Please note:
If you haven't played The Witcher 3 and the "Hearts of Stone" DLC, this story contains a lots of spoilers.
**SPOILERS BELOW**
World state choices are as follows:
1. Ciri will become empress.
2. Nilfgaard has won the war, but restored some sovereignty to Temeria (yay good guy Vernon Roche!)
3. Radovid is DEAD (bastard)
4. Geralt and Yennefer are together
And I took some additional liberties...
1. Triss stays in Novigrad, not Kovir.
2. Vesemir isn't dead. I can't. It makes perfect sense in the game and is handled poignantly and touchingly. But I love the old man and I need him in my story. #Sorrynotsorry.
I. Free
"I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul."
-"Invictus", William Ernest Henley
The man peered in the small rectangular mirror poised before the wash basin. He ran his hands over his freshly shaven cheeks, his pale green eyes piercing and deep. He stared at his scars, the legacy of so many years of knowing that no matter what, he could not be destroyed even when facing defeat.
Hell knew he had tried early on.
But that ordeal had ended. Now, he saw, turning his chiseled face to each side, he would age. Now he was capable of being injured and taking ill. Someday he would die.
The scars along his head shone smoothly under the water and soap he'd lathered on to shave his red hair. Between him and the door stood the rest of his now finite life, he realized, suddenly struck by the enormity of the realization. He had already wasted too much time pondering what had happened, overwhelmed by all the rushing memories and feelings, to the point of numbness.
A heart of stone had allowed him to cut a violent swath through life without remorse. Even though he understood matters rationally, they did not pierce him as such things should. For so long he had watched everything about him unfurl with tepid interest, as if he were a spectator at a grand spectacle, one that was often pompous and over the top, ribald or maudlin, but regardless, always taunting him from an insurmountable distance.
After the curse on him had been lifted, and he walked down the mountain with the Witcher, Olgierd von Everec remained steadfast, even as he found himself halting, waves of pain and grief surging and rushing him.
"Take your time," the Witcher had told him patiently, dropping a heavy gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Odd you should say that," he retorted, leaning against the rocks. "Time is a luxury I can no longer dispose of."
When he'd offered the Witcher his sword, he'd done so fully cognizant that it was only a token of appreciation for the monumental deed he'd done. He'd handed his sword over with words of gratitude, his tongue accustomed to uttering the right, proper words. This time, however, the words echoed from within him as if plucked from his very entrails, his sinews, a pained and melancholy landscape he could scarce recognize, wild and unruly. He had had to command himself to keep his hand from shaking.
"What will you do?" the Witcher had asked him on that strange, fateful day.
" I don't know," he admitted.
He'd followed that up with a small speech about seizing his fate, refusing to return to the life he'd had before. But while he knew clearly what he did not wish to do, he still had no idea what he would do with his life.
He owed his band an explanation. At least a farewell. He returned to Oxenfurt and met with Čedomir, his handpicked Lieutenant, a trusted, loyal, reliable soldier whose flesh featured almost as many scars as his. Čedomir was a man whose grey hair once had been lush and dark when he first joined him and Vlodimir as part of the Redanian Free Company—the Wild Ones. He'd left the man in charge of the unruly band and had no intention of relieving him of his post.
"I am sure you will be in great demand," Olgierd had assured him. "With Radovid deposed, you know there are scores of nobles quaking in their boots. They'll be eager for some 'protection' until order is restored," he explained.
"And where will you be going?" Čedomir asked, trying his darnedest to disguise his disappointment.
"I have not decided yet."
"The von Everec estate?" the man wondered hopefully.
Olgierd's face clouded.
"Never."
"And your restored fortune?" Čedomir insisted. "You ought to enjoy it—set up grand headquarters…Perhaps a castle! No! An impenetrable fortress!" he continued excitedly.
Olgierd grinned before remembering something. He reached into his satchel and tugged out a scroll.
"You just reminded me," he stated, handing the scroll over to the man. He took the parchment warily, unfurling over the table in the secluded corner of the tavern they were meeting at. As his eyes perused the document, they widened.
"Holy Melitele," the man uttered.
"See to it that everyone gets their fair share…And make sure the whoresons don't waste it all on drink or Gwent."
"This is a fortune," Čedomir noted.
"Should be enough to ensure each one of you has somewhere to call your own and upon which to drop dead." He winked, eager to conclude their meeting. They raised and clanked their tankards, Čedomir reviving somewhat.
"It'll be good to finally have a proper home," Čedomir admitted.
"You mean other than the whorehouse?" Olgierd teased.
The men chuckled before sipping their ales. Olgierd closed his eyes, the taste of bitter hops refreshing on his tongue. It was standard tavern swill —what he expected to find in a cheap tavern in Oxenfurt where one could pay the barkeep not to notice details or remember names—and at that moment he was terribly glad he was enjoying it, that his experience of it was heavily influenced by his affection for Čedomir, by the twinge of irrevocability that had settled over him as he gradually extricated himself from that mercenary existence and the people who had fought alongside him unquestioningly.
"Don't think me ungrateful, but may I ask something?"
Olgierd leaned back, expectantly. Čedomir was the only one in the Company who knew of his curse, his disastrous deal with O'Dimm.
"With this money you could seek out and hire powerful enchantresses, you could try to see if what has been done could be undone."
Olgierd crossed his arms, his face stern.
"It has been undone," he muttered.
"No. That's not what I meant," Čedomir continued more conspiratorially. Both men broke away from each other as a tavern maid brought them fresh tankards. He waited until the woman had stepped back behind the bar to lean over the table once again. "All those years we spent searching and learning about…" his voice dropped. "There are other powerful beings out there. What is stopping you from spending your gold on an expedition to find a djinn or a—"
"I learned my lesson: I am done making deals with beings on another plane," Olgierd stated plainly. "What would you have me ask for?"
"You could wish for your Lady to be restored to you."
"My wanting her by my side was what brought us all misfortune in the first place. How could I summon her from whatever peace she has finally reached? And for what purpose? And, more sinisterly: in what state?"
"But the Witcher himself told you that the Lady still loved you," Čedomir persisted.
"To love and to remain together are two different matters," Olgierd told him. "And I think it is precisely because I can now remember how much I loved her as well that I could never wish for such a thing. Not after all I've done to her. She loved the Olgierd she knew once, the Olgierd she always hoped I could return to being. Not this," he said contemptuously. "Not even with the curse lifted. It's too late. I've wrought too much damage. Let her be—she deserves to rest in peace. Away from me. Away from the memories."
"You could word it so that you returned to the past, to a time before these things came to pass," Čedomir proposed.
At that point, Olgierd felt the conversation was purely academic.
"Both of us as innocent as we were before all of this came to transpire?…Absolutely not," Olgierd argued. "Because in me there would always be that inclination to do it all over again, that weakness—a vulnerability. Make no mistake: I'd be ripe to be swindled by the Master of Mirrors again," Olgierd concluded, avoiding mention of the being's name lest it seem like some sort of summons, perhaps even an invitation. "And worse: I would be none the wiser. Although the man I was once could claim to be much happier than I, I would not, knowing what I know now, wish to be in his shoes again."
"And if you retained your memories?" Čedomir countered.
Olgierd smirked.
"I'd be very alone, now, wouldn't I? Having this secret within, the knowledge that I once destroyed Iris through my indifference? The truth is I did not deserve her. Once I set events into motion, I was no longer worthy of her. Do you know what is ironic?" he asked.
Čedomir sighed, resting his cheek over his fist. His eyes swam from the drink.
"That while I blamed the Borsodis for our downfall, I never blamed myself at first for how I dealt with that downfall. Yes, they were underhanded and greedy. I have no sympathy for the end of their lineage. But there I was, spitting at their lording power over us…And I did the same thing. I interfered with fate, imposing a new destiny with disastrous results. I often wonder what would have happened if only I had shown patience, some restraint…some faith," he murmured darkly. "I was so determined to control things that I only saw one way, one possibility—and I grasped at that opportunity to our detriment. I can now think of a thousand choices, all of them more preferable, even the one in which Iris marries the Ofieri and decides she does love him after all. Arrogance." He nodded to the mesmerized man. "Pride. But worst of all: desperation."
He left soon afterwards, embracing his old friend for the last time, chased by a pain that had grown so intense that it roared within him.
A business trip to Tretogor was in order, as well. There was the matter of the von Everec estate. He needed to ensure that no one would try to inhabit it. He couldn't bear to sell it—not yet, at least—but he would have the structure razed to the ground.
"T'is really best if you sell it," the solicitor he'd retained recommended. "You will still be held accountable for taxes."
"The house should be destroyed," he insisted emphatically.
"What of any belongings inside?" the man forged ahead dutifully despite disagreeing with the odd request.
"I doubt there is much of value left there… But any paintings," he recalled, his expression softening, "any surviving paintings in good condition should be placed in a vault for safekeeping."
"Very well," the man summed up in his nasal voice. "Structure destroyed…Garden and grounds preserved. Any objets d'art stored in a vault in your name. Yearly taxes and other fees will come out of an account in…"he paused to browse through the parchment he was drafting. "Oxenfurt."
"Correct," Olgierd acknowledged. His head ached. He was hyper attentive to the solicitor's wording, trying to anticipate any loopholes that would exempt the man from following through on his directives and taking advantage of him. Such attentiveness had become a tiresome habit of his.
"The work crew will come from Novigrad, but will hire local hands to complete the task and dispose of debris…You said a Witcher has ensured the site is free of monsters?"
"Yes," he declared clearly. "But the crew should definitely have an armed escort. I have no idea if any brigands are squatting there…or if anything else has managed to settle within the walls."
"The neighboring town may not like to have such a large area left vacant."
"Farther north there was a Temple to Melitele," Olgierd interrupted. "If they are still there, offer them the land for rent. They may tend to the gardens, establish some dwellings there, tend to pilgrims and—"
"Rent the land…"The solicitor rubbed his chin interestedly. "That's definitely a more viable option. But if you expect to make a profit renting it out to a Temple —"
"To the Temple," Olgierd insisted.
The man let out a discreet huff filled with contained exasperation.
"Very well. And for how much would you be renting the land to the Temple?"
Olgierd leaned over the table, tapping his finger on the parchment.
"Write down: one copper," he completed, with a sly grin.
The solicitor peered at him with undisguised disapproval and finally removed his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose tiredly.