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Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
“Now that place is well and truly trashed,” Lambert grumbled, straining his neck and looking up the remains of what once had been the west wall of Kaer Morhen. The battle had damaged all parts of the keep and with them having been gone for more than a year to fight the Wild Hunt in Undvik, a few more structures had collapsed.
“The explosion you caused saved my sorry skin but did the west wall no favours,” Vesemir replied, his keen eyes surveying the structure.
Vesemir standing beside him felt strange still, stranger still that it should have been Lambert who returned up here with the old Witcher. Ever since that battle something had changed, and Lambert felt uneasy in his own skin. Maybe it was the honest thanks after the battle, maybe it was just that something else had changed and Vesemir treated him differently, Lambert did not know. It felt all strange, and sometimes Lambert would have given good coin for some scathing remark like from before. And still, somehow he would not give up Vesemir’s regard either. To this day he could not see how he had found the strength to break free of the ice, and trigger the bombs he had hidden along the wall, giving Eredin and his frosty ilk a nasty surprise. “We can clear out the old quarters and move everything over into the South tower,” he suggested. “It was the least damaged, move the laboratory into the cellars, along with storage, and we should be fine.”
“Makes sense,” Lambert had yet to get used to Vesemir agreeing with him on something, or anything really. “South tower is smaller, easier defended. Might get crowded though,”
Lambert shook his head. “Crowded by who? Geralt? He already was up here, getting whatever he did not want to leave behind, before going to settle down - with which sorceress exactly? Eskel won’t come back for another decade or two until he is over Geralt being an idiot again. And then he can get one of the rooms in the south bastion, he always liked the cold.” He did not go on, no need to mention that Coën was dead, fallen in Brenna, Ivo and Axios lost fending off the horde right here in Kaer Morhen, and some others were dead too. “We can go through all the old building, dig out what needs to be kept, and bring it over to the tower.”
For the next few days, Lambert and Vesemir had been busy. Moving through the ruin was dangerous at best, and they needed to enter places they had not been actively using for years, to simply get all the gear and supplies moving. The old armoury, the laboratory, and parts of the library went into the underground structures of the south tower. They fell into an easy rhythm of working side by side or splitting up for different tasks, and coming together again when the time came to move their finds to the tower.
After three weeks Lambert began to feel even stranger. He had never considered Kaer Morhen his home, just the place he had been sent to in repayment for his family’s lives, and yet… he found himself thinking of the tower as a home, a place that was his. Maybe because Vesemir did not comment on anything he did with his own quarters or the laboratory, leaving Lambert to arrange those as he wanted them. Vesemir in turn did the same with the armory and the library. Only Vesemir’s own quarters remained strangely barren. He had moved the necessities, a bedstead and two old battered chests over, but nothing else. Lambert noticed that Vesemir prioritised all other parts of the castle over his old quarters. So one morning Lambert decided to tackle the problem right away. They all had their ghosts in these halls, after all. “I can help you with clearing out your quarters today,” he said as they moved out into the yard. “I already rescued what there was to rescue from Eskel’s den, now it’s your turn.”
Vesemir arched an eyebrow at him, and for a moment Lambert almost hoped to get one sharp comment like before, but it did not come. “Not much there that needs moving,” Vesemir replied.
“Your journals for one,” Lambert had not been to Vesemir’s quarters since his student days, where he had earned himself a lot of punishments, many served with Vesemir. He must have copied all of Everard’s Libram of the Dark at least twice, at the very least. He remembered the books, that nook with the small table and the maps, the weapons. Vesemir’s quarters had always looked like a person had been living there for a long time. A person, not just someone. There was a difference. “And the maps,” he added.
The older witcher sighed. “We might as well,” he said, hesitantly. “Did you get all from your quarters?”
Lambert scoffed. “Days ago, old man,” he said, shaking his head. “Before the wall from Eskel’s den collapsed and could bury all my alchemy books.”
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Together they walked across the yard and into the crumbling building. The main stairwell was unstable, they had to balance along the main bearings, and even as his feet found purchase on the shaking stones, Lambert’s heart was shaking even more. It had been ages that he had been on these stairs, slowly ascending towards the trainer’s rooms to report for punishment. His throat constricted, the nerves knew no years. All of a sudden he was twelve again, and afraid of what awaited on the other end of the stairwell. Hatred, anger and fear coiled in his stomach, like angry serpents rearing their heads. He stumbled, his balance suddenly askew.
A sure hand caught him before he could fall. Vesemir had turned around and steadied him. “Maybe we should go back,” he said softly.
“No,” Lambert growled, he was not sure what was worse, the memories or Vesemir being worried about him. Damn him, could the old wolf not bark at him, like he used to, and tell him to get a grip? “We go up,” he said a bit more firmly.
And Vesemir accepted his choice, once sure Lambert was steady again, he turned around and made his way further up, never once wavering. They reached the landing and the part of the building that was still standing. “Last one left,” Vesemir told him, he went ahead, checking whether or not it was stable. This part was still standing.
Lambert frowned. “Thought you’d have moved up front, to Rennes’ place after…”
“No, I didn’t. Stayed where I was.” Vesemir replied curtly. “But that reminds me - he had most of the records, and… some books that might be worth a look in his place. I never touched it before. You head on to my quarters, just grab the books and the maps.”
Lambert had no wish to enter Rennes’ quarters, only Varin’s would be worse, and those were trashed, luckily. He headed on down the hall to the room Vesemir had indicated. The dark door was familiar, heavy oak wood, scarred and dented, there were a few deep gashes that Lambert did not remember. The fighting that night must have carried up here. He had never asked, never known where most of the trainers had died. He had not wanted to know.
Now that he stood in front of the door, he again felt like that boy long ago. Why was this so hard? The boy back then had hated all of the trainers, he had only venom for Varin, he seethed at Rennes and he absolutely hated Vesemir. Maybe he had hated Vesemir more than the rest of them. Because while the other boys would agree that Varin was a pig and Rennes an old sweat, Vesemir was different. His students feared and revered him, they worshipped him and they aspired to become like him, and for that Lambert hated him more than the rest.
And yet… when Vesemir had been faced off against Imlerith and was losing, there had never been an option that Vesemir would die. It had been unacceptable. And somehow that had given Lambert the strength to break free, to overcome the spell of the ice. Rager, pure rage and anger had burned through the frost long enough to trigger the bombs and then attack, forcing Imlerith to let go of Vesemir. The old wolf hadn’t needed much more, a chance, a small chance had been enough to get him back to his feet and into the fray. Lambert grinned, that Elf Bastard had learned a few lessons that night.
Even now, with the distance of over a year, Lambert did not want to analyze the sheer elation he had felt, when he realised he had done it, and Vesemir was still standing. Better not to reflect too much.
He pushed the door open and entered the somewhat familiar room. A few things had changed, the boards were stuffed with more books, and the bed looked like it had been used for all kinds of things, but rarely for sleeping. Lambert began to methodically gather up the books, and that task alone was a challenge, because there were books stuffed in every nook and cranny of this place. How many were there? It was almost like a library on its own.
Carefully he looked at some of them. A few of them were on monsters and herb lore, but others were wildly unrelated to Witchering life. Of Cause and Task was a strategists treatise, written in old Nilfgaardian, Beyond the Sword was another work on war, and on predicting the enemy’s reactions on the battlefield, Sand in their eyes dealt with the use of spies in modern warfare, Path of the moon suddenly skipped to navigation, and astral mathematics, The Science of Darkness proved to be a mad geniuses writings that went right over Lambert’s head, the list went on. Lambert had always known that Vesemir was a very knowledgable man, he had taught them well, and even long after they had grown up, they often turned to him with questions, and he usually knew answers. But this… this was beyond that. This was knowledge gathered over decades, centuries, Lambert would guess. He took several sacks and began to sort the books at least roughly. They’d need another room to house them decently. Who knew the old wolf had found a copy of the Arcanum and kept it? Most Mages would sell their souls for a look on those pages, and then throw in a few less-than-savoury favours for a second look.
Realising the kind of treasure stashed in that room, Lambert took his time to go through it thoroughly, pulling books from small lockers, stashed in corners, and even from under the musty fur blankets. There was a gap in the wall right beside the bed, and when he looked closer, three books were inside, carefully he extricated them, they were of different sizes, one was an ancient leather-bound quart, the second looked like a journal of sorts, and the third was very small, prayer-book size.
Carefully Lambert opened the one that looked like an old traveller’s journal, to ascertain it’s contents. It was not written in the typical round hand of a scribe, but in a much more edgier hand, the letters uneven on the old parchment.
6th of Faille, 1060
We are across the Likseh and hopefully safe, those of us who are still alive. About sixty men are gathered in the valley below. Sir Renaud died during our escape. He died free, on his feet. Which is more than can be said for many we lost. The men look to me for leadership. What can I tell them? We lost. The forces this elf rallied are brutal, and they do not fight with honour. They ambushed us in the narrow valleys, using avalanches and magic as their main weapons. As for us captives… I would rather not dwell on those days. We need to gather the survivors, lead them back, and reorganize. We? It is me now I guess. Renaud is dead, and so is father, along with Valion and Verimar. It’s just me now. There is no one else left.
Lambert frowned. 1060 was over two hundred years ago, that was about the time of Aelirenn’s rebellion, and that journal sounded like it was written by a human who must have been part of the butchering. Why had Vesemir kept such a book? Everyone knew the elves had lost and been eradicated. It had been the beginning of the end for them, as losing their young meant losing those of their kind able to have children.
He skipped through a few pages, most of them dealt with military matters, gathering the knights who had escaped, reorganising troops, and now and then a mention of his father and brothers lost, the man who had written these lines sounded weary, and doubtful about himself. Until Lambert’s eyes fell on another entry.
17th Duir, 1060
We are marching again, manoeuvring to outflank and trap them in their garden city. Losses are still severe and we find remains of captives when we retake terrain. I try not to look, not to think if one of them is Varis, deep down I fear I know the answer. Another summer fades into this campaign. How many summers has it been? Twelve, I think. Twelve for sure. Twelve years and never a word, no letter, nothing. At evenings like this I wonder if my brother is still alive. Or did he die long ago? Something inside me does not believe it, or maybe I have to believe that my twin yet lives. But on evenings like this when the sun sets, I wonder where Vesemir is now, and if he is alright.
Lambert almost dropped the journal, like it was a hot coal. Could it be? Was it possible? Was it even feasible that what he held in his hands was the journal of Vesemir’s brother? His twin even? The way the young man spoke of his responsibilities, of taking command, he could not be some low-born brat but had to be noble born at the very least.
Slowly Lambert sat down on the three legged stool, trying to calm himself. He did not know anything about Vesemir, he realised. Not where he had come from, how he had come to the Witcher training. Vesemir was the sword-master and he had been Barmin’s student, those were the meagre facts Lambert had to go on. Hastily he flipped through the journal, finding the last page, only penned a little later.
1st of Coll, 1060
After losing at the fords we are circling backwards, to tackle their city, with their forces still flung afield. It might give us the advantage we need.
There were no entries after, none at all. Carefully Lambert set the book aside and looked at the second one, the quart. He was not entirely surprised to find it was Alcyon’s Chronicles of the Elven Uprising. Lambert had never bothered to read the long-winded chronicle, but now he rifled through the page to find the right time. Coll translated as September in modern calendars, and there he found it.
In early September of 1060 Valerian of Hawk’s Reach led an assault on Shaerrewedd itself, soundly defeating the elven forces, who were out of position and returning from earlier battles, found themselves forced to attack their own city, which had been taken by the human forces. Fighting valiantly Sir Valerian found his end by an Elven blade in the back, cowardly murdered by a foe who did not dare to face him honestly. With him the last of the noble house of Hawk’s Reach fell in battle. Maybe the memory be long remembered.
On the other side of the chronicle - it was an expensive version - was a drawing, a simple charcoal drawing of a young man, in his mid-twenties. Suddenly Lambert’s hands shook, for the picture was the spitting image of Vesemir - if one was able to imagine him much younger. His twin. Fallen in battle. Killed from behind. The last of their family - of a noble line, Lambert could not quite place the house, he had never bothered to learn the genealogy of long-dead noble lines, but the wording was clear enough. Vesemir had always been sceptical about the elves, neither condemning them nor overly empathising with them. Having lost his blood family to them, he probably held little love for their killers. Just cause or not.
But how… how in the world had Vesemir ended up in Witcher training? Children of noble blood - true born children - simply were not given to the Witchers. It almost never happened. Except. Lambert closed his eyes. Of course. Child of surprise. A child of surprise was usually the one thing that hit high and low equally.
And still, Vesemir’s twin had remembered him clearly enough. And if it was twelve years ago, that he had last seen his brother, and he had penned those lines a day before his own death - Vesemir must have been ten or older when he came to the Witchers.
A sudden pang of pain rose inside Lambert’s chest. He too had been nine when he came to Kaer Morhen, and he hated them with a passion. Hated Vesemir. Looking back he could admit that Vesemir had tried to show him kindness, of a sort, understanding. He had always scoffed at Vesemir’s understanding, how could he understand? He had assumed Vesemir had come to the Wolves too young to remember his family. Now Lambert realised that all his assumptions had been hollow.
Gingerly he took the smallest book, almost not daring to look at it. He cracked it open to see a colourful and utterly incorrect illumination of a gryphon one page. On the other side was clearly written text. On an island at the edge of the world, there lives a creature that is not lion, not eagle, not horse and not fish, and yet a little of all of them.
The saga of the Gryphon, Lambert recognised it, it was a tale told to children, along with other sagas. This small book was a valuable miniature copy of the story. He went back to the very first page, which held initials and ex libieris marker. V&V oHr, Valerian and Vesemir of Hawk’s Reach. If nothing else had, this book drove it home. Children did not possess books, except if their families were rich enough to have a scribe make the work and copy one for them. This spoke of wealth, of power, of a house with means. Again his eyes strayed over the books he had gathered up from the room. Books and knowledge, the education of a noble-born boy, before being sent to…
Why?
Lambert wondered. Why would a noble house give up one well-bred boy to become a bastard with a silver sword. “Why?” he asked the silence. “Why give one of your children to death itself to dance on the graves?”
“Word of honour, little wolf,” Vesemir’s voice ripped him from his musings. “My father had given Barmin his word after Barmin saved his life in the Craggs. He swore he’d send one of his sons to serve. When Barmin came to collect he chose me because I was best with the blade,” the older man had walked up to sitting Lambert and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let the past have its ashes, little wolf, or it will destroy you.”
Lambert knew that Vesemir was not speaking about what he had discovered here but about Lambert’s own pain, about the anger he still carried, the pain etched into his soul. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt after time,” Lambert growled. “You kept those books. And not because it stopped hurting.”
Vesemir’s eyes went to the wall behind his desk, where a broken sword was mounted on the wall. “Of course it hurts, it hurts every day. But if it stopped hurting, it would mean I had forgotten. That’s worse. As long as someone remembers, they are not lost. Love them, hate them, they are the roots we came from, and we cannot live without them, much like a tree could not live without roots.”
Slowly Lambert got up, stepping beside him, his heart suddenly full. “Is this why you did not want to come up here? Because you wanted to let it all go?”
The older witcher turned to him and looked up, opal eyes shimmering with pain - and shame. “Afraid to face up to it all,” he said, his voice rough. “I had the strength to avenge my brothers, but I was too weak, to be a better trainer. I accepted that pain had to be part of the process. Hate would keep you alive, and would get you through the darkness, hate is a good way to survive… and I forgot that you would need more than the rage. You saved my life… and I knew I had done nothing to deserve it.”
Suddenly Lambert could not hold it back any longer, his chest felt like a weight of lead was pressing down on his heart. He grabbed Vesemir’s shoulder drawing the smaller man into a hug. “Damn it, old wolf, you wanted us to live,” he said, his voice just as rough. “You tried to keep us alive. Better students alive to scream their anger at you, than bury us down by the river with the others.”
He felt Vesemir’s arms close around him, drawing him into a bone-crushing hug. “Still could have done better, surviving is nothing when your soul dies,”
For a moment - Lambert would never dare to say how long - they just held each other, and the brutal weight that Lambert never had realised he carried in his heart seemed to melt away slowly but surely. Eventually, he pulled back, eyes meeting Vesemir’s pale opal eyes, and the temptation to smile sheepishly was there. Only, he wasn’t embarrassed, or ashamed, just shocked. Shocked to find he understood the old wolf. “Let’s get all those notes over to the tower,” he said. “If we are to go another century or so like this, we want the library in one place.”
Vesemir’s eyes sparkled and a rare smile lit up his stern features. “Thank you,” he said, it didn’t need more, Lambert could read all that remained unsaid in those words.
All is always now.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
(T.S. Eliot: Four Quartets)