J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: Chapter 9, Brothers in Arms

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."


Shit. This is fucked up.

That was Lambert's helpful contribution. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Three Witchers, an Enchantress and a Witcheress were gathered in the master bedroom. Geralt didn't like it but he didn't have any other choice. Seeing was believing, even if it meant inviting people into this very intimate place and to gaze upon his raven-haired beauty as she rested. Still, he didn't like it. Not at all. Yennefer had always been a fairly private person.

"For once, I might actually have to agree with his choice of words," said Eskel seriously, running his hands over his jaw. "I don't know what to say, Wolf."

"Why don't you start with an answer."

The room went uncomfortably silent after Geralt spoke. Eskel was pacing up and down the balcony slowly, Keira was staring across the room at something apparently only she could see while Lambert was leaning against the wall, flipping a knife. Ciri and Geralt exchanged a look.

"I know it's a lot to ask but-"

"Of course I'll help, Geralt," interrupted Eskel. He turned on the spot to face him, hand still under his jaw. "The problem is that I'm not sure how."

"By doing what you do best, silly. Fighting." Ciri gestured towards the two blades hanging from his back.

"Fighting what, exactly?" asked the third Witcher snidely, making a wide gesture with his arms before folding them across his chest. "Don't suppose these nightmares would be kind enough to take the form of something we actually know how to kill." Nobody answered. "No, didn't think so."

"Lambert!" warned Keira, fixing him with a look that spoke volumes.

He threw his arms up. "What? Someone here has to be realistic because it seems that these two bloody idiots have completely lost their minds." He pointed towards Ciri and Geralt, the latter of whom was beginning to rise to his feet. "What do you want me to say? That this will all work fine? It won't. You're all about to sail up shit creek without a paddle, a map or a fucking sail."

"If you don't want to join us Lambert, then go," said Geralt coldly, looking at his brother with an unrelenting stare.

"I really wish it was that fucking easy," spat Lambert, spinning the dagger between his fingers, "but when have I ever been as bloody lucky as that?"

"If you don't want to help, then there's nothing keeping you here."

"Really, you think so Geralt? Nothing at all?"

Geralt grunted angrily. Lambert had always gotten on his nerves, but now his patience was thinner than ever. "I haven't got time for your games, Lambert," said Geralt through gritted teeth. He took a step closer but he was stopped by Eskel's hand on his shoulder. The other Witcher shook his head.

"Be realistic, Geralt," stated Lambert, completely ignoring Keira who was shooting daggers at him. "We don't stand a fucking chance against him. Do you remember what happened last time we tried to fight him? No, you probably don't want to, so let me tell you. We almost died, Geralt. We almost died trying to fight that bastard who was only there because you tried to confront him in the first place. And you want to do the whole fucking thing over. I'm beginning to think I'm more likely to be killed because of one of your stupid ideas than I am to die in the middle of some swamp with my innards spilling out."

"Then why are you still here, Lambert?" growled Geralt, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Because I want you to know that I think you're an ugly fucking dumb ass, that you're completely deranged and that I hate you before your half-cocked rescue plan gets me killed." Geralt looked at Lambert as though he'd never seen him before, treating the Witcher's offered hand as though it was an alien object. "I'll help, just wanted to make it clear than when I die, it's entirely your fault."

Geralt chuckled before shaking his hand.

"You're a prick, Lambert."

"And you're a hypocrite, Geralt."


Within the next couple of weeks, a collection of people began to arrive at the doors of Corvo Bianco, either under their own steam or through the collective work of Triss, Ciri and Keira. A group of mercenaries who owed Lambert a favour for god knows what - nobody wanted to ask. Zoltan and several barrels of his extremely volatile Mahakam mix. Hjalmar and a handful - of what he claimed to be - the best warriors Skellige had ever seen; all anyone else was certain of is that they were the loudest drinkers. Shani and a couple of medical students she was about to throw straight in at the deep end with on-hand experience. Rita, Dorregaray and Fringilla, and much to everyone's surprise, Philippa Eilhart, all appeared out of the blue in the courtyard causing quite a start. The latter seemed to be fuming from head to toe, and Triss, who was avoiding her like the plague, seemed to be the only one not astonished by her arrival. Some of the priestesses Nenneke had contacted managed to make their way to Toussaint and each arrived with a handful of very rare plants they had collected along the way. Their forces had grown to such a phenomenal size that the estate could no longer cope with the capacity forcing the bedrolls to spill out of the cellar and onto the courtyard, orchard and surrounding fields where several large tents were now erected.

The study and library of the main house had been turned into a war room where the Master of the estate and his trusted 'generals' dished out orders to their forces. The halcyon ambiance of the estate had been torn to shreds and trampled underneath the boots of warriors practicing their craft and by the hammers and saws of men and women building temporary fortifications and defences around Corvo Bianco. Flags of numerous colours and designs jittered on the end of sturdy poles dug into the earth, so they could proudly bear the crest of all those worthy knights who had come to deliver their aid. Amongst them, the crest of a Duchess who longed to see the lost Sorceress, dare she say a lost friend, return and for good to triumph; she pledged her aid to make sure it was so.

Geralt kept himself busy in the dwindling days leading up to the battle. He filled the armoury with Witcher potions and bombs and polished and sharped every piece of weapon and armour he could find within it, ensuring that they were placed in good hands to aid the fight. He travelled to Novigrad, Oxenfurt, Vengerberg, Beauclair, Maribor and Gors Velen to purchase herbs and ingredients to aid the healers and mages. He trained with Ciri and the other Witchers rigorously, getting his body and mind back into shape. He slept on the floor beside his beloved every night until eventually the last grain of sand gave into the force of gravity. The day of reckoning had come.


Geralt was up at the crack of dawn, waiting. Waiting for the two Mirrors to appear so they could begin. Ciri had joined him on the balcony and the two ate a measly breakfast, unable to stomach much food due to the queasiness they had become lumbered with. Today was a big day. Perhaps the biggest of their lives. Failure, though probable, was not an option. They waited on the balcony for their necessary but unwelcome guests to arrive, the first of which, was the Duchess.

Apparently, she felt that the offer of some of her best knights and vast resources was not enough and that something more needed to be given to this most noble course. Regrettably, the Duchess had decided that her personal help, in other words her presence during the battle, alongside the presence of her sister, Syanna, was the only thing of worth the Dutchy had left to give. Nothing could sway the Duchess, she ignored all claims of danger, jeopardy and chaos with the justification that good would surely triumph and that it was the duty of her bloodline to see this through.

After the Duchess and Syanna had pledged their assistance and retreated to do whatever it was they probably thought was going to be helpful, the waiting game continued. However, the next few guests to arrive were not the Mirrors, instead, but rather two more pleasant faces.

"Regis, my old friend," said Geralt overcoming his astonishment to shake the vampire's hand and embrace him. "It's good to see you. Didn't think you'd been able to come."

"Why? Because of the imminent threat of death looming over me?" joked the barber surgeon, straightening his satchel and grinning in a way that gave a whole new definition to a toothy smile. "A mere trifle in comparison to your plight, dear friend. How is everything?"

"Well-" The vampire held up a hand to stop him and raised an eyebrow.

"And by that, I mean, how are you holding up?" added Regis, looking at him expectantly, as though the question he had proposed was in any way straightforward.

The Witcher sighed. He didn't want to think about that right now, but his friend would not back down without a fight. "Honestly, I don't know."

He heard the vampire chuckle sadly and felt Regis' fragile hand and remarkably strong grip on his shoulder. "A perfectly reasonable answer, given the circumstances. I must say that even I am bemused by it all, but still, I will offer my assistance where I can."

Geralt nodded gratefully. Despite the vampire's jovial manner, the Witcher was well aware of the risks his friend was taking in coming back to Corvo Bianco. Perhaps once upon a time, he would have turned Regis away, but now he simply pushed aside the notion. Concern for his friend would always be back of the mind, but it was overshadowed by the thought of what failure would cost him. What it would cost Yennefer. He was willing to put a friend in harms way and the realisation of that fact deeply troubled him.

"Regis," looking over his shoulder, Geralt saw Ciri ambling out of the house towards them, "long time no see. Come here." Foregoing all the courtly formalities and courtesies she had been afforded by her inheritance, Ciri threw her arms around barber surgeon's neck, pulling him into a big embrace. "It's good to finally see you again, though I can't say the circumstances are much better than the last time we met."

Regis chuckled faintly and leant back on his heels, hands hooked around his satchels. "Well, at least there aren't presently any blood crazed Mages running around calling for our most imminent demise." He threw a glance towards the fracas in the orchard. Judging by the high-pitched screeching and unstoppable tide of swearing which made up the most prominent noises in the ruckus, Keira had almost crushed Lambert with one of the defences because she had been staring at her reflection in an illusionary mirror. "But perhaps it would be best not to hold out too much hope on that. Though, if at all possible, I would prefer not to be vaporized again, I've grown rather fond of this more solid form. It really would be a shame to have to start again from scratch."

Geralt could still vividly recall the memory of Regis' grotesque smear on the walls and floor of Stygga Castle as well as the repulsive stench. "So, have I. No offence Regis, but you make for one ugly puddle."

They all chuckled. Before this moment, Geralt would have thought such a thing was impossible on a day like this. The vampire, however, never ceased to amaze him.

"It's a fair comment, no offence taken friend. Now," said Regis, walking away from the house and beckoning the others to follow which they did without question. "I believe I must confess the reason for my delay in arriving." The Witcher didn't say anything but watched Regis' back closely as they moved past the barricades and further from the house. "Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, who, is the reason for my untimely arrival," he said several seconds later.

Geralt tensed involuntarily, eyes darting back and forth across the fields. He could feel Ciri watching him. "Regis, if this is another one of your vampire friends, I'm not interested." One of his scars tingled slightly at the recollection.

"I can assure you, Geralt," said the vampire, turning around and holding his arms out, "that this friend of mine is far from dangerous, as you already know."

The vines behind Regis rustled and when a flamboyant figure emerged from behind the luscious green leaves the Wither was torn between a groan and sigh. The result of which was an indistinguishable sound that made Ciri raise an eyebrow.


Patrick O'Leary -The Gift: Chapter 10, Unexpected Arrivals

Do you know what vengeance is, Tim? It is a dark mirror in which we cannot see ourselves."


Hello! Hope you liked this chapter; the Witcher brothers back together again. This brings me on to something I wanted to clear up because I've had some questions about it. The forces that have gathered at Corvo Bianco aren't going to fight O'Dimm, that's not their purpose. Instead, they are there to protect the bodies as the 'travellers' aka Ciri and Geralt, go into O'Dimm's realm as souls. It is the 'travellers' who must defeat this devil and they can only do this within the Realm of glass through discovering and exploiting his weakness. While Master Mirror cannot leave his realm – because he is brothers and sisters have condemned him – he can send servants after the bodies and by destroying them, force the souls out of his Realm. That is the only way to force them out. Thus, the bodies need protection.

We're getting closer and closer towards the heart of this story – O'Dimm's Realm. I might be posting sneak peeks of this on my Tumblr soon, I'm looking forward to it soooooo much. I only regret its taken 15 chapters to get there but I hope the wait will be worth it 😊

See you next week!