Water skipped off the bow of the speeding boat. In its wake, the vessel left behind a trail of churning, foamy water. No wind flapped in the tied sails—magic pushed the boat back to Skellige. Its lone occupant looked forward, squinting her eyes against the harsh wind that whipped her hair around her face. It blasted her relentlessly, but at this speed she would reach the island within the day.

It was almost midnight. She knew that by morning, Cayessa and the witchers would definitely notice her absence. This was a brash thing that none of them would have expected from her, but they couldn't possibly understand the demons that were now whispering in her ear. Deep down, she knew this had all been her fault. He was gone and it was because of her.

Theila saw it in the horizon. Her own spell couldn't hide it from her. The sorceress thought back to the last time she had sailed to the island. She'd been aboard the king's schooner after volunteering to serve as his emissary. Theila remembered how her heart hammered at the sight of the island, and the keep that sat atop it like a crown. 50 years apart had done little to temper the nervous fire that flared up at the prospect of seeing him again.

But a part of her had also been scared that perhaps he no longer felt the same. He was the one, after all, who had cast her away after becoming grandmaster.

The docks had burned away. Charred posts jutting out from the water in blackened tips were all that was left. Theila steered the boat towards the beach and gently eased it to a stop just as the bow touched the sand beneath the shallow water.

There was blood on the beach. Theila walked through it as she made her way to the keep. It was deathly quiet. She had never seen the keep this still before. Bear was truly gone.

The gate had been destroyed. There was more blood here on the grass. No bodies remained to tell her what happened, but Theila knew that one of them had died here.

The sorceress paused. There was a place of power within the keep she could draw power from. It would be needed for Allil's Sight—a very powerful and complex spell named after its creator. Allil Dywnahéir, an elven sorceress, had created an enchantment that allowed its caster to see the events of the past.

Only now, Theila wasn't sure if she wanted to see. She was afraid, but she had to know.

Drawing in a deep breath, Theila lifted her arms from her sides and extended her fingertips. She closed her eyes, feeling the Chaos stored within the island latch onto the conduit of her fingers and creep up her arms. As they neared her core, she began chanting the words that Allil had composed centuries ago. Elder slipped from her lips, guiding the Chaos. Its energy shifted and molded at her words. Slowly, Theila raised her hands to her face and, with her fingertips, delicately touched her eyelids.

When they opened, her olive eyes had disappeared under the bright white glow. The world around her had become monochrome—color had faded into varying shades of gray. No longer was the keep empty. Before her, Theila saw men and beasts fighting. She saw them clearly, but they were translucent—reminders that they were nothing more than bygone echoes.

She recognized this witcher—the Horsemaster. Undevar had sought him out in Ofir, with Theila's help, to have him as one of his masters. He had been a very gentle man with a contagious laugh. Now here Theila stood, witnessing his last moments.

His body was no longer where it lay in this Sight, which meant only the Skelligers could have moved it. Theila vowed to the dead witcher that she would get it back and return him to the Bears.

She rewound the Sight back to when the crossbow bolt had flown out and paused it. Her eyes traced its path backwards and saw the small porthole where it had come from. With the ghostly forms still frozen around her, she made her way to the keep. Her heels thudded against the broken fragments of the door, and she came to where the porthole was. There, she saw him with the crossbow still perched by his face.

Theila stopped at the sight of him. Then, despite logic telling her that he was no longer there, she stepped forward and reached out to touch his face. There was no skin. Her fingers felt nothing but empty air as they dipped through his cheek. Theila retracted her hand and, taking another shaky breath, continued the Sight.

Pursued like foxes, the witchers ran deeper into the keep. When the hounds caught up to them, they fought. Theila followed Brimir up the stairs and watched the hatchet fly into his skull. She recognized the man who had killed him. Once he and Undevar had been close—identical, almost. Like Kozin, Andryk, and Oslan. Like brothers.

They raced up the steps and poured through the grandmaster's wing. It ate at Theila to witness the horde that had gone after her love. And it wrought hatred in her to see that witcher follow them so calmly.

Once again she paused the Sight so she could go ahead of the warriors and reach him before they did, as though it mattered.

She found him at the end of the wing, leaning against the door. Looking so utterly defeated. He had already resigned to his fate, and it wrenched at her heart to know that she hadn't been there.

Undevar was looking up. His eyes had fallen to something on the window. Theila looked to the grayed petals lined on the windowsill. She didn't know when he had planted them there, but he had been so embarrassed when she first discovered them.

Despite the fear that every passing moment in this Sight gave her, Theila continued the vision. She watched Undevar's shoulders rise and fall as he struggled to breathe. He was still looking at the flowers. Even though his eyes were pellucid, Theila saw them grow gentle and sad. She knew what he had been thinking of, and it sent tears trailing down her face.

Undevar turned, and he fought back the men who had come for him. Theila came up to the doorway as she continued to watch. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, and her hands were bunched into fists.

And then he appeared—the other witcher that had once been so close to the grandmaster. They squared off in a duel, and Undevar held his ground even though constant battle and stress had worn him down. He had been a fighter unlike anything Theila had ever seen in her long, long life. If he'd had the will, Undevar could've been a conqueror with no match. But he had chosen to love instead.

When the first arrow struck, Theila gripped her chest as though she had been hit as well. Her lips parted and she gasped when the second hit him. And then something struck him—pushed him back so forcefully he flew back through Theila and landed in the room behind her. The sorceress turned. Something passed through her, and she found herself looking at the back of the witcher as he strode towards Undevar.

His opponent was already defeated, but he continued to beat him down again and again in sadistic triumph. With each blow Undevar received, Theila felt it rip through her own body.

Finally, Undevar lay on the ground as the witcher turned away. Theila finally broke out of her horrified paralysis and rushed to him. She fell onto her knees beside him. His chest rose and fell weakly. Then, Theila looked up and saw that the witcher had turned back with an axe in his hands. Her eyes widened when he raised it like an executioner and screamed out, throwing herself over Undevar's form. The spell, no longer sustained, broke. Color returned to the world.

To her horror, Theila realized that the stone underneath her was red. She lifted her hands from the sticky floor and turned them over. It was on her palms. His blood. It was all over her. Theila began hyperventilating through gritted teeth.

But then, she realized that one part of her Sight had not gone away. The witcher that had been standing over them was still there.

Theila looked up, and suddenly he lunged at her, squeezing an iron grip over her throat. Her hands flew up to pull uselessly at his wrist. She couldn't even choke a breath out.

The witcher lifted her from the floor. He brought her close to his face, and there was a disturbing smile on his face.

"Ah yes," Theila heard him say casually above the soft ringing in her ears. "I recognize you." He threw her towards the bed. Theila hit one of the posts and crumpled to the ground. She tried to hurl him away with a push, but her breathlessness and Allil's Sight had exhausted her. What came was only a small force, which the witcher deflected with Quen. He grabbed the sorceress again and dragged her onto the bed. Pinning her down with his body, he clamped one hand over her mouth and held her wrist down with the other.

"I'll have to admit, he had good tastes. Not seen many a lass as well fuckable as you." Using the hand on her mouth, he pulled her head up and buried his face in her neck. He nipped painfully at her neck, and Theila struggled. But it was like fighting against stone. "What a lucky couple of days, hm?" he hissed into her neck. "I get the keep and a sexy little wench. It'll be nice having a pet sorceress." He brought his head up and forced her to stare at him. "I'm going to love the sight of you chained to my bedpost."

Theila glared and struggled again. All it seemed to do was amuse him. He laughed, and it was bitter and grating to her ears. "What's wrong, little whore? This is the bed he's been ploughing you on, isn't it? You should feel right at home then."

Theila's eyes darted around, searching for anything within reach she could use to save herself. His hand clamped over her mouth meant she couldn't cast any spells. With her heart pounding furiously in her chest, she wondered how far this was going to go. Well, not a second of it was going to pass without her fighting against it.

"Fuck, I'm going to enjoy this," the witcher groaned. He let go of her wrist so he could reach down and squeeze her breast. "You've got some real fine tits," he told her. "And now they belong to me."

Theila turned her head as much as she could, and managed to see a whittled carving of a bear on the nightstand out of the corner of her eye. Then, the witcher forced her to face him again. "Come on, wench, why'd you stop fighting?" he jeered. "I wanna feel you squirm."

She struggled again, but only to keep him distracted. "That's the spirit, lass," he purred. He pulled his hand away from her face and forced his lips onto hers. Theila pointed to the bear. Spells couldn't be casted without incantations, but deep concentration could still allow a mage to evoke magic in the barest of forms. Against the crushing weight of the witcher and the repulsive invasion his tongue had made into her mouth, Theila focused on the heavy wood carving next to her.

She felt magic shoot from her finger. In the next second, the witcher's lips were torn from hers as the bear carving cracked against the side of his head. He quickly caught himself on his side, but enough of him had been thrown off of her for Theila to scramble out from under him. She could hear him coming after her and ran out of the room.

Theila didn't realize how quickly he'd be able to catch up to her. She felt him grab her arm, and lifted a chunk of broken rock to throw at him. The witcher released her to dodge it. "Underestimated you, you feisty little whore," he sneered. "I'm going to have to keep those arms bound. And cut out your tongue. A shame, but it's only a small price to pay."

Theila threw her hand out at the ground underneath him. The witcher strafed back as the stone floor exploded, shooting up a wave of dust and gravel. He ran around the explosion, a sword in his hand. Theila saw him throw something. In that instant, she had disappeared by the time the Zerrikanian Sun detonated. The witcher whirled around when he heard the sorceress reappear behind him. Theila shot out a bright ring that threw him back. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled and was back on his feet. The witcher skirted out of the way of her next blast and quickly closed the distance between them. Theila managed to shield herself just in time as the sword struck her.

The shield shattered immediately under the force of the blow. It left her winded, and gave the witcher just enough time to turn his sword around and hit her with the pommel. She scraped her palms as she hit the ground.

"I'm not going to kill you," she heard the witcher say. "But don't expect me to wait for the wounds to heal before I start ploughing you long and hard."

Theila vanished and reappeared further away. She took the few seconds it took for him to relocate her to catch her breath. Then she flung an arm out, holding her hand open. The silver sword on the witcher's back flew from its sheath and into the sorceress's waiting hand.

It was heavy. Theila managed to catch it with her other hand before it dropped. The witcher barked a laugh. "Don't you look cute?" He began walking towards her, but paused when the sorceress lifted the sword in a trained stance. The edges of the blade glowed with the magic that helped lift it.

The witcher scoffed derisively. "That cunt gave you a few pointers, didn't he?"

"He did," Theila answered.

"What a joke. Though I suppose he was like me—got turned on by the sight of a wench handling a big sword. What else did he teach you?"

"That silver is for monsters."

The witcher stepped towards her. "Oh, I'll show you a real monster."

Theila was nervous. True, Undevar had given her brief lessons on swordsmanship, but that had been so long ago. And the only witcher she had fought had been the one that'd taught her.

"I can hear your heart beating," the witcher jeered. "You're scared." His blade whistled as it cut the air. Theila brought the silver greatsword up to meet it, but the witcher changed its path with absurd speed. Its tip dug into her skin in a long, shallow cut across her stomach. Crying out, the sorceress nearly dropped the silver blade and backed away.

"Looks like he didn't teach you well enough," the witcher mocked. "You're going to have to be a lot quicker than that, wench." No sooner had he finished his words, he dove at her with a thrust of his sword. Theila swung her own and knocked the oncoming point aside. She whipped it back around arched its path upwards towards the witcher's neck. He ducked and, as he came up, brought his blade up with him. Theila parried, and parried again when he tried to divert his attack.

"Not bad," he mused when they paused. Theila pulled in labored breaths. Exhaustion, fear, and pain were weighing her down. "But how long can you last?"

"Until you're dead," she hissed, and then released the blade. Instead of dropping to the floor, it hovered in a faint blue aura. Then, it shot at the witcher. He sprang aside, and then turned just as it curved back to come at him again.

Theila guided it with words spoken under her breath and strokes of her arm. The witcher fought back against the flying blade. It came at him again and again, driven by a tireless force. Finally, he threw it back with a boom of Aard. In the brief opening he had created for himself, the witcher turned and slashed and the guider of the blade. Theila quickly vanished, letting the witcher's sword cut into the fading glimmer in her wake.

But when she reappeared, she saw that the witcher had chosen to run. She saw his retreating back shrink down the wing and raced after him. When she turned the corner, he was waiting there for her.

She could have never braced herself for what he did.

Theila saw his arm swing out as he threw something. She knew it wasn't a bomb because it was much too big. Something trailed behind it as it flew through the air.

She realized it was a head.

In her horror, her mind froze up. The silver blade clattered to the floor and the sorceress shielded herself with her arms. She felt it collide painfully against her before it hit the ground with a dull thud. With her arms still raised, her breaths coming in strained, heavy gasps, she slowly looked down.

The head was on its side. It was a horrific, grisly sight. Death had turned its skin pale and waxy and its hooded eyes white. There was blood staining its long hair and beard. When Theila saw the gold clamps, she let out an agonized sob. Her knees gave away and hit the stone.

"That's what you came back for, isn't it?" she heard him say, though his voice was muffled under the harsh ringing that had returned to her ears. "For your dear, sweet Undevar. Not so handsome now, is he? They took the rest of him to Hindersfjall, probably to give him a criminal's welcome."

She couldn't bear to look at him this way, but she couldn't tear her eyes from it. The ringing was louder now—it all but drowned out the witcher's voice. Her breaths came in hard, heavy gasps, and it felt as though she were pulling icy water into her lungs.

The witcher was coming towards her. She couldn't hear his steps, but she could feel them through the floor. Finally, her eyes crept up. When they looked up to the witcher, they were glowing. Broken rock clattered on the ground as the entire keep began to shake. She rose from the floor as if lifted by some unseen being. A pulse rippled from her, causing the keep to shudder under the tremor.

The witcher made to grab at her throat, but she clasped both hands around his wrist. A trail of smoke rose from underneath her fingers as the leather and metal of the gauntlet began to sizzle. He pulled his hand back, but when he did, a powerful ripple erupted from the sorceress. It hit him like a charging beast and sent him crashing through the wall. In the room he landed in, there was a pool. Soft light danced on the walls and ceilings, coloring the room in an atmospheric shade of blue.

Amidst the curtain of crumbling dust, the sorceress emerged through the wall. Her eyes were still aglow, and her hair was lifted by some invisible wind.

"You thought you could break me?" her voice boomed out.

Instead of answering, the witcher attacked her once more. No longer did his blade swing restrained. It came at her in full force.

All Theila did was lift her hand as if to catch it. But the metal never met her skin. It came to an abrupt stop for only a brief moment. And then, with a piercing shriek, it shattered.

The witcher dropped the empty hilt. His body flashed briefly with Quen. A bone dagger was pulled from its sheath. He flew at the sorceress, the point of his dagger aimed for her throat.

Theila threw her hands forward, palms out. The air pulsed as the shockwave ripped through it. The witcher was flung back, and water was thrown up as he crashed into the pool. She quickly advanced to the water's edge and casted a shield that encased its surface like a sheet of ice. Theila could see the witcher sealed underneath. His hands pressed flat against the shield. He began beating at it. The witcher would lose breath, fall unconscious, and eventually drown. It was an easy death, and Theila wasn't going to give him that.

She focused on the water, feeling the Chaos surge wildly through her. It mixed with her rage. Bubbles rose from the pool to cluster against the shield. More and more appeared. The room began to grow warm as the heat from the boiling water seeped into the air.

Still, she wouldn't stop. She continued to scald the water. The fists had stopped beating against the shield. They had stopped a while ago.

Her body began shaking, convulsing, as Chaos continued to pour out of her in torrents. The keep trembled. Stone began to crumble and collapse. Theila found that her body was out of her control. Something wouldn't let her go. No—it was her. She didn't want to stop. The keep was on the verge of collapsing over her, but that didn't matter. Maybe it was even what she wanted.

Something touched her. Theila flinched. A hand rested against the small of her back. He used to always place his hand there, and then lean in and whisper.

He whispered to her now. "Theila," his hushed voice soothed to her. "Stop."

She inhaled deeply. The blinding glow left her eyes, and the keep grew still. Panting, Theila turned to see who had whispered to her. No one was there.

The air smelled awful. Tendrils of steam rose from the water. Theila took one glance at the dark figure in the pool and left. She made her way slowly to the hall. With every step, her legs threatened to give away.

He hadn't been standing there. She should have known better. He wasn't there. He was out in the hall, lying there. Just a…

Theila stopped when she saw him. Then, slowly, she continued. She could see his face as she approached. Once, his skin had glowed with life. His eyes, even mutated, always managed to capture hers in their jovial warmth. But now it was all gone. His face had dulled to an inhuman gray. His sunken cheeks and vacant eyes reduced him into nothing but a rendition of death. He was terrifying to look at. Theila's heart raced, and suddenly she quickened her steps and walked past him. She went back down to the end of the wing. At the doorway of the bedroom, Theila stopped and looked around.

If these walls could have spoken, they now had two stories of ruin to tell. Theila's eyes fell onto the blood patch on the floor, and then onto the bed. The sheets were still tangled. The sorceress stepped around the blood and pulled the blanket from the bed. She then returned to the hall. To him.

She kept her eyes forward as she wafted out the blanket and draped it over him. Then, with careful, delicate hands, she pulled her hands in under him, tucking the blanket beneath. With her hands cupped underneath, she gingerly lifted him from the ground.

The blanket hid the blood and waxen skin. Still, through the cloth, the outline of a face emerged. Theila couldn't take her eyes off of it as she carried him back down the hall. She bit down hard on her lower lip, holding in the scream.

Theila set him down at the foot of the bed. She paused, and when she was finally able to tear her eyes away from the mound beneath the blanket, she came to the window. Through it, she could see that it was dawn. Glass outlined the edges of the window in jagged shards. The flowers were gone. In her Sight, they had been lined on the sill as they'd always been. Now all that remained were shattered pots. Dirt spilled over the sill and onto the ground. Freesia blossoms were scattered around like corpses.

She lifted a violet flower from the sill and twirled it between her fingers, watching the petals rotate in the growing light. Turning back, she lifted the flower to her nose as she walked back to the bed. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, keeping a cold distance from the mound.

Theila closed her eyes, lowering the flower. That witcher had been right. This had been the bed they had spent many a night on. Undevar had often teased her, warning her not to expect much because he was an old man. But then she would close her eyes and he would be there, that witcher she had been looking for.

He wasn't there now. Theila felt old.


I can bleed now; see the wound now

Die this time around

Can't live forever; won't see the end of time

You promised me ten thousand years

Now I'm trapped and I can't get out

I'm losing grip, can't figure out how

You said I would swim, never drown

You said I'd never be buried underground

My breath would always breathe in and out

Your love makes me immortal

Your love made me immortal

"You Said"—Eurielle


Yeah I've almost forgotten what it's like to be tired all the time...