Cold winds whipped across the grassy lawn of the castle, an oddity in the heart of summer. She shivered, looking up to the gray skies above, clouds broiling overhead as if sensing the grim duty that she had to undertake this day. She stifled a shiver, wrapping her red coat tighter around her lithe frame, hunching her shoulders against the wind as she followed the small procession out across the castle's grounds towards the forest. Ahead, Bertram, Amanda, and a small circle of others moved single-file. The normally jovial Steward now bore a solemn expression, a heavy slab of stone in his hands. Beside him, shovel slung over his shoulder, marched Svar, the Witcher equally grim of countenance.
As the wind whipped at her dark, almost mahogany hair, the young adept reached up to brush a few strands away, tucking them behind her ear. She resisted lifting her hands to rub her arms. The others wouldn't see her tremble, not even now. She wouldn't allow it.
The procession passed the border of the forest, leaving Kaer Marter behind.
~o~0~o~
Blood. The smell of it normally wouldn't bother her, but now... now she knew its owner, and that knowledge brought with it a sickening sensation in her gut. The adepts were still screaming around her, but she remained silent, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding before her. Njall being dragged away, screaming threats and obscenities as he was restrained, along with his accursed thralls, the Nightsabers. Other Masters moved in, demanding potions, bandages, herbs, anything and everything that might help. Countless adepts stood around and gawked, uncertain how to respond.
At the centre of the throng, in the very heart of the disruption, lay a dying man. The man she had called Master, and pinned so many of her hopes and desires upon. The man who was to lead her on her life of scientific discovery, and teach her all his deepest, darkest practices. The man she had loved. A few more pathetic gasps, and the life left his eyes, breast stilling. She could almost feel the heart stop beating. She'd seen plenty do so during her studies, analysed the way the muscles tensed, then released their energy one final time, to move no longer. A part of her should have been concerned that she could picture such an image so clearly when it was happening to someone she cared about, but instead she felt little, if anything.
She turned away, ignoring Amanda's frenzied shrieks of anguish, the rage of Grandmaster Treysse as he stormed in, the mutters of the other adepts. None of that mattered to her. Not now, anyway.
She barely heard it, so loud was the racket around her. A subtle groan of agony, little more than a pained whimper. She looked to the floor, spotting an adept, one of the Nightsabers, lying curled up in a ball. Blood pooled around him, seeping from a wound to his gut, but it wasn't his blood that coated his hands. Beside him, a red-haired adept, someone she did not recognise, fretted over him, fear in his features. He looked to her, pleading.
The anger took hold of her like a red-hot flame, blazing bright in her heart. Her normally straight lips curled back, revealing a threatening row of gleaming white teeth, almost fangs as she allowed a hiss of fury to escape from behind them. A booted foot turned the injured Nightsaber over, the heel then jabbing down on his injury, bringing forth a pained gasp. She would not have admitted it, but eliciting such pain from her Master's attacker did stir more than a little satisfaction in her soul. It was only when someone grabbed her by the shoulder that she halted. She quickly quashed the feelings of rage and the lust for vengeance in her breast, instead tossing the red-haired adept a roll of linen from her pocket, turning to march away before she did something she'd truly regret.
She turned to look at the Witcher who had intervened. It was Gedymin. He was muttering something, trying to make her understand something about duties and responsibilities, about how the burden of her Master's work now rested upon her shoulders. She wasn't ready to hear this. She wondered if she ever would be.
They were moving him now. Well, moving the lump of meat that had once been him. She sighed, deigning to follow them. There'd be time to truly absorb what had happened later. For now, she was one of the few in the castle with the skills necessary to handle a cadaver. There was work to be done.
~o~0~o~
The small procession entered a clearing. At its heart, a number of tombstones awaited, some with names inscribed on them, most dedicated to nameless Witchers, their medallions the only things retrieved at their time of passing. It was rare for a Witcher to leave an identifiable corpse that could be sent back to the castle.
She stood to one side as the others set to work. There was a freshly filled grave in the middle of the graveyard, soil still dark and moist from being moved. Bertram and Svar set about digging a small trench, setting the newly carved tombstone in place.
She tilted her head, regarding the inscription on the stone. 'Potetris non tractare verum'- 'You can not handle the truth.' She had to sneer inwardly at that. Now she knew the truth about her former Master, now that his writings had lifted the veil from across her eyes, she had to wonder what the other Witchers would say if they truly knew who he had been.
~o~0~o~
Candles burned around her, their combined heat summoning forth beads of sweat on her brow. Even now, deep into the night, she continued to work. To one side, drooping over her portion of the desk, Amanda had fallen into a deep slumber, snoring gently. She shook her head. No stamina for this kind of work.
She turned back to her own work, puzzling out the numerous notes that lay before her. She found the disorganised, cluttered mess deeply frustrating. Surely he'd worked with more clarity of mind than this? More attention to detail, more organisation? The papers before her, while undoubtedly written by his hand, seemed almost totally alien to her, unlike anything she had seen from the old Master.
As the hours passed, she finally herded the fragmented notes into a semblance of order, sitting back to read them through from beginning to end, a goblet of wine in one hand. The fiery embers of her dark eyes gleamed in the waning light of the candles, a solitary star sitting at the heart of each shining orb, burning with unreadable fire, the hunger of intelligence and cunning lurking behind them. She ran her fingers through her hair, now almost raven-black in the gloom, tinged through with just a hint of blood red, a faint trace of scarlet left by her Witcher mutations. Her fingers played idly with the wolf's head medallion that hung around her neck, feeling the sharpened points of its shape tease her skin, threatening to draw blood but never quite going so far.
As time passed, a furrow grew upon her brow, eyes narrowing as she puzzled over what she was reading. She turned back a few pages, reading it again and again. Talk of the perfect Witcher, of mutagens, and of controlling them, of exulting in one's own intelligence and ability, of control and mastery. Spiteful words about those who had spurned him, and defying them with his continued work. Musings that almost seemed deranged, spouting from a mind more obsessed with godhood and acclaim than actual scientific endeavours, than the true act of innovation and discovery. The raw ego on display on the pages infuriated- no, disgusted- her.
She could feel her ire rising, amplified by her disappointment. These were not the writings of genius. These were the musings of a man obsessed with his own stature, with his own delusions of self-elevation through his work. Was this truly the man she had dedicated herself to? The man she had allowed herself to love, to compromise herself for?
She set the notes down carefully, so as not to waken Amanda. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepling before her mouth as she considered pensive thoughts. Around her, one, by one, the candles were snuffed out, until only her luminous, burning eyes remained in the darkness.
~o~0~o~
The others were reciting something now. Some kind of funeral rites, vows of vengeance, fond memories, pledges to honour his memory. Some vowed to ensure that his work continued. She had to pause at that. Gedymin's words on the day her Master died, about her responsibilities, her duties, they flooded back to her. Was that what she had to do? Preserve his work, make sure that his memory didn't fade with his passing?
The others had paused, turning to look at her. She took a few cautious steps forward, looking down at the fresh grave with her piercing, deadly gaze. By her sides, her hands hung, limp, open. She reached over with one hand, twisting at the silver ring that adorned one of the fingers of her other hand. In her head, countless thoughts flowed, a storm that she could easily lose herself in. She glanced down to her hands, surprised to see one of them shivering, just a little.
She straightened, drawing in a deep breath as the others watched her. By her side, the shaking hand clenched into a fist, knuckles glowing white with the strain as her fist tapped her thigh.
No. The thought bellowed through her mind, not aggressive, but resolute. She would not follow in his footsteps. She was not his tool to carry on his work after he was gone. She was more than that. She had more to offer.
She waited until the others had turned to leave, still staring at the grave as Bertram and finally Svar moved past her, the Steward offering a comforting pat on her shoulder, although she did not need it. While the others may have seen an ending with that grave, she could only see a beginning. New horizons awaited. New discoveries.
She would continue with her studies, building upon what she knew, but she would not lose herself to her own ego like he had. She would not fall into the traps of pride and arrogance, of aspiring to be a god. She would not be an echo of Meinard of Mettina, developing only in his shadow. She would exceed her old Master. She would be better.
A rare smile pulled at her lips, a flash of predatory light gleaming in her eyes. She knew what she had to do. Now, finally, she had purpose once more. The Witcher adept known as Jutte turned on her heel, leaving the grave with nary a regretful thought, an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders, and marched back to the castle. To her studies. To her future. To being better.