from his purpose anyway. If that were a possibility, then it would have happened long ago. Kallis’ conviction could only have grown in the intervening time.

Kallis retracted his manic gaze to manipulate the supplies on the tray. “So I healed you up. No need to thank me,” he added as an aside. “Didn’t want you to keel over before I was done with you. Just imagine what we can learn from someone such as yourself, with heightened senses, decelerated aging, improved motor function and reflexes, and advanced digestion of toxins. The possibilities are endless. Though, I daresay, witchers are in rather short supply. But if I were to duplicate such abilities and effects outside of the witcher mutations, it would usher in a new era of medicine.”

Done with his setup, Kallis slid a wide, thin piece of metal underneath Geralt’s arm. It curved at the edges and led to a series of metal chutes that ultimately ended at a clear bottle that Kallis set on the floor. Then he extended a small knife toward Geralt’s arm. It was so sharp that Geralt barely felt the prick near the crook of his elbow, a small mercy when Geralt grasped what the convoluted contraption was for.

Kallis grinned at the comprehension on Geralt’s face. “No doubt your blood holds many properties foreign to the common man.” At Geralt’s scowl, he mollified, “Don’t worry, I won’t be taking all of it. Not yet anyway. But in order to get as much as I can, I need to start draining a little at a time. A few pints ought to do it for now.” At that, Kallis shoved a large needle into Geralt’s vein, eliciting an irritated groan from the witcher. The needle was to keep Geralt’s blood flowing cleanly, Kallis explained.

Then commenced the waiting. Kallis pulled up a chair close by, content to sit and read while Geralt’s lifeblood drained away. At first, Geralt fought his restraints, seeking to unseat the needle from his arm or knock over the collection apparatus, as yet unwilling to yield to Kallis’ experiments. Geralt knew that it was useless, but it just didn’t feel right to accept his fate without a fight, feeble as it may be. All that the effort awarded Geralt was an extra binding around his upper arm, nullifying any future attempt.

After a while, the binding mattered little anyway. Geralt was growing more and more fuzzy as the minutes ticked by. Just as his face paled beyond recognition, leaving dark circles ringing his sunken eyes, Geralt felt a distant sensation on his arm. He hadn’t even realized he had shut his eyes until he peeled them open to investigate the tug on his elbow.

Kallis had removed the contraption from underneath Geralt’s arm, two bottles completely filled with a red liquid deposited to the side. In its place, strung up to some wooden stand, hung what looked like a large waterskin with an elongated spout that fed directly into the needle in Geralt’s arm. Kallis had just finished affixing it when Geralt became aware of its presence. Now Geralt could feel the cool liquid flowing into his body, a sensation that deeply concerned him, especially considering the administrator.

“What…what is that?” Geralt slurred past his numb lips, mind too muddled to stir up any anger. He reached reflexively to remove the needle with his right hand. Of course, his hand moved no more than a few inches.

“Just a special little remedy of mine. Immensely restorative. Should have you back to normal in no time. Sadly, it’s somewhat time-consuming to make so I don’t have much in stock. And it’s only effective when administered directly into the bloodstream.”

Geralt could feel himself drifting. The task of keeping his eyes open was overcoming his fortitude.

“I also included a heavy sedative, given your propensity to fight me at every turn. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself before you’re healed. So go ahead and take a nice, long rest. We will continue when you wake,” Kallis stated maliciously.

How long would this torment last, Geralt wondered. With Kallis’ abilities as both healer and mage, Geralt could be forever trapped in an endless cycle of torture and recovery. But Kallis couldn’t possibly be planning to keep Geralt strapped to that table the whole time. He would have to free him at some point, even if it were just to lead him to the cages at the back. That would be Geralt’s best chance.

He didn’t have to last forever. Just long enough.

It could have been hours or days later that Geralt opened his eyes. He felt an odd mix of appreciation and foreboding when he realized that his full faculties had returned. He was grateful to not be in any pain, but that also meant that Kallis would have another round of anguish lined up for him. Thankfully, Kallis was nowhere to be seen at the moment. This granted Geralt the rare opportunity to really search for a way out.

In his thoughts of escape, Geralt suddenly remembered Mikel. Eyes darting to where Mikel had died, Geralt was saddened to see that the body was gone. Geralt didn’t believe much in the sentiment most people attached to dead bodies. He didn’t think it necessary to perform certain rituals or burials to send a departed soul on to the next life, without which they would be left ceaselessly wandering the land. But he did believe in decency. And it was unlikely that Mikel’s body was receiving it. Either way, Mikel was beyond Geralt’s help now. He needed to think about himself or he would end up the same way.

His swords were still leaning against the pillar as they had been initially. It was pointless to go for them. Even if Geralt could manage to work his way over to them, there was no way he could draw the sword and then use it to cut himself loose. He was better off looking for some kind of small surgical blade, but there were none nearby that Geralt could see.

If Geralt couldn’t cut through or undo the straps, then breaking the table would be the next best option. Geralt thought about toppling it over, but it was of sturdy construction. He very much doubted that simply knocking it onto its side would be enough to break one of his arms free. And Geralt couldn’t do anything more than just tip it over. There was no way to gain enough momentum to smash it against a wall, assuming that it would even break once he did.

Nothing in the room seemed willing to cede Geralt any grand epiphany. Just the ever-present sealed crates and various bottles littering the floor.

Although, at the sight, something did occur to Geralt. He could fairly easily get to one of those bottles and smash it. Then he could use a shard of glass to cut his bindings. The only problem with that plan was that it would make a lot of noise. Kallis would most certainly hear him and stop him before he could ever accomplish the task.

Still no closer to finding a solution, Geralt was cut short in his devising when he heard the hidden door above the staircase ram into the stone wall and Kallis descend into the lab.

Kallis spent a moment gathering materials from around the room onto a tray that he again set next to Geralt. He seemed excited, which only served to settle a feeling of dread into the pit of Geralt’s stomach. Grabbing a freshly written list from atop a desk, Kallis stepped over to Geralt.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I guess my calculations concerning the drug in your system were just a tiny bit off. You must process toxins even more quickly than I thought,” he commented with fascination. “No matter. I’ve been thinking about how to best study the changes the mutations have wrought in your body. I figure the best way to do so is to take samples. And I’ve always believed that the best samples come from live subjects. Much fresher that way.”

Geralt wasn’t exactly sure what “samples” Kallis was speaking of, but he was certain that Kallis would never have any willing volunteers to provide them. Geralt’s heart started beating a little faster, thumping his chest, as if to warn him of an imminent threat.

Ignoring Geralt’s uneasiness, Kallis referred to his list, running a finger down it as he talked more to himself than Geralt. “The question is, where do we start? Let’s see. Liver? No, things get pretty messy after working with the digestive organs. So that rules out the kidneys as well. Lungs? Not much time to work on the patient after taking a sample there. Heart? Needs to be the last sample taken, for obvious reasons. That leaves us with…yes. Yes, I think that will do.”

Kallis set down his list and locked onto Geralt with an intensity in his gaze that didn’t bode well. Geralt searched Kallis’ face, squinting in confusion until he finally figured out what Kallis was after.

“Cat eyes.” Kallis reached forth and spread Geralt’s eyelid, leaving his eye swiveling frantically, hunting for a way out. “Such a unique transformation.” Withdrawing his hand, Kallis uncorked a large bottle and filled a bowl with its contents. Setting the bottle upright once more, he moved on to selecting his tools. He grabbed a small blade and a set of surgical forceps. Then he turned back to Geralt, inching ever closer.

Geralt was pulling so hard on his restraints that his wrists were bloody, the wood actually groaning from the intensity of the thrashing. He had withstood a lot, but this—this crossed a line. There were some things in the world that were too horrible to imagine. Too horrible to endure. Not without a fight.

There were several bottles, including the one Kallis had just opened, on the tray next to Geralt. They would be Geralt’s best chance at escape. He didn’t think about whether he could get to it in time, he just had to do something. Anything.

As Geralt came to the decision, the blade was only inches from Geralt’s eye, Geralt doing his best to lean as far away as he could.

“I’d suggest holding still. Struggling will only make it worse.”

Kallis was so focused on Geralt’s eye, that he didn’t see Geralt’s hand tilting toward the wall.

Geralt unleashed a blast of Aard into the wall right next to him and, in an instant, the table was toppling over, knocking into the small table that held the tray, and sending Kallis staggering backward. The tray fell, the bottles shattering, their contents spraying everywhere. Most of it spilled up Kallis’ front and he let out a piercing wail as his skin sizzled and bubbled, the mixture of the chemicals forming some caustic reaction.

Now hanging sideways, Geralt was spared from the acid, though it pooled underneath the table and started eating at the wood. The problem was that Geralt’s plan didn’t go as well as he had hoped. He had no way of controlling where the shards of glass would land and none of them were within reach.

But Geralt saw another opportunity in the pool of acid. With his left hand, he sent another blast of Aard directly to the floor. It was enough to lift the table a few inches off the ground. When the table came crashing back down, the acid splashed upward. Right onto the leather binding. Geralt gritted his teeth as some of the liquid coated his arm as well; a small price to pay as Geralt ripped through the weakened restraint and set about freeing his other limbs, careful not to step in the remaining acid.

The few drops of acid coating Geralt’s arm burned like hell. It felt like his arm was being dragged along a gravel road by a runaway horse. If that small amount could be so painful, then Kallis had to be in agony right now, not that Geralt was prone to sympathy at the moment. Ignoring the pain in his arm, Geralt sprinted for his swords.

Kallis was still thrashing around blindly, having found nothing to nullify the acid, or simply too panicked to know what to do. A large portion of the skin on his arms and torso was raw and blistering and Geralt could still hear a sound like frying bacon coming from Kallis’ direction.

Finding his feet after days of disuse, Geralt snatched up his steel sword, its sheath and harness with it. It would have been more effective to use his silver sword, but Kallis had never returned it to its sheath. Geralt charged Kallis regardless, days of pain and loathing unleashing itself on the mage.

As Geralt neared the mage, he flung the double scabbard toward Kallis, unsheathing the blade in the process. The blow stunned Kallis enough to allow Geralt to close the gap between them. Geralt raised his sword over his head, but Kallis rallied just in time and was cognizant enough to sidestep Geralt’s overhead swing. Kallis tried to conjure a spell, but pain lanced up his arm as he extended it and he retracted his hand quickly with a loud yelp. This opened up another opportunity for Geralt who took full advantage. He sent a flurry of blows spinning toward Kallis. The mage barely managed to shield himself in time. Geralt rained blow after blow on the invisible barrier, until it shattered and dissipated, one horizontal arc striking a shallow gash across Kallis’ arm.

At the lack of resistance, Geralt was thrown off balance. He twirled as he brought his feet back underneath himself, but the momentary respite was enough for Kallis to recover. The mage was still in great pain, Geralt could see it on his face. And the bubbling flesh on Kallis’ arm oozed in time with each flicker of his lips.

Anger was fueling Kallis now, giving him the strength to push past the pain. He had probably never been bested. Let alone by the likes of Geralt.

A feral roar burst from Kallis’ mouth as he discharged a ball of energy toward Geralt’s head. Geralt dove to the side, rolling behind a pillar. Several crates exploded on the far side of the room, their contents spewing into the air. Kallis continued his barrage, Geralt dodging all the while, until Geralt worked himself close enough to strike before Kallis could summon his magic.

In such close quarters, the two combatants faired equally well. Geralt’s sword became a blur of steel, cutting and slashing from every conceivable angle. In turn, Kallis fought just as elegantly, his hands as lethal as any sword. Probably more so than most. He would block a blow with one hand and follow immediately with the other. But Geralt, with his lightning fast reflexes, would aim a slash at Kallis’ attacking hand, forcing him to withdraw or lose it.

The speed and agility of the pair was remarkable. Something that two champion knights could never hope to match.

The ferocity with which Geralt struck sent Kallis reeling backward, swiftly conceding ground until he was backed into a wall. He tried to turn at the last moment, to sidle along the next wall, but Geralt forestalled his attempt, trapping Kallis in place.

Victory seemed assured. But something Geralt hadn’t accounted for slowly crept up on him. Kallis had been well-fed and well-rested while Geralt had been tortured and starved in the dungeon. With every twirl of his blade, Geralt could feel his arms grow heavy, his chest already heaving with the effort. Despite his best efforts, he was slowing, each blow coming just a fraction of a second behind its corresponding counterpart.

Sensing Geralt’s decline, Kallis advanced, his fervor intensifying alongside Geralt’s uncertainty. Geralt couldn’t tell now whether he was getting slower or Kallis was growing quicker. It didn’t matter either way because the tide had shifted, and Geralt was struggling to keep his head above water.

Geralt strived with everything he had to alter his course, to change his mode of attack. He needed a different strategy. But Geralt barely had time to react, let alone plan ahead. In Geralt’s indecision, Kallis did just what Geralt was seeking to do. He changed up his attack.

Rather than shielding and then striking, Kallis shielded twice. If he had been at peak condition, Geralt would have seen the difference and had enough time to react. As it was, Geralt’s sword bounced off the second shield spell, throwing him off balance just long enough for Kallis to punch through with a blast of magic that sent Geralt flying backward, his sword ripped from his hand. With one simple move, Kallis had ended the skirmish.

Nonetheless Geralt was determined to keep fighting. He crashed into a pile of crates, eliciting a sharp groan as he made contact. Knowing he had only moments, Geralt dragged himself from the carnage, scurrying forward on all fours, desperate to return to his sword. Only then would he even stand a chance.

It took no more than a few seconds for Geralt to reach his sword.

But Kallis was waiting, Geralt’s sword having fallen nearly at his feet.

Geralt reached out his hand to grasp it—

“Enough,” Kallis said commandingly.

Geralt’s hand stopped in midair.

Thinking that Kallis had placed a shield over the sword, Geralt tried to pull back, but couldn’t move his hand in that direction either. His arm from the elbow down was completely immobilized.

Suddenly aware that he was trapped, Geralt, still on his knees and one free hand, raised his gaze to Kallis whose hand was extended, holding Geralt in place with magic.

“I knew you were good, Geralt.” Kallis stared down his nose at Geralt with grudging admiration. “I knew it from the moment I saw you in the forest, following in the tracks of that other man.”

Geralt struggled against the magic’s hold for a few seconds before giving it up for naught. He searched for some other solution, only half listening to what Kallis was saying. Then a pressure built around Geralt’s trapped hand, growing stronger with every word Kallis spoke.

“I knew what you were—a witcher. I had never seen one in these parts before. And I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe, I would finally have the solution to my little infestation problem to the West. But I wanted to make sure you were up to the task. So I lured in that fiend to test you.”

The pressure around Geralt’s hand was staggering now. It felt like his hand was trapped beneath a crumbling mountain. Geralt let out a groan and clasped his right arm with his left, a feeble attempt to stave off the pain.

“I must say, you put on quite the show. And that move you pulled to finish it off? Awe-inspiring. I knew that you would have no problem defeating Aela. Though first I had to gain your trust. When I knew you would survive the encounter with the fiend, I came back here to put away my more, shall we say, morally dubious possessions. I wasn’t gone for long, but by the time I came back, those two cannibals had shown up out of nowhere. They had almost robbed me of my newfound weapon. In the end though, their deaths only helped me secure your gratitude. I suppose I should be thanking them. It was simple enough from there to point you toward my target. A hunter is always eager for a scent.”

Geralt was straining to listen past the pain in his hand. It felt like it was exploding from the inside and being crushed at the same time. Sweat beaded on Geralt’s face. Shaking and panting past clenched teeth, Geralt gasped out a reply. “I would never have gone if I had known the truth.” He despised being used. Especially as an unwitting assassin.

Kallis’ gaze intensified. “The truth,” he spat mockingly. “What truth? The truth that I am the only one willing to do what is necessary to change the world?”

The last word was punctuated with Geralt’s index finger breaking under a final wave of pressure. Geralt wailed as his left hand clenched in response to the torment. The bones weren’t just broken. They were shattered, the finger now filled with dozens of shards of jagged glass. Geralt knew those bones were so badly damaged that they were beyond healing, that he would never have use of that finger again.

Undeterred, Kallis fervently continued. “The truth that those snot-nosed academics would have the sick and the dying shoved aside, forgotten, denied any real chance at a cure, just so they can cling to their arbitrary rules?”

Another digit shattered. Another cry of pain. Geralt ducked his head, his eyes snapping shut, spit flying from breaths heaved between his teeth.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, now looking backward underneath his chest. There he saw what could be his salvation. Bottles of all shapes and sizes were littering the floor behind Geralt. If he could get to one, he could use it as a weapon. As a distraction, at least. Enough to break free of Kallis’ hold. Geralt inched his left hand backward, moving slowly so as to avoid Kallis’ attention lest he try to stop Geralt.

Kallis’ tone turned cold. “Those are the only truths that matter. You are a fool, witcher. And you should never have come back.”

With that, the rest of Geralt’s hand exploded from within. Geralt’s bellow of agony flooded the dungeon, matching the devastation his hand. A hand that would have hung limp were it not for the force still holding it in place. Ruined as they were, the bones would have been incapable of providing any support. And still the relentless pressure persisted, crushing the shards of bone, grinding them against each other.

Even after all he had been through in his life, Geralt couldn’t recall ever feeling such excruciating pain.

He had to break free. Before Kallis razed the rest of his body.

Through the haze of pain, Geralt felt his left hand brush against the neck of a glass bottle. He grabbed it instantly and chucked it straight at Kallis, the bottle shattering against Kallis’ shoulder as he turned instinctively. A few small gashes bled through the tattered remains of Kallis’ chemical-eaten shirt and the full contents of the bottle soaked across Kallis’ back and chest.

Most importantly, Geralt was free. With the cessation of the magic binding Geralt in place, his hand was relinquished and Geralt snatched it to his chest, cradling his right arm, careful to avoid the sack of bone chips and shredded muscle now dangling from the end of his wrist.

But his freedom was the sole victory that Geralt had achieved. He hadn’t even moved before Kallis had recovered.

Picking small shards of glass from his arm, Kallis turned back to Geralt, annoyed but mostly unmoved by Geralt’s tactic. Kallis still had the upper hand even if Geralt had blindsided him with his meager attack. “That’s the best plan you could muster?” He snorted in derision. “I’m disappointed. That chemical isn’t even caustic.”

Composing himself, Geralt answered, “No. But it’s flammable.”

Before Kallis could register the words, Geralt sent a torrent of Igni blasting toward him. The mage erupted into an inferno, whatever chemical that now coated his torso adding a greenish hue to the flames. Kallis frantically batted at his clothing in a desperate attempt to put out the fire raging on his skin.

Knowing he wouldn’t have long, Geralt heaved himself to his feet and rushed for the mage, passing over his sword. He didn’t need it now. He knew he couldn’t defeat Kallis. If he had held out any hope before, it was gone now. With his hand destroyed, the outcome of a one on one battle was undeniable. Geralt would be decimated before he ever landed a blow. He only had one option left and that was to do what he had originally come back to do—destroy the amulet.

Charging into Kallis and nearly knocking him over, Geralt braved the remaining flames and grabbled at the thin chain around Kallis’ neck. The amulet swung free of Kallis’ shirt when he flung himself away from Geralt. Closing in again, Geralt just clasped his hand around the amulet when a dome of pure energy sent him flying across the room. Presaged by Kallis’ outraged cry, the dome originated at the mage and expanded outward, dousing any flames it touched and flinging numerous crates into the walls.

Geralt careened into the stone, crunching his right shoulder against the unforgiving surface.

If Kallis was angry before, now he was livid. Shaking and heaving with pain and rage, his clothes smoldering, Kallis stomped toward Geralt and seized him with magic. Kallis proceeded to smash Geralt around the room. No surface was spared as Geralt bore the full might of Kallis’ power. By the time Kallis’ fit had abated, Geralt was left sitting against the wall in a heap, barely able to keep himself upright.

Thoroughly broken, Geralt could do little more than wheeze in wet breaths, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth. Geralt knew that multiple bones had been broken, for sure several ribs and probably even a shoulder blade to name a few. A concussion was likely and a darkening bruise in Geralt’s side led him to believe that there was irreparable trauma internally as well. His body was a tangled web of agony, each miniscule movement or breath plucking another strand.

Kallis approached, a hideous mockery of the handsome figure he had once been. The majority of his hair had been burned away, only blistering skin remaining over his head and neck. “You’ll never learn, will you?” Kallis snarled, lip curling, too manic to care about the pain he was undoubtedly in. “You could never hope to defeat me.”

With great effort, Geralt raised his eyes to meet Kallis’.

“I never planned to.”

Flashing the amulet clutched with a death-grip in his hand, Geralt, using whatever energy he could muster, lifted his left arm and brought it crashing back down, simultaneously sending a shot of Aard behind the amulet as it met with the stone floor.

The gemstone shattered as it struck.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Geralt had clung to the amulet under Kallis’ very nose, even as Kallis had repeatedly bashed Geralt into the walls, ceiling, and floor. By the time Kallis realized that Geralt had the amulet, it was too late. The amulet was destroyed.

A stirring of the air was their only warning before Aela appeared out of thin air.

But there was something wrong. She was still cursed, still grotesque in visage.

Geralt stared confusedly at her. Why hadn’t the curse been broken? The amulet was gone, completely ruined by Geralt’s own hand. And it had undoubtedly held power. He could feel it the moment Kallis had revealed it to him. So what had happened?

Aela seemed baffled as well, turning her hands over again and again as if they would transform before her very eyes. Only after she had inspected herself for any changes in form did she meet Geralt’s and Kallis’ gazes in turn. She looked devastated at Geralt’s condition, her eyes widening to full moons of horror. On the contrary, if she felt any emotion at all at Kallis’ state, she didn’t show it. She merely said quietly, “I don’t understand. I felt it. That’s why I came. I thought the curse had been lifted.”

An incredulous look was plastered on Kallis’ face. “You thought breaking that amulet would free you?” he scoffed. “It was merely a token of the curse, a keepsake to remember the binding of two souls. It was tied to us through our power. That’s why we could both feel its presence. I felt it flicker just now as well. But it was a reflection of our power, nothing more. It never held you captive and so its destruction could not set you free.” The incredulity on Kallis’ face morphed into a ravenous smile. “But since you have been so gracious as to deliver yourself to me, let me formally welcome you to my humble abode,” Kallis said, bowing sarcastically. “You will not leave here alive.”

Geralt wondered why Aela didn’t just leave. At first, he thought maybe she was trying to be courageous. But then he noticed the slightest tremble in her knees and the way her shoulders sagged with every breath. She didn’t leave because she couldn’t. She had used up all of her energy traveling the distance between Kallis’ home and hers, thinking that she would recover her full strength when she arrived. Now she was trapped.

Aela looked to Geralt with an apology in her eyes, the same that Geralt had given Mikel when he had been sure he had gotten them both killed. Returning her attention to Kallis, Aela took a step closer to Geralt, as if to shield him and spare him the death Kallis promised.

Kallis chuckled, clearly enjoying the power he held over the both of them. He addressed Aela. “It’s funny, don’t you think, how history repeats itself? Here we are again, in the very spot we last saw each other.” Kallis gestured toward Geralt, a malicious glint in his eye. “Only, I guess now you’ve convinced a different man to place himself in my way. You really should stay away from men, don’t you think? Seeing as how you keep getting them killed.”

Geralt didn’t have to see Aela’s face to feel the rage and devastation etched on every line. She offered no response.

“Did you really think you could keep that man a secret, your beloved stable boy? I have eyes and ears in every corner of these woods. I knew you were here the moment you arrived in this forest. But, here in the countryside, you would have no one to go to with your tales and warnings. You would have no one to fight your battles for you. Those months you tried to thwart me, I knew you hadn’t changed from the frightened little whelp that had first confronted me so long ago. I was done running. And I was done with your meddling. Our struggle would come to an end. I just wondered who would be the first to strike. When an opportunity arose too valuable to pass up, I answered that question, and I struck where I knew it would hurt the most.

“Once the collateral damage had been cleared, I had planned on killing you. But you had caused me so much trouble, I thought that too merciful an option. So I cursed you. I never wanted you capable of interfering with my work again. And, just to make sure you learned your lesson, I never wanted any man to fall for you again. Your powers and beauty stripped, you slunk away before I could change my mind.” Kallis scowled. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. I made a mistake. And, ever since that day, I have sought to rectify it. But I could not touch you. Nor could I send just any man to kill you. I knew you still had some power. Enough to conquer the majority of human foes. When a witcher turned up, I thought my prayers had been answered. Little did I know that he would turn out to be so unreliable,” Kallis added, glaring at Geralt.

“I underestimated him,” Kallis admitted, speaking to Aela once more, his marred body evidence of the fact. “But you overestimated what he would accomplish by coming here. You were a fool for sending him here and you are even more a fool for coming here yourself. I think it’s about time I end this, once and for all.”

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Kallis thrust his palms forward, charging some sort of magical attack. Aela, knowing she couldn’t fight, conjured whatever meager shield she could. Geralt couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let Kallis win like this. Surging forward before he even realized he had shoved himself to his feet, Geralt fought past the pain and heaved himself in front of Aela just as Kallis unleashed his spell. Geralt tried to summon any amount of Quen around himself, but he had about as much power left within him as Aela did and his shield ended up as unsuccessful as hers had been.

Insubstantial as they were, the shields did blunt the attack somewhat, though it was still devastating, especially with Geralt in the condition he was already in. The force of the attack sent Geralt whirling past a stunned Aela into the wall. His stunt must have shocked Kallis as well for he did not mount another attack as Aela rushed to Geralt’s side.

“Fool,” Kallis muttered scornfully.

“Geralt!” Aela knelt down beside the witcher, tears funneling through the horrendous troughs in her face. “Why?” she asked accusingly.

Not possessing the strength to lift his head, Geralt merely raised his eyes to Aela, breathing only in shallow gasps. “To give you another chance.” Despite his attempts not to, Geralt couldn’t help but caring for the poor wretch of a soul now squatting next to him. She reminded him so much of what he had left behind years ago. Little as he knew about her, she reminded him so much of… He couldn’t just sit by and watch her die. Not if there was something he could do about it. “I won’t make it out of here. But you might yet.” Putting as much authority into his voice as he could, Geralt commanded, “Run, Aela. Find another way.”

Watching their little byplay unfold, Kallis interceded. “I think not.” He raised his hand to smite them both, but, all of a sudden, a flash of confusion lit his face and he receded a half step. “What is this?” he asked in subdued horror.

Aela was glowing. It was subtle, but noticeable in the dim light of the torches. And there was magic stirring in the air. Even Geralt could feel it now that Kallis had alerted him to it.

And then a revelation hit Geralt like the sun’s radiant rays after a long winter’s night. Despite being barely able to breathe, Geralt couldn’t hold back a pathetic chuckle. Kallis turned to him like Geralt had gone mad.

“Am I missing something?” His mask of self-assurance was slipping.

Geralt lazily lifted his eyes to Kallis. “You’re so arrogant, you can’t even see it.”

Kallis growled. “See what?”

“The curse has been broken.”

Both Aela and Kallis staggered at the words.

“That’s impossible,” whispered Kallis, though no conviction imbued his statement.

A pitiful cough sent blood spurting from Geralt’s mouth as he laughed again. “You should be more careful with your word choice. You said you never wanted another man to fall for Aela again. And yet I just did.” For there were multiple meanings of the word “fall.” Curses were finicky like that. Geralt hadn’t fallen in love with Aela, but he had fallen for her. He had died for her. Or, at least, he very shortly would. He could feel his heart slowing, the world seeming to quiet and dim around him.

Kallis seemed at a loss for words.

In the silence, Geralt amended his former assessment. “The irony is that it was done by your own hand. You lifted your own curse.” A ghost of a smile touched Geralt’s lips. “You’re finished.” The last two words slurred as they left Geralt’s mouth, his fortitude waning. His eyelids were growing heavy.

As Geralt diminished, the light around Aela brightened.

“No,” Kallis denied, then, suddenly realizing that the curse was indeed being broken, Kallis rushed forward, extending his hand toward Geralt. “Nooo!” He wasn’t aiming to kill, but to cure. He was trying to reverse the circumstances. If Geralt didn’t die, then the curse wouldn’t be broken.

Geralt could feel the magic striving to take hold within his body. But, like trying to climb a slope slick with mud, it couldn’t find an anchor point. It was too late. Nothing could save him now. Numbness spread out to his limbs, a welcome reprieve from the pain. Blackness enveloped his sight and his heart beat insistently, but ever slower; unwilling to give in, but fighting a battle it could not win.

As one last breath escaped Geralt’s lungs, he only regretted that he wouldn’t get to see Aela dispense the justice Kallis so rightfully deserved.

And Kallis’ face when it happened.

Aela hadn’t known Geralt very long, but she had seen the goodness within him, hidden as it was behind pain and some other emotion she couldn’t put her finger on. Some old wound that hadn’t yet healed.

He gave himself up for her, a grotesque monster he barely knew. The gesture left her stunned. And heartbroken.

There was nothing she could do as the light left his eyes and he stopped moving. There was nothing to do but choke on her sobs at his willing sacrifice.

But her lament was cut short. As Geralt died, she could feel power infusing her body. The light coming from within her intensified, as if her former self were trying to break free from its hideous prison. The light waxed ever brighter until it was as brilliant as the rising sun dawning over a new day. Then, in an instant, it was gone.

In its place stood Aela, in all her former glory.

Her ebony hair cascaded in luscious locks down her back and over her shoulders, framing her oval face. Two ash colored eyes peeked over defined cheeks at Kallis, a look of defiance desperately trying to conceal the abject terror apparent in his eyes. Their roles had been reversed. Kallis, with his fresh wounds and burns was now the unsightly monster while Aela radiated beauty. Even the tattered rags she wore looked like silken lace when borne on her ivory skin.

Power thrummed through Aela. She had forgotten how it had felt and bathed in its brilliance. It was almost too much to take all at once, overwhelming her in its scope. She thrust it down deep inside her, containing it, mastering it.

Then her gaze turned to Kallis, a century of rage and pain and despair threatening to engulf him.

Aela had had a century to mull over her mistakes, her weaknesses. She was not the same naïve coward she was then. It had taken her centuries, but she was finally ready to do what was necessary, what she should have done a long time ago.

Kallis’ reign would end here and now. She would make sure of it.

Bursting forth, Aela unleashed a two-fold spell. With one hand, she sent forth a crack of electricity straight into Geralt’s heart. With the other, she did the same to Kallis. One spell meant to resuscitate, the other, to destroy.

However, Kallis was prepared and teleported out of the way. A crate full of alchemical ingredients exploded behind where Kallis had stood, the contents showering down over Aela and Geralt. Just as he had the last time they fought, Kallis reappeared behind Aela, coming at her from behind. She was expecting as much and shielded herself before his spell could reach her. Unable to stay put without placing herself in undue danger, Aela was forced to leave Geralt, not knowing whether her spell had revived him or not.

A true mage’s battle ensued, with magic taking the place of swords, spears, and wooden shields.

Aela found it hard just to keep track of Kallis. He teleported and struck with blinding speed, though she mirrored him through every move. Crates, bottles, and furnishings exploded as they passed. The room was a decimated battleground after only a few minutes. And that was enough time for both combatants to realize that they were evenly matched. Aela was more powerful than Kallis and, in a battle of brute force, she would win without question. But Kallis had honed and mastered his magic over the last hundred years while Aela had wasted away. She wasn’t even sure that she had full control over the raw power limning her bones. Power and skill offset, leaving them in a stalemate.

Catching only flashes of spells aimed her way and a mage ready and able to annihilate her, Aela began to worry about her chances at defeating Kallis. When asked, she had told Geralt that she didn’t know if she could defeat him. Never had those words felt more true.

Then luck intervened.

Kallis must have landed on some jagged piece of glass because he paused just a fraction of a second longer than he had been before teleporting away, letting out an abrupt cry as he half-stumbled. Aela had already fired at the place where Kallis would have been when he would normally have teleported away, her body automatically keeping the former rhythm. The shot found its mark, but Kallis’ bauble did save him the full force of it. Kallis’ chest had been the intended target, but the beam of magic caught him in the arm instead. The force twirled him around and he lost his feet. Unfortunately, he dropped out of sight behind a desk and by the time Aela closed in, he was gone, already maneuvering himself to flank her.

What Aela thought had been a blessing, Kallis turned into his own advantage. The stumble had interrupted the flow of their fight, something Aela now realized she had been counting on. Aela was starting to get unnerved as the seconds ticked by without Kallis’ reappearance. Had he fled? She didn’t think so. He was too egotistical to walk away from a fight once it had been started.

The slightest flutter of a leaf of paper gave Aela just enough warning to duck before Kallis’ blast whooshed by overhead. She wheeled to locate him, but he was gone.

Then a soft moan seized her attention. The sound was at such odds with what was happening that it shattered her concentration, demanding consideration. She quickly discerned its source.

It was Geralt. He was crawling, hauling himself forward on the ground, teeth gritted with the effort. Toward what or for what purpose, Aela didn’t know. Nor did she particularly care. Her heart leapt into her throat.

Geralt was alive!

A potent blast of magic collided with the side of her head, tearing her eyes from Geralt and sending her forehead into the edge of the desk she was standing next to. Aela sprawled on the floor, her head splitting with pain, something warm and sticky running down her face. When her vision cleared, Aela saw Kallis looming over her. She was in too much of a daze to do anything. Her arms and legs didn’t want to obey.

Kallis smiled, smug triumph on his face. “Sentimentality will get you killed. I guess you still haven’t learned that lesson.”

Aela managed to raise herself onto her hands and knees, but still couldn’t fully rise. Her muddled senses were recovering too slowly. She shook her head in an attempt to accelerate the process. Kallis, meanwhile, raised his hand, savoring his victory. He had won at long last.

Aela was helpless. It was over. She had failed.

At that moment, a strangled scream burst from Kallis as the end of a sword protruded from his gut.

Pulling herself up to her feet using the desk, Aela could now see Geralt standing over Kallis’ shoulder, driving the sword still further into Kallis’ torso, their faces inches apart. Geralt looked strained and painful, sweating and shivering like each movement was excruciating. He was clearly struggling just to stand. But there he was, fighting on anyway, refusing to be bested. Saving Aela once again.

Geralt leaned in close to Kallis. “And you still haven’t learned to shut up.”

Geralt had felt the remnants of the shock course through his chest. Heaving in ragged gasps, Geralt had tried to remain conscious, but his body was still badly injured. He had only held on for a few moments before darkness took him.

A sharp cry wrenched him out of unconsciousness.

Geralt didn’t know how much time had passed, but Aela and Kallis were still fighting. Aela fired a shot and Geralt watched as it took Kallis in the upper arm. As he fell, Geralt tracked him with his eyes until Kallis was lost from sight. Then Geralt’s eyes alighted on something else. Something glittered on the floor to his left. Something that could end this fight—dimeritium.

It radiated outward in a semicircle toward Geralt, spilling from one of several exploded jars stacked in a smashed crate. No doubt it was collateral damage from the skirmish. Geralt just had to get to it. But in his current condition, that was easier said than done. It took an immense amount of energy just for Geralt to shove himself over onto his hands and knees. His weakened arms bore the impact and a moan escaped his mouth as the shockwave reverberated through his core.

He started moving despite the pain, having to drag himself along with one arm. The dimeritium was only a few feet away yet it seemed like a mile. Geralt was just too slow, he needed to stand. He would never be of any use like this. Compelling his body to bend to his will, Geralt brought one foot underneath himself, preparing to stand.

Just then, a harsh thud sounded from behind Geralt and he spared a glance in its direction. Aela had fallen. Kallis was closing in on her. He either hadn’t noticed Geralt or didn’t consider him a threat because he took no heed of Geralt’s movements.

Adrenaline and panic setting in, Geralt forced himself to his feet, swaying for a moment as he fought for balance. Step by shaky step, Geralt closed the distance to the silver powder. He grabbed a fistful and swiveled, hurrying back to where he had abandoned his sword before stealing the amulet off of Kallis, grinding his teeth with each agonizing step. Luckily, Geralt’s sword was almost directly between himself and Kallis, who had his back to Geralt, staring down at Aela.

Faster. Faster!

This was it. If Geralt didn’t get there in time, Kallis would triumph. Aela would die and Geralt would be slain soon afterward. Aela’s century in purgatory, Geralt’s suffering, Mikel’s death. All would have been for naught.

Geralt refused to let it end like this, refused to let Kallis prevail. Geralt pushed his body past its breaking point, not caring whether it could take the strain and disregarding its vehement protests. For as much as he didn’t want to, Geralt understood why Aela had gone after Kallis. There were some things that couldn’t be walked away from. There were some things that were bigger than Geralt, bigger than any individual. When the hand of malevolence struck, it could not be ignored or it would only get worse. Geralt knew that from experience. Thus he would do what he could to stem the flow of evil. No matter what happened to him.

Only a few steps from Kallis was Geralt’s sword. Geralt flung the dimeritium over the length of the blade, sliding it back through the pile of excess as he snatched it up off the ground. The blade’s weight nearly toppled Geralt in his severely weakened state. Nonetheless, Geralt hefted the sword with his left hand, holding it low like a dagger.

Then thrust it straight through Kallis’ back.

Shocked and breathless, Kallis collapsed to his knees, sliding down the sword, but not completely dislodging it. The movement almost pulled Geralt over. He had been using Kallis to steady himself. The anchored sword still offered a small amount of balance, but Geralt knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. All of his effort went into making Kallis think he stood no chance, that Geralt could halt any rebellion from the mage. The truth was, Kallis need merely lean back and Geralt would topple. With his eyes, Geralt implored Aela to hurry before his farce disintegrated.

The wound Geralt had imparted was sizeable, but not lethal. Certainly not to a mage such as Kallis. Even now, Geralt could feel a tug at the end of his sword. Kallis was trying to teleport away. But he was helpless under the effects of the dimeritium, though they wouldn’t last long. Geralt hadn’t been able to get much of a coating on his sword. They had a minute at best.

Aela drew herself up to her full height, bloody and disheveled but full of spirit, her eyes promising retribution. Now she was the one advancing toward Kallis.

“I never wanted this,” she proclaimed, something akin to sorrow tinged with pity tinting her eyes. “But you forced my hand.”

Kallis stared up at Aela with malice and resentment etched on every line of his face. “Millions will die,” he choked out, his breath hitching from pain. “My research will save lives. You kill me and you are killing thousands upon thousands of people across generations throughout the world. You kill me and you doom them to living the same wretched, filthy lives they do now. Would you subject them to disease and rot? Would you subject them to needless suffering?”

Geralt didn’t know if Kallis was truly trying to convince Aela to let him go, or if he was just stalling for time, knowing that the dimeritium wouldn’t hold forever. Either way, she needed to end this. Now. “Aela,” Geralt cautioned quietly.

Taking no notice of Geralt, Aela snorted. “As you do?” she directed toward Kallis. “It is not my hands that maim and torture the innocent in the name of some higher calling. You have gotten away with this savagery for far too long.” Aela advanced another step. “If you sought to teach me a lesson, Kallis, then I’ve learned it. Over a hundred years, I’ve learned hatred and grief. I’ve learned to kill and I’ve learned regret. I’ve learned that there is no limit to your cruelty. But I’ve also learned courage and love, without which, there could be no grief. And I had already learned something long ago that you could never understand—compassion. That’s what kept me going when I had nothing left, when you had taken everything from me. You thought you had broken me, but you only made me stronger.” Aela stretched forth both of her hands. “You made your choice, Kallis. This is mine.”

A vibration strummed along Geralt’s sword, growing stronger every second. The dimeritium was fading.

“Their lives will be on your head,” Kallis called out desperately, seeing Aela unswayed by his argument. “Can you live with that?”

Kallis was breaking free. Geralt couldn’t contain him any longer. They had mere seconds.

“Aela!” Geralt warned.

Aela paused for one beat of Kallis’ undoubtedly frantic heart. Her hardened gaze met his.

“I guess I’ll just have to find a way,” Aela said resolutely.

Just as Kallis flung himself to his feet, throwing himself toward Aela and sending Geralt reeling backward in the process, she struck.

Her magic stopped Kallis in his tracks, a light coming from within him, consuming him from the inside out. The light flooded out of him, first from his eyes and ears, then cracking through his skin like a dam about to burst. He screamed as the light gushed forth, his hands clenched into glowing claws. His cry swelled in volume as the light overwhelmed his body.

Then, in an instant, he was gone.

And there was nothing left but silence.

A silence broken by a sword clattering to the ground.

Geralt was finished, his grip faltering.

His final task accomplished, Geralt no longer had any dire reason to keep fighting. Without his iron will to sustain it, grant it a fortitude it could not otherwise muster, Geralt’s body withered. His knees buckled beneath him and he went crashing forward, not even possessing the strength to brace himself. He collapsed to his knees hard, but soft hands caught him before he crashed face-first into the hard stone, lowering him gently.

Aela couldn't lift him, he was too heavy for her small frame. However, she managed to drag him over to the desk so that he could sit against the leg. The movement was excruciating, but Geralt didn’t have the strength to do anything but grimace and groan as his broken body was stretched and contorted. The pain didn’t subside when she tenderly stepped back either, tears welling in her eyes. She knew he was dying as well as he did.

She had restarted his heart, but had done nothing for the underlying injuries. She hadn’t had time. So Geralt had struggled on. Only, now his injuries were catching up with him again. He couldn’t escape them forever. Frankly, it was a miracle that he had lasted this long. Aela’s split second decision had bought Geralt a precious few more minutes and, ultimately, had saved them all.

Geralt broke the solemn silence.

"Aela," he breathed. Geralt didn't know what else to say. Didn't know how to express their victory. Words were too hollow and "victory" too pleasant a word to describe what had occurred. Not when they had both suffered and lost so much. Not when Geralt had failed Mikel.

Breathing was too difficult to speak much anyway. His lungs were shards of glass, his bones daggers through his flesh. His very blood was fire in his veins. If he was to die then he would rather it be sooner than later.

Besides, he had known many a man to die worthlessly in his sleep, a knife between his ribs, for no other reason than owning a decent pair of boots. Geralt had fought to end an injustice in the world. He had fought and had succeeded. If his life was the price to pay, then he could be content with that, though it was obviously not the outcome he would have preferred. In any case, it was certainly better than dying, forgotten in the woods, at the fangs of some beast. A fate that most of his kin suffered.

"Geralt. I'm sorry. I can't heal you. I don't think any mage could at this point," Aela apologized. There was such compassion in her face.

She didn't deserve this fate, Geralt thought. At least now she was free.

"I know," Geralt sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He was so tired. It baffled him why dying was so hard when death was so easy.

"But there might be another way."

Geralt's eyes slowly breached open, questioning, more curious than hopeful.

“I am descended from an ancient line. And we held many secrets that have more or less been lost over millennia. There is a spell that might save you. It was rarely used even in its own day. Now, I may be the last one alive who knows it exists. The spell heals any injury and can bring someone back even from the brink of death. It is extremely powerful, and just as dangerous. If the person on whom the spell was cast did not have a strong enough will, they could very easily be consumed by it. Very few survived. And many that did went mad or simply weren’t the same anymore.” She paused, looking down, seeming to consider her decision. Her eyes flicked back to Geralt. “But it’s worth a try. You deserve a chance. Any chance.”

A crease furrowed Geralt’s brow. “What is this spell?”

She hesitated, dodging the question. Instead saying, “Please, I need you to promise me something.”

“Aela, what—”

“Promise me you will find my betrothed,” she interrupted. “Promise me you will find my Tesrin.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

 “Tesrin! But…Tesrin…you…you said he was dead,” Geralt stammered, unable to process what she was saying. Kallis had killed her betrothed. She had said there was nothing left. But, Tesrin? He was alive and well. Living just a few days south.

“I lied. I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you the truth before. Couldn’t risk Kallis somehow getting word of Tesrin’s survival. I lied to Kallis all these years. He thought he had killed Tesrin and I let him believe it. In truth, I got to Tesrin a moment before Kallis did. I used the last of my energy to send him far away and wipe his memory of Kallis and this place. And of me. It was the only way he would be safe.

“But I know he’s alive. I can feel it. I think part of my magic extended his life, though I didn’t intend it to. Please, find him.”

Geralt finally shared the revelation he was struggling to put into words. “But, Aela, Tesrin is the one who sent me to look for Mikel. He’s the reason I’m here.”

“What?” The word came out as barely more than a whisper, overwhelming emotion stealing Aela’s breath away, sorrow and joy blending on her face.

“There’s a village to the South. He’s its leader. He’s been here all along, Aela. He must have been drawn to your presence without even realizing it.”

Tears of joy leaked unabashedly down Aela’s face. She opened her mouth multiple times to speak, but nothing came out.

“Leave me, Aela. Go. Find Tesrin yourself.” Geralt coughed up a mouthful of blood, the spasm in his core bringing a pained grimace to his face. He wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

The elation on Aela’s face morphed into a pitying smile, her mood turning somber, but content. Her words were tender. “Tell him what happened, Geralt. And give him this.” She slid a small ring from her left hand that Geralt hadn’t noticed before, setting it at Geralt’s feet. It was a nail from a horseshoe, crudely hammered into a circle. It was slightly rusty, but seemed taken care of. Like Aela had done her best to polish it during her century of confinement. It would have been the only keepsake she had.

Geralt stared at Aela confusedly. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not going to let you die. Not after everything you’ve done for me. This spell is your only chance at survival.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The spell transfers one’s lifeforce to another, using the donor’s energy to restore the recipient.”

Geralt’s eyes widened as he realized what she was saying. She was going to sacrifice herself for him. She would kill herself and use that energy to save him, to bring him back to health. He was horrified at the thought.

“No, Aela, you can’t do this.”

“It is my choice and you are strong enough to survive it. I know you are.”

He couldn’t let her do this. She had to know that she was worth more alive than he was. She had selflessly fought Kallis’ cruelty for centuries for no other reason than it was the right thing to do. What had Geralt done with his life? Brooded and drunk and complained. He didn’t deserve what she was offering.

“My worth in this world is not nearly as great as yours. Don’t waste this. Not on me.”

“My mind is set.” She raised her hands out in front of her.

He had to stop her. But Geralt could hardly move. The best he could do was reach out a hand toward her, leaning forward slightly. “No! Please!” he begged. “Don’t make your life the price of my survival. It is a debt I can never repay.”

“You can. Because you already have.” A heavy breath. “I am free,” she sighed, closing her eyes blissfully. “And that is something I never dreamed of saying again.” Unchecked gratitude emanated from Aela. “Thank you.”

Magic was quavering in the air. A faint glow was exuding from Aela as it had before she had transformed. She was already starting her spell.

Geralt’s vision flickered and suddenly he was on top of that tower on Undvik, Ciri silhouetted against the blustering portal to the White Frost. He blinked and he was back in Kallis’ dungeon, Aela outlined before him. He was too far gone to process what had happened.

The light that currently engulfed Aela was different from the one that had killed Kallis. That light had been harsh, brutal, the embodiment of Aela’s rage and pain sent forth to destroy. This one was comforting, serene. Like the glow of embers from a warm hearth or the sunset over summer solstice, the last rays of light promising a new day will dawn.

“Don’t. Don’t do this,” Geralt pleaded as a last ditch effort.

Aela only smiled, her face illuminated by the burgeoning light. “You’re a good man, Geralt. Don’t ever forget that.”

In that instant, pure, white light radiated from Aela, manifesting itself in delicate tendrils that ventured forth. They reached for Geralt, drawing nearer as the light grew.

Ciri’s face swam before him, the final look she had given him before stepping into the portal haunting his sight.

Geralt tried desperately to pull himself back, tried to stop the light from reaching him. He couldn’t let Aela do this.

The tendrils were only inches from Geralt now, the light blinding.

Ciri was stepping into the portal, disappearing before his very eyes.

“Nooo! Ciri, don’t—!” He couldn’t lose her, not again.

But Geralt’s final plea was cut short. The moment the light touched Geralt’s body, it surged forth, suffusing him with its full strength all at once. Geralt’s back arched, his eyes rolling into his head. Unimaginable pain crashed into him.

And then it was gone. Everything was gone.

He couldn’t see or hear or feel. He couldn’t think or even breathe. He could only bask in the warmth of emotions enveloping him. Seconds stretched to an eternity in which he floated, formless, through a never-ending sea of compassion. He had forgotten what peace felt like.

A voice echoed around him, within him. It was Aela’s. “The world is not one-sided, Geralt, even though sometimes it seems as though it is. I have seen enough hate and cruelty and evil to last many lifetimes. But I have also witnessed the generosity of strangers, the joy of laughter among friends, and the love shared with those we cherish. Don’t waste your life focusing on the bad. Don’t be so blinded by it that you forget to see the good.” A deep sigh reverberated in Geralt’s mind. “You remind me so much of him. I wish I could have seen him again, just one more time. But this is the way it must be.” Aela’s words were fading, and, as they did, Geralt thought he could hear Ciri’s lilting tone join in. The sound brought a lump to his throat. “Live your life, Geralt. You only have one chance at it. Don’t let it waste away.”

Then, all at once, the light receded, leaving Geralt alone in the dark dungeon, huffing sporadic breaths on the cold, stone floor.

He stared unseeing at the room before him, his body unsure how to cope with such an ordinary state of being after the unbridled joy and compassion that had embraced him, had permeated his consciousness.

All he felt now was numb. She had done it. Aela had restored him completely, surrendered her life to do so. He didn’t know how to process that transaction. Didn’t know how to come to terms with the value she had placed on his life.

And Ciri. She had been there too, even if only in Geralt’s mind. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought of her, thoughts that he hadn’t allowed himself to think in a long time.

Geralt’s eyes fell. And there, on the floor by his feet, was the ring.

How could he face Tesrin? How could he possibly explain what had happened?

Unthinkingly, Geralt reached for the ring, holding it in his fully restored hand like it were some precious jewel, eventually stowing it safely in a pocket.

Geralt sat in dark silence for a minute before his practiced apathy reasserted itself. It was the only way he could keep going. Otherwise, he might have never been able to leave. When he finally moved, he hauled himself to his feet with pain-free ease. He marveled at the feeling, not taking a second of it for granted.

Still in a daze, Geralt collected his belongings, donning his armor and strapping on his sheaths, returning the steel sword to its place after wiping it clean with a spare bit of rag nearby. He headed upstairs, pausing on the bottom step as if feeling guilty about leaving. But there was nothing left to leave behind. Aela was gone. No body remained. Even Kallis had been obliterated so completely that there was nothing left to bury, had Geralt been feeling generous enough to do so.

With a sigh, Geralt made his way upstairs, spotting his silver sword immediately, leaning up against the dining table. He grabbed it, too, and restored it to its place on his back. The weight of his two swords somehow grounded him, settling his frayed thoughts with their comforting familiarity. Next to the bed was his hunting knife, exactly where he had left it the day he had found Mikel. He hadn’t bothered to put it on at the time, but he snatched it up now, securing it at his hip.

Turning back, Geralt’s stomach lurched at the sight of the food left on the table. He was ravenous, not having eaten in days. He scarfed down an entire loaf of bread and some dried meat, washing it down with a large mug of ale. No point in letting it all go to waste. When he was sated, Geralt constructed a makeshift sack out of a bolt of cloth and packed up the rest of the food—half a loaf of bread, the rest of the dried meat, and a couple of juicy apples. It would be a long trip back.

With no reason to remain any longer, Geralt left, stepping out into the morning sunshine that dappled the ground as it filtered through the surrounding canopy. And then Geralt saw something that stopped him dead in his tracks.

It was Mikel’s body, putrid and rotting, dumped unceremoniously near the outer wall.

Kallis had just discarded it like offal. He had likely been too keen to return to his other test subject to bother with Mikel’s body. He had simply wanted it out of the way. The sight set Geralt’s blood boiling. He was actually shocked that there was even a body left, that the predators hadn’t gotten to it. Perhaps they had learned to steer clear of this place. The only ones brave enough to capitalize on the free meal were several crows, which Geralt wasted no time in chasing away.

He needed to do something with the body. He couldn’t just leave it there to rot. But it also didn’t feel right to bury it in such a place, not when Mikel had been subjected to unspeakable horrors on those very grounds. Neither could Geralt carry it back with him. The corpse was already decomposing and it would take a couple days to reach the village. That left burning the body. Then Geralt could at least bring back Mikel’s remains.

It took about half an hour to scrounge the wood Geralt needed from the wood pile next to the building and construct a suitable pyre. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it would do. Then Geralt gently placed Mikel on top.

Stepping back, Geralt reiterated his apology issued before Mikel’s death. “I’m sorry,” he offered, feeling his failure deeply.

A blast of Igni set the pyre ablaze, Mikel’s body quickly catching in the flames.

“Be at peace,” Geralt added solemnly.

While the pyre burned itself out, Geralt went back inside to find some means of collecting the remains. He emptied out a small jar containing what looked like dried ribleaf. Satisfied with his choice, Geralt returned to the pyre and waited for the flames to subside.

After about an hour, the fire had died out completely. Geralt scooped the fine, grey silt in the very center of the ashes into the jar and capped it, tucking it away in the sack he had made.

With the rising sun overhead and a cool breeze guiding him south, Geralt finally walked away from the house of horrors, not bothering to look back.

It had been difficult for Geralt to leave the place as it was. He had wanted to burn the place to the ground, had wanted to wipe away any trace of Kallis’ existence. But then everyone who had suffered at his hands would have died for nothing. At least Kallis’ ideals had been pure if not his methods. There might be some healer who could make use of the research. Geralt would go to the scholars in Oxenfurt, tell them where to find Kallis’ vast library. Let them sort through the gruesomeness and the horror. Geralt wanted nothing more to do with it.

So he journeyed on through the wilderness, for once in no hurry to reach his destination. First, he had to find his way back. He had never actually known the exact location of Kallis’ castle in relation to where Geralt had fought the fiend, he had been unconscious when Kallis had transported him. But Geralt was a master navigator and he had acquired a fairly good feel of the castle’s location when he had travelled to and from Aela’s estate. Now, he simply followed his instincts south, erring slightly west. When night fell, Geralt stopped to rest by a moss covered boulder, lighting a small fire to keep him company and stave off the darkness.

Once dawn had peaked over the horizon, Geralt set off once more. He finished the rest of his food by midday. Stopping for a moment, Geralt rewrapped the jar of Mikel’s remains more fully in the now otherwise empty cloth, offering it an extra bit of padding before continuing on.

As his feet pounded over mile after mile of endless forest, Geralt fell into a daze. He had been through so much over the past few days. It was still so fresh in his mind that he could see it playing out before him yet, at the same time, it felt like something that had happened a lifetime ago. He didn’t know how to process it all, so he stopped trying, stopped thinking, instead letting his feet carry him forward. He just had to keep moving. Eventually, his mind might catch up.

Although, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to. He had learned long ago that sometimes it was better not to feel at all.

Firmly settled into a haze of nothingness, Geralt didn’t even notice when the last light of day dissipated in the sky and the moon shone forth its replacement. He trudged through the night, some inner power lending him the strength to continue. It could have been that he was simply well-rested and well-fed, the most he had been since he had set out from the village. Or perhaps it was some vestige of Aela’s power and will that propelled him forward, toward the village, toward Tesrin.

Geralt knew he was getting closer. The forest was changing, the trees shrinking and crowding together, their younger forms somehow more welcoming than their ancient counterparts.

The sun had risen well into midmorning by the time Geralt sighted unfettered sunlight ahead. When he stepped into its blinding rays, he found himself faced with rolling hills of farmland, the village proper just visible to the distant West. He had come out at the northeastern most edge of the village and had to backtrack a little to the East to circumnavigate the field of crops planted there and enter via the main road. 

Even after everything he had been through, Geralt found the task ahead daunting, though he couldn’t really explain why. How many families had he told about the deaths of their loved ones? Too many to count. So why was this so much more…heavy than those deaths? Why did this matter so much to him?

He told himself that it was just an artifact of Aela’s consciousness, that her emotion was seeping through him. But, deep down, part of Geralt knew there was more to it than that.

He was left with a hollow pit in his stomach as he made his way toward the village, only one question swirling in his mind.

What would he say to Tesrin?

He honestly didn’t know.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Geralt trod down the uneven dirt toward the village, letting his legs carry him forward, his mind so far away.

At first, a few scattered heads lifted to see the incoming visitor, most quickly becoming uninterested and returning to their various duties. However, as Geralt got closer and closer to the main village, where the hustle and bustle of trade was fully underway, hushed whispers haunted his passage. The boisterous chatter died in waves around him, replaced with murmurs and sidelong glances.

Geralt was oblivious to it all. The fog he had fallen into was impenetrable and left him single-minded in focus. He would head for the tavern. He figured that if anyone knew where Tesrin was, that barmaid would. The two seemed to have a certain rapport. If nothing else, Tesrin had found Geralt at the tavern the first time. There was no reason he wouldn’t do so again. 

More and more eyes locked onto Geralt as he made his way down the path, though he stared only at the dirt in front of his feet.  

Soon enough, Geralt’s feet had carried him to The Split Oak. He was almost to the door before he even realized he had arrived. It was that stupid cat that wrenched Geralt out of his stupor, hissing and spitting as it was at Geralt’s feet.

“Get,” Geralt shooed. Blinking back the haze, Geralt ducked inside.

And there, seated at the very table Geralt had claimed on his first visit, was Tesrin, saving Geralt the trouble of having to track him down. Tesrin was alone in the tavern save for Geralt, even the barkeep absent from the room, probably off in the storeroom or around back. Tesrin’s appearance shocked Geralt. He was haggard and unkempt, his normally cheery demeanor full of despair. His pale face revealed tear tracks down his cheeks, dark circles shadowing his red-rimmed eyes.

Tesrin hadn’t even noticed Geralt enter, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts. It wasn’t until Geralt sat himself across from the man, placing his cloth bundle by his feet, that Tesrin glanced up.

“Geralt!” Tesrin exclaimed in a stunned whisper. “It’s been nearly two weeks. I feared you were dead.”

“Not exactly.” Geralt didn’t know where to begin. Speech seemed to elude him.

Luckily Tesrin was not at a loss for words. “Did you find Mikel?” he probed apprehensively. He wasn’t a stupid man. If Geralt had returned without Mikel, it didn’t bode well.

Geralt merely nodded.

Reading the truth in Geralt’s eyes, Tesrin turned somber. “I see.” Though he seemed to understand that there was more to the story than Mikel’s death. “What happened out there? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Finally Geralt found his voice. “It’s a long story. And it’s not a very pleasant one.”

Tesrin was perplexed by Geralt’s comment. “What do you mean?”

It took a moment for Geralt to commit himself to the telling of his search for Mikel and the subsequent events, but once he started talking, the words flowed out of him of their own accord, like they were eager to share the story. And maybe just a bit of the burden it had imparted on Geralt.

Tesrin didn’t interrupt when Geralt finally got to the part about finding Aela, but tears flowed freely down his cheeks, sorrow and love and longing all fighting to transform his face. He listened in horrified silence as Geralt described what Kallis had done to Mikel and himself, then in awe as Geralt spoke of breaking Aela’s curse and the battle with Kallis.

When Geralt talked about Aela sacrificing herself for him, he couldn’t hold Tesrin’s gaze. Geralt knew it had ultimately been Aela’s decision, but he still felt somehow responsible for her death.

It wasn’t until then that Tesrin spoke, hesitantly at first. “A few days ago, I was making my rounds through the village when these flashes came to me, stopped me dead. It was my memories. Of Aela. Of Kallis and what he did to those who lived on that estate so long ago. All at once, they came flooding back. All of the emotion, the passion, the pain. It overwhelmed me.” He raised his eyes to Geralt, a sad smile breaking over his face. “But, after the initial shock, I realized that I didn’t care. That I would take the pain if it meant I had Aela in my life, even if only in my memory. Like the final piece of a puzzle snapping into place, I felt like…like I was whole again. Like I had finally found something I hadn’t even known I had been searching for, something dangling just beyond my grasp.” Tears welled in his eyes. “And now I find out, it was only by her death that I even know she was alive.”

Geralt twitched anxiously in his seat. “I’m so sorry. I tried to stop her. I—”

Cutting off Geralt’s guilt-ridden apology, Tesrin gave him a pitying smile. “I don’t blame you, Geralt. Not one bit.”

The honesty of the words cut right through Geralt. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

“What she did was her decision. And it was the right one. Her selflessness and compassion were why I loved her so dearly. I would have expected nothing less from her.” Tesrin lowered his eyes sadly. “It just hurts that she’s gone.”

Figuring it was a good moment to do so, Geralt reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, proffering it to Tesrin. “She gave me this. She wanted you to have it.”

Eyes wide, Tesrin took the ring, staring at it in his palm reverently. “I gave this to her when I asked her to marry me.” A slight laugh shook Tesrin’s chest. “It was just some old nail I found in the stables. I didn’t have money to buy a ring, so I made one myself. And she accepted my proposal. It was the happiest moment of my life.” He looked back to Geralt. “Thank you.” Then, more quietly, more heartfelt. “Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.”

Tesrin stared at the ring for a few more moments before closing his hand around it. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, settling himself. When his eyes opened once more, there was a peace illuminating them that hadn’t been there when Geralt had entered.

“Thank you, Geralt, for letting me know what happened. It may be hard to hear, but at least I know what happened to her. At least I have some closure. I can take solace in that.”

Geralt dipped his head sincerely, then said, “There is one more thing I need to ask.”

A look of polite curiosity crossed Tesrin’s face. “Oh? What is it?”

“You said Mikel had a family?”

Geralt could tell by the change in Tesrin’s demeanor that he knew exactly where this was going.

“I did,” Tesrin answered tentatively.

Geralt clenched and unclenched his jaw several times. “I need to speak to them.”

Tesrin gave Geralt a sympathetic look. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll talk to them. I’ll explain what happened.”

“No.” On this, Geralt wasn’t going to budge. He needed to do this. If not to assuage his own guilt, then because he had promised Mikel he would. Geralt had known what Mikel was asking even though he hadn’t been capable of speech. He had wanted his family to know the truth about how and why he had died. And only Geralt could give them the full story. “I need to do this. It’s my fault Mikel is dead.”

Eyes hardening, Tesrin said sternly, “It is not your fault, Geralt.”

“You don’t understand.” The truth was, Geralt had been struggling with Mikel’s death. In hindsight, he felt like he could have done something, could have done more. He stared without seeing at the tabletop, drifting back to Kallis’ dungeons. “I should have gotten him out. I should have done anything to get him out when I had the chance. I made the wrong choice. I thought I could outsmart Kallis, but he had played me from the beginning. I was so stupid,” he said, kicking himself.

Recognizing that Geralt needed to vent, Tesrin didn’t interrupt, content to be a sympathetic ear. But, once Geralt was done, he quickly quashed Geralt’s self-doubt. “It was Kallis that killed Mikel, and Kallis alone is to blame. Do not carry a burden that was never yours. That man…he did terrible things. And for none of them are you responsible. Besides, you likely saved my whole village from the same fate that befell my adoptive home. Think of them.” Tesrin made a sweeping gesture out the window. “Think of the lives they will live, the experiences they will have. All because of you. You gave them a future. Don’t let this weigh on you, Geralt. Don’t let Kallis’ deeds fill you with unwarranted guilt.”

Not fully convinced, but slightly appeased, Geralt said sheepishly, “I still need to do this. I made Mikel one promise I couldn’t keep. I won’t break another.”

“Very well, it’s your choice. I won’t deny you the right to talk to them. But should you change your mind, know that I will do it.”

“No, they deserve to hear it from me.”

“Then I will take you there myself.”

“Just point me in the right direction. I’m sure I can find it.” If Tesrin went with him, it would feel like he was hiding behind the man. Geralt needed to do this on his own.

Tesrin seemed to understand. “Alright. They live on the outskirts of the village, in the northwest corner. Just keep following the path. It will lead you straight to them.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said as he stood to leave. But Tesrin stopped him before he stepped away.

“Meet me back here when you’re done. You look like you could use a good meal.”

Stomach gurgling as if to accept before Geralt could refuse, Geralt nodded. “Fine.” He was starving now that he let himself think about it. He hadn’t eaten in almost a day. A hot meal really would be nice. Even if it was only a front to allow Tesrin to question Geralt more about Aela.

Grabbing the jar of Mikel’s ashes, Geralt swept out the door without another word. He didn’t mean to be rude, but he was afraid that if he had stayed, he would have taken Tesrin up on his offer and Mikel’s family deserved more than that.

So he wended his way through the dense village, heading northwest until he came to a solitary path that led away from the village and into the trees.

Long before he even saw the house, Geralt knew he was heading in the right direction. The smell of tanning leather wafted through the trees on a wayward breeze that also carried with it the sound of children’s laughter. Two young girls were playing nearby. Tesrin had said Mikel had two daughters.

Now that he was getting close, Geralt’s feet seemed to fight against him at every step. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk away, but, at the same time, he knew it had to be this way. Though he would rather face that fiend again than this.

Taking a deep breath to bolster his courage, Geralt came around a final bend that opened up to a small clearing, a quaint cabin situated in the middle. Smoke trickled from the chimneys of the main house and a smokehouse to the side, the smell of salted meats adding to the woody aroma. Mikel’s daughters chased each other through the trees and around the yard with pretend swords, giggling and squealing at their game. And there, with her back turned to him, hanging hides out to dry, was Mikel’s wife.

Geralt approached, allowing his boots to crunch over the loose rocks and dead leaves to announce his arrival. The girls spotted him first and it was their silence that had Mikel’s wife looking up, wondering at the sudden quiet. She looked to them and followed their gaze to Geralt, then raised herself up to meet him.

Unthinkingly, she shuffled to place herself in front of her daughters, shooing them as she moved. “Go play around back, girls.”

Without question, the younger of the two girls, who looked no older than five, turned and left. “Yes, Mama,” she replied, turning and skipping away.

The older girl didn’t budge. Geralt estimated she was just shy of being ten. If Geralt had had any doubt that he was in the wrong place, he didn’t now. She was the spitting image of her father.

“Nellie, go and keep an eye on Agnes for me, please,” her mother bade.

Still Nellie didn’t move. She held Geralt captive with a gaze that suggested she knew exactly why he was there, her eyes flicking once to the bundle under his arm before returning to his face and pinning him once more. There was such a depth of emotion and comprehension in her eyes that Geralt couldn’t look away. He almost started talking then and there, directly to her, like she was the one Mikel had bade him come see.

But, before Geralt could start, Nellie’s mother softly, but sternly ordered her away. “Go on now.”

It seemed for a second that Nellie would disobey. Then, with one last glance leveled at Geralt, she left, trotting off in the direction of her sister.

Her bearing left Geralt a little flustered. He stared after her for a moment before turning his attention to the woman waiting expectantly in front of him. She was thin and lithe, and hardworking judging by the calluses on her hands. From the well-practiced way she had been working, Geralt could tell she had treated a lot of Mikel’s kills in the past. It didn’t seem as though they would be any worse for wear with Mikel gone. At least, not physically. She seemed more than capable of taking care of things in his absence.

A long braid of sandy blonde hair dangled over one of her shoulders and her chestnut eyes bore into Geralt. He was already finding it difficult to hold her gaze.

Easing into the imminent discussion, Geralt began with a simple question. “Are you Katrina?” Tesrin had given him her name.

She wiped her hands on the dirty apron flowing down her front. “Aye.”

Silence hung heavy between them, Geralt struggling with how to begin. He had always been much better with swords than with words.

Katrina spared him the necessity. “You’re Geralt, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Tesrin told me about you when you left over a week ago. It’s been so long, I didn’t know if you’d come back.”

“A lot has happened,” Geralt answered simply.

Katrina’s gaze softened. “And now you’ve returned…alone….” Her words faltered as tears pooled in her eyes.

Her eyes drifted down to the cloth bundle in Geralt’s hand. He noticed her attention on it and held it out in front of him, unwrapping the jar hidden within.

Katrina’s lip started quavering at the sight of it. "No. No," she denied, shaking her head, unwilling to accept the truth.

"I promised him that I would bring him back."

The jar glistened in the morning light as if it contained Mikel’s spirit along with his remains. Katrina numbly accepted the makeshift urn, then hugged it to her chest as she fell to her knees, sobbing.

"I’m sorry. I...I couldn’t—" What Geralt was trying desperately to say was that he couldn’t save Mikel, but the words died on his lips. He just didn’t feel that they were entirely true. In that moment, to Katrina, they would have been meaningless anyway. So he just repeated, "I’m sorry."

Utter silence was broken only by the sound of Katrina’s sniffling sobs. A slight flicker of movement behind the house caught Geralt’s eye. The girls had returned. And their shouts of laughter were conspicuously absent. They had probably heard everything.

Shuffling his feet, Geralt stood in awkward silence, not knowing where to go with the conversation. Consoling had never been a word used to describe him. What could he possibly offer them? Nothing would bring their husband and father back. And nothing would ever replace him.

Geralt started trying to explain what had happened. “Mikel, he tracked down some wolves that were prowling the woods, killed them. But he was injured in the fight and—”

“Just go,” Katrina ordered through a sob. “Leave us be.”

Geralt didn’t know whether to respect her wishes or attempt to offer her some sort of comfort. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, continuing, “He was taken by—”

“Go!” barked Katrina harshly, burying her face in her chest.

Halting immediately, Geralt paused for a moment. There was clearly nothing more he could do for her. And there was nothing more she wanted from him.

It was time to leave.

With silent resignation, Geralt withdrew and padded back down the trail, his soft footsteps his only farewell. Behind him, he could hear the girls running up to their mother, Agnes' little voice asking what was wrong. He could feel Nellie’s gaze on his retreating back.

He had done all that he had set out to do. Lingering would be of no benefit to anyone.

With a deep sigh, Geralt returned to the village, heading back to the tavern as he had told Tesrin he would.

What had happened at Kallis’ hands still weighed heavily on Geralt, but after bringing Mikel’s ashes home, he at least felt a certain relief, small as it may have been.

Feeling marginally less glum, Geralt hit the main thoroughfare and was immediately accosted by a throng of eager supplicants and well-wishers. Clearly word of his deeds had spread. Tesrin’s doing, no doubt. The congregated swarm crowded around him, offering him spare coins, bread, wine, pelts, and family heirlooms. Geralt even heard a shouted marriage bid from the fringes of the horde. Most just wanted to shake his hand, offer their gratitude. Geralt tried to avoid them, rejecting all that was offered as he shoved his way through them.

He never did like to be the center of attention.

After jockeying his way through the mass of people, he finally reached the end of the market square, backing away from the last person to seek him out, a woman who had grabbed him by the hands. Gently, he extricated his hands from her grasp. Then he was free.

Swiveling toward the tavern, Geralt found his way blocked. A little girl, with two braids parted around her shoulders, held up a golden flower toward him. She looked to be about five years old.

“This is for you,” she said sweetly, an innocent grin on her face.

Geralt didn’t know how to respond. The flower was just some weed, blowball it looked like, yet she held it out like it was a bouquet of white roses. Geralt may be gruff, but he couldn’t refuse her. “Why would you give this to me?” he asked curiously, but not unkindly.

“Whenever I’m sick or feeling sad, Mama always brings me a flower to make me feel better.” The girl lowered the flower to her chest and ran her other finger over the soft petals sticking out in a sphere. “The yellow ones are my favorite. I saw you walking toward Ms. Katrina’s house before and you looked sad. So I went and got this for you! I hope it makes you feel better!” The girl extended the flower once more, beaming.

Lowering himself to one knee, Geralt accepted the flower, giving the girl an appreciative smile. “Thanks. It does.”

Giggling, the little girl ran off, calling over her shoulder, “Goodbye, Mr. Witcher!”

Humbled, Geralt stood. That little girl had shown him a kindness that he had rarely seen from adults. She had looked at him without fear, without hate. She had seen his pain and tried her best to relieve it. Everyone else was simply trying to commend him for something he had done. Gracious as they were, not one of them had cared what Geralt felt. But this girl had seen through to his core, had offered something from her own.

Still processing the effect the tiny gift had imparted, Geralt glanced up and saw Tesrin’s face peeking out of the window of the tavern. Annoyance stirred within Geralt. He stormed over to the tavern, still gingerly clutching the blowball by his side.

Stomping his way through the front door, Geralt located Tesrin at their usual table, an infuriatingly innocent look plastering his face. A face that had lost its gaunt affectation in the time Geralt had gone to see Katrina. Color now filled Tesrin’s formerly pale cheeks and his eyes weren’t quite as puffy as they had been.

“I suppose you had nothing to do with that,” Geralt accused, gesturing out the window then crossing his arms.

Straight-faced and unflustered, Tesrin met Geralt’s accusation with polite denial. “Me? No, of course not.”

Geralt sat down across from Tesrin, not buying his innocence for one second. “Mmhmm. You know, one of them offered me his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Tesrin chuckled. “Did he now? Well, I’ll leave it up to you as to whether you accept. Just know that you have my blessing either way.”

A scowl flattened Geralt’s face. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell your people to hound me in the street and offer me their prized possessions.”

“I never once told them any such thing.”

Not at all placated, Geralt retorted, “Right.”

“Truly,” Tesrin said defensively, but clearly pleased with himself. At an unconvinced look from Geralt, Tesrin continued, “I simply told them that you had saved our village from a horrifying fate. And the rest of the world too.”

“Is that all?” Geralt asked sarcastically.

Dropping his pretense of innocence, Tesrin grew more serious. “I honestly didn’t tell them to do anything. I just spread word of what you had done. What they chose to do with that information was up to them. I’m curious though. What did Maya give you?”

“Who?”

“The girl. I couldn’t see her gift from here.”

Bringing his gloved hand up on top of the table, Geralt twirled the little flower in his fingers.

The sight brought a heartwarming smile to Tesrin’s face. “A sweet girl, that Maya. Born with a heart of gold.”

Geralt certainly couldn’t deny it. And a part of him couldn’t fully understand how such a small gesture had affected him so. But he didn’t really want to get into it, so he changed the subject.

“Remind me why I bothered coming back here?”

“To feast, of course. You must be famished.” Before Geralt could confirm or deny Tesrin’s claim, he was waving over the barmaid.

Geralt had been in too much of a huff to realize when he came in, but the tavern was full of hungry patrons now, waiting noisily for a hot midday meal. The barmaid, Bertha, Geralt remembered Tesrin calling her, finished setting down a round of laden plates at a table nearby and ambled over. Tesrin ordered them both a hot meal and a mug of ale which Bertha quickly produced from the kitchen. As she set down the food and drink, she eyed Geralt with a withering look that Tesrin seemed content to let stretch on uninterrupted. Geralt supposed he hadn’t been so kind to Bertha the first time they had met.

Feeling like he needed to say something, Geralt awkwardly, but with genuine honesty, said, “Thank you. The food was quite good last time.”

Expression softening a bit, Bertha nodded her thanks and turned to leave. Though Tesrin stifled a snort when a murmured, “Damn right it was,” floated back to them.

Grumbling at Tesrin’s obvious amusement, Geralt tucked into his food without further ado. Just as it was the last time, it was delectable, and it didn’t take either of them long to inhale the considerable amount of it.

With stomach full to bursting, Geralt leaned back in his chair. Across from him, Tesrin reached under the table.

“Of course, eating wasn’t the only reason I wanted to talk to you again. I also needed to give you this.” A large sack of coins appeared on the table and Geralt spied two more at Tesrin’s feet. There had to have been three or four hundred crowns in those sacks. “Your coin, as promised. Let it not be said that I don’t pay my due.”

Taken aback at the sheer amount, Geralt protested. He had honestly forgotten about the rest of the money they had agreed on. And this was certainly more than that. “No, Tesrin. I can’t take that. For one thing, I cheated you in the first place. Three hundred was already a ridiculous price. I was just hassling you. I never thought you would agree.”

“And yet I did. So I shall pay the agreed upon price. Plus a small bonus, for going above and beyond any reasonable expectations. And many unreasonable ones.”

Guilt-ridden once more, Geralt thought back to those he had lost. To those he had failed. “No, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve your generosity.”

A proud smile beamed across the table. “Geralt, it is for that very sentiment that you do.”

“Keep it. Keep it for your people. They need it more than I do.”

“Oh, I have plenty enough for the village. Take the coin. You’ve earned it and then some. I owe you so much more for the news you brought me of Aela.” Tesrin’s mood grew somber, apologetic. “I’ve been out of sorts these past couple of days, but I would rather live having lost her than die thinking I had never known her. I only wish I could have been there for her the way she was for me. She spent a century alone and forgotten. I would give anything to have spared her that fate. But there was nothing I could have done then, and there is nothing I can do now to change what happened.” A sad smile lit up Tesrin’s face. “I know she wouldn’t want me to dwell on it. So for her sake, for my people’s sake, for my sake, I need to move on. At least try to. I can’t go on moping. And neither should you, Geralt. You have been through hell and back, but you are alive. And you have done this village and the world a huge service. Don’t take that lightly. Don’t act like you’re worthless."

Tesrin ensnared Geralt’s attention with the sincerity in his gaze. “Take the money, please. I’ve never met a man more deserving.”

Not having any reasonable rebuttal and not caring to fight the issue further, Geralt accepted.

Satisfied that they had brought the issue to a close, Tesrin switched topics. “I forgot to ask, but how did it go with Katrina?”

A heavy sigh. “About as well as you would expect.”

An understanding look from Tesrin told Geralt the man knew exactly how it had gone. “Ah. Don’t take it personally, Geralt. She just lost her husband and the father to her two children. If I were in her place, I would probably react the same way. Katrina confessed to me last week that she almost wished news would not return of Mikel. That as long as we didn’t know, then there was still hope. Hope that maybe he had just left, that maybe he had gone off with some mistress.”

“She’d rather believe that he had abandoned his wife and daughters?” Geralt asked incredulously.

Sadly, Tesrin responded, “Than face the death of her beloved husband? Yes. Anger is much easier than grief.”

Geralt went to open his mouth to deny it, but found that he couldn’t.

Tesrin, for once, didn’t seem to notice. “We may be happy here, but we're not naive. We knew Mikel’s chances of returning were slim after the first week. I think you merely confirmed her fears. Give her time. She’ll come around."

Shaking his head at Tesrin’s hopeful tone, Geralt stammered, “Tesrin…how? How are you like this? I just told you that your beloved fiancée has been cursed for that last hundred years and the moment the curse was lifted, she died. To save me. How can you even look at me right now? How can you look at me and not want to kill me?”

Tesrin didn’t even seem to comprehend Geralt’s question, like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Geralt, the only person I harbor any anger toward is Kallis. And you and Aela already settled that grudge.”

Tesrin’s answer did nothing to satisfy Geralt. If anything, it only served to rile him up further. “How can you sit there like nothing’s happened?!” he asked despairingly, his voice rising. “How can you be so calm, so…content right now?” Geralt was trying desperately to understand how Tesrin was coping. The events of the last few days haunted Geralt, pouncing on him in quiet moments of peace. He didn’t understand how Tesrin could be so together mere hours after Geralt had delivered devastating news.

It was only Geralt’s subconscious that knew it wasn’t Aela’s and Mikel’s deaths that haunted him.

Tesrin seemed taken aback by Geralt’s tone, but contemplated the question for a moment nonetheless. “I think it’s different with Aela and me. I may not have known it, but I’ve had almost a hundred years to come to terms with losing her. It was only the other day that she died, but that was not the day I lost her. I lost her the day she saved me, the day she wiped my memory and sent me away. In the intervening time, my body learned to cope without her. That extra time doesn’t make it easy to learn of her death, not at all, but it does lessen the blow. And I would not belittle her sacrifice by questioning her judgment or her decision. It’s time you stopped questioning it too,” Tesrin finished with a pointed look at Geralt.

The words hit Geralt like a battering ram to the chest. Tesrin didn’t even know how much he was affecting him. How his words stretched far beyond this single instance.

Like a floodgate bursting open, the memories of Ciri that Geralt had shoved deep down inside himself came rushing back, overwhelming him, drowning him in despair. His heart and lungs constricted. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The boulder he had shouldered for five years had finally come crashing down on him.

Geralt wasn’t well equipped to deal with emotion. Not when it came in such force. Witchers were well known for being emotionless, but that was not entirely true. Whether the witcher mutations had actually stripped Geralt of emotion, the training had beaten it from him, or it was simply that a witcher's life quickly desensitized them to violence, Geralt didn’t know. Most of the time, it just came down to the fact that emotions got in the way. Better to cast them aside than let them be a distraction.

But Geralt also knew that sometimes emotions were so powerful that they refused to be ignored. In those instances, his inexperience in the emotional realm made him vulnerable. In this arena, he was the fledgling swordsman trying to spar with the master. It was a position he wasn’t used to being in. He was uncoordinated, untrained. Helpless.

Tesrin always seemed capable of reading the exact thoughts in Geralt’s mind. Sensing the shift in Geralt’s bearing, Tesrin eyed Geralt with concern. His words were slow, soft. “Geralt? We’re not just talking about Aela anymore, are we?”

Geralt opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could finally find his voice. He was on unfamiliar ground, uneven footing making him clumsy. “I…I lost someone. Someone who was like a daughter to me.” Geralt’s throat tightened around his words, leaving him speechless. This was the first time he had spoken of Ciri since that day.

He didn’t know why he was opening up to Tesrin when he had held onto his silence for so long. Maybe it was because fate had strung them together with strands of Aela’s ebony hair. In that shared bond, Geralt felt like Tesrin would understand, would know how to seek solace and lead Geralt to it. Or maybe it was because Geralt had finally reached his limit. He had never really dealt with Ciri’s death. He had covered the wound, bandaged it until the skin had healed over. But inside, the grief had festered and had been eating Geralt from the inside out, hidden, but not remotely healed. The wound had since metastasized, burst open. And now it was consuming him. He couldn’t carry the weight of his grief. Not one step further.

Stomach knotting, Geralt added, “She gave herself to save us.”

Empathy coated Tesrin’s face at Geralt’s obvious distress. “It sounds like she loved you. And her death is not the end of that love.”

Not really hearing what Tesrin was saying, Geralt stared into oblivion, flashes of that day cutting into his vision—an all-out attack forcing him to yield. With each image, he could feel the pain, the heart-wrenching desperation, swallow him whole. “I would have given anything. I would have gone in her place. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t save her.”

“Maybe she didn’t need to be saved,” Tesrin offered kindly.

Geralt closed his eyes, a vortex of memories and emotions churning within him. He tried to deflect them, to parry, to mount a counterattack, to do anything to stop the blows raining in. But he failed. His defenses were nothing.

The storm. The tower. The wind raging past him, being sucked into the portal. That blasted elf that had facilitated the whole thing. Ciri, turning away, stepping into the light, disappearing before Geralt’s very eyes. Earth-shattering despair.

She never came back. She wasn’t coming back.

Tesrin’s voice cut through Geralt’s pain. “Try as we might, we can’t save everyone. And sometimes, we have to accept being saved ourselves, hard as it may be to be the one left behind.”

Images of Ciri cycled through Geralt’s mind. Of her fighting the Wild Hunt, of her sacrificing herself to stop the White Frost. But then others butted their way in, like small tendrils of lights seeking to break through the darkness. Of an impromptu snowball fight, of sharing stories around the fire, of laughing and smiling and enjoying whatever precious moments they had together. It was as if Geralt had forgotten. And now that he remembered, the memories didn’t seem so one-sided, didn’t seem so defeating. There was pain and heartache, but there was something else too. Something else he had forgotten, or chosen to ignore. Joy. Pride. And acceptance. The kind that only a father could feel when having to finally let go of his little girl and let her make her own decisions. And then finding those decisions to be of the highest nobility.

The memories might have been battling against Geralt, beating him down, but he had forgotten that they were holding him up as well. He didn’t need to fight against them, he realized. Not anymore.

Taking a shuddering breath, Geralt opened his eyes. “I had to let her go.” He remembered now. Remembered the strong woman she had become, the capable warrior, the fierce friend, and the compassionate soul. “You’re right. She never needed me to save her. She made her own choice…” Geralt struggled to say her name. Why was it so hard to utter two simple syllables? Eventually, he croaked out, “Ciri made her own choice. I just don’t know how to live with it.”

“I don’t think any of us know how to deal with loss until it is thrust upon us. But even then you still have a choice. You can celebrate their life, or you can wallow in their death.” Tesrin willed Geralt to meet his gaze. “I don’t know this Ciri. But I don’t think I need to in order to know which she would prefer you do. She didn’t die for you to give up on life. She died so that you could live. Don’t waste her death, Geralt. She means too much to you for that.”

Heartbroken and now somewhat ashamed, Geralt lowered his eyes and took a deep breath, reining in the emotion that had run rampant through his system. Tesrin was right. But that didn’t make it any easier.

Geralt nodded weakly, still staring at the table.

“It will get better, Geralt. I promise.”

A sad smile played on Geralt’s lips as he straightened himself, raising his eyes to Tesrin. “That’s the funny thing about promises. You can’t always keep them.”

“No, you can’t. Not to others.” Tesrin leaned forward. “But this is a promise you must make to yourself.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I didn’t say it would be.”

Geralt paused for a moment, at a loss for how to implement such a thing, but knowing that he needed to try. If not for his own sake, then for Ciri’s. He owed it to her. He had been a ghost of his former self over the last five years, a bitter, hateful coward. She deserved better.

“What will you do?” Tesrin queried, referring to Geralt’s plans for the future. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. And if you are too proud to accept the charity, then consider yourself the captain and only member of the village guard. Our seclusion protects us, but not from everything. We’ve been host to the odd bandit attack over the years. You would be the first line of defense against anyone or anything untoward that comes our way. We could use a man like you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I need to move on. I need time to think.” Geralt’s words were somber, but gilded with a hope that, one day, he might learn to live with what had happened and not be troubled by it. That he might once again feel joy and love. And Geralt had never been one to stay in one place anyway, never been one to sit still. Besides, the memories here were too wrought with emotion to consider Tesrin’s offer. He needed to get away from this place. Only then could he sort through the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling through him, sort out what to do next. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning if you don’t mind me staying the night.”

“Of course. And should you ever change your mind, my offer stands. You will always be welcome here.”

The sincerity and amiability in Tesrin’s face was almost enough to make Geralt reconsider. He knew it would be a favorable place to settle down, should he ever want such a thing. But for now, he needed distance. He needed fresh air and sunlight and a cool breeze. He needed the smell of a campfire and the pounding of hooves beneath him as they carried him as far and as fast as they could go.

He needed to go back. He needed to face the pain and guilt and anger, the sorrow and the despair. He needed to face them head-on and conquer them, slay them like any other monster.

But he couldn’t do it alone. He needed his friends, needed to see a familiar face or two; Yennefer’s coy smile, Tris’ mischievous eyes, and even Dandelion’s ridiculously coiffed figure, no doubt bedecked in some gaudy outfit. Geralt had abandoned them as much as he had abandoned himself.

He had been struggling to carry the boulder of grief alone for five years now. It was only when Tesrin had lifted it, had shouldered some of the burden, that Geralt had realized he needed the help. Only with the combined strength of his friends could Geralt finally get out from under the weight, cast it aside once and for all.

The thought of seeing them again, what once would have brought bile to Geralt’s throat, now formed a genuine smile on his face.

He had to stop running. He couldn’t run from Ciri’s death anyway, not if he had gone to the ends of the earth. It certainly hadn’t done him any good. He had run for five years and only taken a few, floundering steps. It was time to move on.

Ciri wasn’t coming back.

He knew that now. Or, at least, he was ready to admit it to himself. Ready to stop denying the cold, hard truth, heartbreaking as it was to concede.

Ciri wasn’t coming back.

But maybe, just maybe, Geralt finally could.

Epilogue

Geralt set out the next morning after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, his saddlebags laden with food enough for a week.

Tesrin met him as he led Roach from the stables. “Take care, Geralt,” he bade warmly. “Come back any time. I mean it.”

Geralt clasped forearms with Tesrin. “I will.” Dipping his head in appreciation, Geralt added, “Thanks. For everything.”

Tesrin answered back with a nod of his own.

As Tesrin stepped back, Geralt swung up into the saddle and, with one last glance toward his new friend, trotted off down the path to the West, heading into the heart of Velen.

Spring had descended on the forest. The equinox had come and gone while Geralt had been tracking Mikel. At least that much had worked out in his favor. Even before Ciri’s death, Geralt had never been one for parties.

Now, the first vestiges of budding blooms were tipping the branches above Geralt, the wildflowers putting on their own display below.

Passing through their sweet perfume, Geralt decided to head to Novigrad, where he knew Dandelion would be, still managing the Chameleon. Zoltan would likely be there as well, plying his new trade as a card merchant. Once there, Geralt could reach out to Yennefer and Tris. Dandelion was sure to know where they were. He always liked to be in the know.

Geralt actually felt a spark of excitement about going back, seeing his friends. He remembered how much Ciri loved Dandelion, how they would laugh together for hours, Dandelion telling his outlandish stories. And how Zoltan would spoil Ciri any chance he got. Geralt smiled at the thought.

Those memories were the main reason he had left. At first, he couldn’t bear to remember Ciri, to think about her at all. It had been too painful. So Geralt had buried all thought of her deep within himself and had fled from anything that might have sought to dig those memories back up. But now, for the first time since he had left, Geralt could appreciate the happiness in those memories. They put a smile on his face rather than a knife in his heart.

That is how Geralt wanted to remember Ciri, for her joy and laughter and kindness. It might take him a while to accomplish the feat, but Geralt didn’t want to be pained by her memory anymore. He wanted to think of her and be proud of who she was and what she had done. She had certainly earned as much.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Geralt had fled, seeking the answer to an unspoken question.

It had taken five years, five grueling years, but he finally understood what he had been searching for. It wasn’t something out in the world, but something within himself. Something that he had forsaken rather than something that had forsaken him—hope. And only now that it was restored did he feel himself filled with purpose once more.

He had given up, on Ciri, on the world. But mostly on himself. Now he realized that doing so was a disgrace to Ciri’s memory, to her sacrifice. And he couldn’t live with himself if he let it continue.

He owed Ciri his life and he would give it to her. But not by dying, by living. Living as she would want him to live. Living for the both of them.

It was the only way for Geralt to honor her.

The warmth of spring enveloped Geralt as he made his way through the trees. A small bird flitted past and alighted on a nearby branch, chirping its pleasure at the season’s return. After a moment’s study, Geralt realized it was a swallow.

He yanked Roach to a stop, his heart lurching as he gazed at the tiny bird. As it stared right back.

Then, with a jubilant chirrup, the swallow took flight once more, fluttering a single loop around Geralt before disappearing into the trees.

Stunned, Geralt paused, closing his eyes and breathing deep the rich aroma of a new dawn. When he finally let out his breath, Geralt stared after the bird, tears welled in his eyes, but a contented smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Goodbye,” he murmured softly.

Without waiting any longer, Geralt clicked his heels into Roach’s sides and they set off, Geralt pushing her to ever greater speed. The forest blurred past as Geralt rode hard toward Novigrad, toward his friends. Toward hope for a better tomorrow.

Roach’s mane billowed into his chest as she carried him forth, a wilting sprig of blowball braided into her chestnut locks.

THE END

Thank you all so much for reading! I’ve been working on this for several months now and I can’t believe how long it ended up being. I’ve never written anything nearly this long before. And to the think the only idea I had at the very beginning was that I knew I wanted to write something about Geralt breaking a curse. Somehow this story grew out of that. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. And I’m sure this is not the last Witcher story I will write if my past is any sort of indication. Thanks again and please leave a comment with your thoughts on the story!