Book 3: The Wolf Dies
Epilogue
Beauclair, Toussaint; Spring 1517
"I, Maccarreg, son of Gaineamh and Darab, and faithful warrior for Essea, have this word from the LORD:
"''I am the everlasting God, the Creator of the heavens and the earth, the Savior of the world. I will not grow tired or weary. I hold the nations in my hand and steer the minds of kings. My wisdom is beyond understanding, and my faithfulness to my children will never end. I will redeem a remnant, my faithful, to be a light for all the world, for my name's sake.
"'I delivered you out of slavery and gave you a land of your own. Yet, you turned from me to worship other gods, to worship yourselves. An arrogant race that boasted in what it possessed, though you received all by my hand. I bestowed upon you my holy code for your profit, as a father imparts wisdom to his children. Yet, you – fools who find no pleasure in understanding - spurned my wisdom. I sent my prophets and priests to you to warn you, to convict you of your betrayal, to draw you back to me, but you mocked my warnings. Your pride has led to your fall.
"'Thus, when the great deceiver requested, I granted him permission to bring chaos and destruction. I used him as a rod of discipline for my children, to purge away your dross, to remove your impurities, to break your fingers that were holding on so tightly to the false gods of your hearts.
"'Yet, I, Essea, am forever faithful to my covenants for my name's sake. As I promised your fathers before you, you are my children. I will always save a remnant, those who turn to me in repentance. And I will mend your fingers so that you can grasp the one, true living God.
"'Therefore, I will take you and keep you in the palm of my hand, from where none can reach you. I will display my providence. I yield my glory to no one. I am over all, even the great deceiver. His own meager power will be used when I have chosen to end the time of discipline. His tool of chaos will be my tool of peace. His instrument of death, held by my hand for my will, will bring cleansing and renewal.
"'And I, Essea, God of the Aen Seidhe nation and of all the nations of the world, for my glory, have appointed an outcast to save my children; one who is hated and rejected; one who is familiar with suffering and pain. A man – indeed, a lowly, despised man, but one who I have adopted as my own – to redeem my chosen. I have appointed not a worldly king, one who wears a crown, who sits enthroned on a seat power, who commands legions to do his bidding – for I do not exalt the proud. No, I will use the least – an orphan - mutated, disfigured and lame – as my hand to show the depth and height and breadth of my majestic power, for I show favor to the humble,' so sayeth Ghloirinevellienn, whose glory shines over all."
In the lush gardens of the pristine-white elven palace, a small class was being held. Around an elderly Aen Seidhe, clustered a dozen or so youth, ranging in age from ten to twelve years old. Next to the flowing spring that ran down into the Seidhe Llygad lake, the wrinkled and gray-haired elf rested on a short stool while her pupils sat around her in the thick green grass. Most of them were, like her, pure Aen Seidhe, but there was a human, a dwarf, and two students of mixed heritage in the group, as well. In the teacher's lap was a thick book from which she had just finished reading. She peered up into the sky, and after seeing the sun's location, she slowly closed the heavy tome. With her thin, frail hand, she tenderly patted the book's cover – as if it were the cheek of a precious child – before lifting her eyes to those around her.
She smiled at her pupils and said, "And that, my dear children, was Maccarreg's last letter, revealing Essea's sovereign plan, written over a thousand years before the Second Conjunction of the Spheres. The story of how what Apophis meant for evil, Essea miraculously meant for good."
Like the rest of her outward appearance, the teacher's feeble voice testified to her age. At well over two-hundred years old, she was considered ancient. For it was rare – ever since the Second Conjunction - for any elf born after that great, cataclysmic event to even live to be a century. The elven lifespan was now very similar to that of humans.
But, unlike her voice and the rest of her body, the teacher's eyes – they were different. They still possessed a spark of vitality and gave evidence to the sharp mind and the passionate spirit that she held within.
"Now, I do have a few questions for you," she continued. "Can anyone tell us one way our world changed after this Second Conjunction?" she asked, brushing a few strands of gray hair back behind one ear.
Several eager students immediately raised their hands into the air.
"Yes, Illeryn?" she asked, looking at a young female dwarf.
"All the monsters disappeared…back to their own worlds," she answered.
"Very good. All the monsters were pulled through the portals – we assume they returned to their original worlds - and almost all of the humans and dwarves, as well."
"Miss, why were some humans and dwarves allowed to stay?" asked one Aen Seidhe student named Lonek. "No offense, Illeryn," he added with a smile. Illeryn smiled back at him.
"Well, what do you think, Lonek?" the teacher asked.
The young elf shrugged his shoulders.
"Uhm…I don't know…cause Essea wanted to keep them here?"
The teacher nodded and smiled.
"Essentially, that's right. Remember, Essea is the God of all, not just the Aen Seidhe. He can and does save whomever he wants. And he welcomes any and all who come to him. He loves us all equally. We are all special in his sight. Now, can anyone else tell us another outcome due to the Second Conjunction?"
Hands were quickly raised again.
"Muron?"
"Nobody could use magic anymore," replied the girl.
"Very good. That's correct. The chaotic Power that had been in the world no longer existed. And there was a second and equally important consequence of the Power vanishing? Does anyone know?"
No one raised their hand on this question for several long moments until finally one student towards the back of the group shyly lifted his. She wasn't surprised. Pazel was the brightest, most well-read of her students.
"Yes, Pazel?"
"Well, the…uh…female Aen Seidhe…" Pazel began to blush. "They could…you know, get pregnant a lot easier."
"That's right," the teacher said with a smile that reached her clear, bright eyes. "When the Chaos came into the world during the First Conjunction, it not only greatly reduced the lifespan of all Aen Seidhe, it also specifically cursed the elven females by affecting their reproductive organs. But, after the Power vanished with the Second Conjunction, each new female born had a reproduction cycle more in line with human women. And that - along with the lack of monsters and centuries of peace - has allowed for our population to thrive once again."
The teacher looked around at her students. "But there's one last lesson that we haven't discussed. In fact, it's the most important lesson that can be learned from the Second Conjunction. Does anyone know what it is?"
This time not even Pazel raised his hand.
The teacher nodded her head and looked intently at each of her students. Her normally-smiling, joyful face took on a serious tone.
"The lesson is this – Essea can be trusted. He promised through his prophets that he would cleanse this world, and he fulfilled that promise…as he has every promise that he's ever made. So, no matter what happens in your life – even during your blackest of nights, even when you're crawling through the deepest of valleys - you can always rely on his faithfulness. He will never forsake his children.
"Now, we may not always understand the when, the how, or the why of his sovereign plan, but we can trust that he will always fulfill it. And, usually," she added with a smile, "he does it in the most incredible of ways, ways that we could never expect. Think about the Second Conjunction. He brought it about in our darkest moment - just as the Aen Seidhe nation was on the verge of extinction. And, amazingly, he used Apophis' own plans and device against him. And even though magic in the world disappeared, he miraculously sustained the lives of all the unborn in the palace at Dol Blathanna.
"And, lastly…consider who he used. Not an Aen Seidhe. Not even someone who had been brought up in our faith. But a human – traditionally, the elves' greatest enemy. And not just any human, but a mutant. A wandering outcast who was ostracized by virtually all groups of society. A broken, humbled man with one leg. That just shows that Essea can and will use even the least likely individual." The teacher shook her head. "What a truly awesome, sovereign God that we worship. And that is the most important lesson."
As she looked at each of her pupils' faces, they were all nodding back at her in understanding.
"Well, I think that's enough for today. Unless anyone has any last questions, comments, or complaints, then I'll see you again, same time next week. Who would like to close us in prayer?"
"But, Miss Evangeline! What about the White Wolf?" asked a student.
"Yeah, what happened to Gwynbleidd?" queried one of the elves.
A sad smile crossed the teacher's face.
"Well, I tell you what…that can be your homework for the week. Do some research on Geralt. Ask your parents what stories they've heard, or see if you can find some books in our library that discuss his tales. There are one or two there. Then, next week, we'll share with each other what we've learned. And we'll discuss if the legends and myths actually fit the facts."
oOo
The Sansretour Valley, Toussaint; 1275
It was a warm autumn day, the sun still shining brightly in the late afternoon. Even though he wasn't wearing any of his heavy armor, a few beads of sweat still dotted Geralt's brow as he walked through the tall stalks. Instead of his swords, he had a large, wicker basket strapped to his back, into which he'd toss ears of corn after pulling them off their stalks. His knife was more or less the only blade that he carried at all anymore. His silver sword was collecting dust on a weapons rack in his bedroom, and the only time he ever wielded his steel sword was when he had a hankering for mountain boar for dinner. He paused for a moment and decided to shuck the ear of corn in his hand. He pulled the husk away to reveal rows of bright yellow kernels underneath. The sight brought a smile to his face, and he raised the corn up to his nose and inhaled deeply.
An hour later, Geralt came to the end of the last row in the field, his harvesting for the day complete. He then turned and began walking up the hill towards his house. He may have walked with a severe limp, but there was also an ease to his gait that he'd only acquired in the last two years. He no longer stalked the ground like a predator after his prey. He had the peaceful walk of a simple farmer.
After reaching the archway that spanned the main road that led to his home, he turned and gazed back down the hill towards his property. A tenth of his land at Corvo Bianco remained dedicated to grapes, but the rest he'd turned into very large vegetable gardens. In addition to the corn, he grew tomatoes, carrots, onions, squash, beans and a variety of other vegetables. In a separate section, he cultivated all kinds of melons and berries. He actually grew way more produce than he could eat, but it didn't go to waste. Once a week, he would put numerous crates of food on a wagon and head to the main plaza of Beauclair. He, along with the roughly two dozen families living in the region, would meet weekly to trade – or many times, simply to give away – whatever extra produce they'd grown or excess materials they'd crafted. Of course, the real reason they all came together each week was to worship Essea. It seemed that everyone left on the Continent, regardless of race or species, was one of his followers.
Geralt was on friendly terms with all of his neighbors, but he never mentioned to any of them just what role he had played in the Second Conjunction of the Spheres. And though his cat-like eyes made it clear to everyone just what he was, no one ever called him "Witcher." They just called him Geralt. Nor did he ever hear the moniker, "The Butcher of Blaviken," spoken in hushed voices. If anything, he was simply known as "the kind, old farmer from Corvo Bianco." And that suited Geralt just fine.
As he stood there, staring at his land below, a slight breeze kicked up. The gentle wind cooled his brow, and he shifted his eyes upward as a small smile came to his face.
"You're really on display today, Father. Another beautiful day," he said in a whisper.
He looked out, admiring the crops a bit longer.
"Thank you for your provision. You're a good God."
Eventually, he exhaled deeply and nodded his head.
"May you keep me from ever taking you and your love for granted," he said before finally turning around and limping up to his house.
He dropped the wicker basket off at his now-covered front porch - where he'd shuck the corn later on - and glanced at the porch's roof. Over the past several months, Geralt had taught himself, by trial-and-error, the intricate craft of carpentry. While – to his surprise – he seemed to have a gift with farming, he knew his wood-working skills still left a lot to be desired. The last thunder storm had been confirmation of that. While the porch's roof did an adequate job of keeping the sun off of him, he'd counted no less than a half-a-dozen spots where the water had leaked through the last time it had rained. He was still debating on whether to fix the leaks or not. To Geralt, the porch seemed like a fitting metaphor for his walk with Essea – ultimately sheltered and protected but, at times, still allowed to experience a bit of the storms. Maybe one day he'd get around to patching up the roof, but for now, he decided he'd leave it be.
He grabbed the empty jug that he kept on the bench of the porch and headed over to the spring of clear water that bubbled up from the ground back behind his house. The brook flowed down through his property, irrigating his fields, before continuing on towards the Sansretour River. He sat down next to the spring and filled his jug. After drinking down half of the refreshing liquid, he refilled the container. He then leaned over and submerged his head completely into the brook, both cooling himself from the day's heat and washing away the sweat and dirt on his face and neck. He brought himself upright and back into the sitting position and enjoyed the sensation as the rivulets of water ran down his back and chest. After filling his cupped-hands with more water and rinsing away the grime from his forearms, he stood, grabbed his jug, and limped back to the porch.
On a small table at one end of the porch were two books and a medium-sized box. One of the books was a thick tome of Essean Scripture, and the other was his personal journal. He sat down on the porch's bench, opened the box, and pulled out his wedding present and a pouch of tobacco. He looked at the pipe for a moment, caressing the smooth finish with the tip of his thumb and letting several pleasant memories play through his mind. Eventually, he filled the bowl with tobacco, and then, after lighting the leaf with the aid of a tinder box, he sat for a while just peacefully listening to nature around him – the chirping birds, the bubbling brook, the soothing whisper of the wind.
It wasn't long before he had a visitor. A small, gray and white, tabby cat walked up to him, stood at his feet, and let out a single meow. Geralt smiled.
"Well, hello, Dandelion," he greeted. "Did you catch some mice today?"
The cat answered with another meow and then hopped up onto the bench. It climbed onto Geralt's lap and walked around a bit until it found a comfortable spot. Then, it curled up on his lap and closed its eyes. Geralt smiled again and then began to gently pet the little cat behind his ears. It wasn't long before he could hear it purring.
After a while, he reached over for his journal and opened it to its last entry. He spent the next hour smoking, writing, and petting the small cat in his lap. The sun was just disappearing behind Mount Gorgon when he finally finished scribbling down his thoughts. He read through again what he'd written, and after coming to the end, he nodded his head.
He lifted the cat from his lap, and after he had placed it on the ground, it gave him a pitiful sounding meow. Geralt chuckled.
"Sorry to spoil your sleep, little buddy, but I've got something to do. You can come with if you like."
It looked up at him, gave him a parting meow, and then it scampered away, as if something on the other side of the estate had suddenly caught its attention. Geralt smiled again and then shook his head, amazed that he was actually on friendly terms with a cat of all things. How times had changed.
Carrying his journal with him, he stepped off the back-side of the porch and traveled over a well-worn path to a clearing on the north side of his property. Surrounding the clearing were several small saplings that Geralt had planted and hoped would, one day, grow into an orchard of fruit trees. He walked past the saplings and stood in the middle of the clearing, where a small but well-crafted headstone rested. On the headstone were just two words, "My Love."
On three sides of the gravesite, Geralt had built a thigh-high wooden fence. It was actually nothing but four posts secured into the ground, with a couple of tree limbs tied with twine to the posts. Geralt had built the fence not so much for protection but rather to act as a trellis. Climbing all over the posts and along the horizontal railing was a green plant, with small, white flowers and a very distinctive fragrance. It had taken him several months traveling through the southern part of the Continent before he'd finally found some adult, vanilla bean plants, but bringing them back had been worth it. He'd spent countless hours just sitting in the clearing, the scent bringing back his fondest memories.
Geralt sat down on the ground, resting his back against one of the fence posts, and faced the headstone. His right leg – with its wooden prosthesis - was straight out in front of him, while his left leg was bent, his knee sticking up in the air. He opened his journal and rested it on his left thigh.
"I finally finished my latest poem," he said out loud, looking at the headstone. "It's the longest one I've ever written. I titled it, 'Love's Call.'"
He paused for a moment – as if he was expecting something – but after hearing only the gentle breeze, he began to read.
"A tiny boat on an ocean of blue,
A searching man drifts alone.
A voice beckons, love's call rings true.
Below are wonders he's never known.
Sea life swimming with elegance,
Vibrant colors beyond the mind.
He must partake, risk the chance
If true love he is to find.
Beauty isn't all he sees.
Monsters, too, lurk below,
But he smells her scent upon the breeze.
To catch the dream, he must go.
Despite the dangers, he fights his fear.
Faith in the promise that the future holds.
His hope grows more as she draws near
For tales of safety he's been told.
So, in he dives without a vest
For he believes her words are true.
A strange sensation fills his chest
As he's swallowed by a love of blue.
A wondrous creature takes his hand.
He willingly follows deeper down.
With visions of a golden land,
To their heaven, he thinks they're bound.
He's found a peace he's never known.
The lost treasure he's sought all his nights.
This wandering man has found his home,
And his spirit soars to new heights.
Then, without warning, she is gone.
His soul consumed by despair.
He no longer hears her mystic song.
Now frantic looks and gasps for air.
All around doubt moves in.
He feels he's taken his last breath.
The air he'll never taste again,
And for a moment, he welcomes death.
But from the hand of grace, he's given strength,
And slowly he begins to rise.
The light miles away, he thinks.
Its rays barely reach his eyes.
He fights upward toward the sun
Ignoring the burn that's within.
For if he wallows, then pain has won,
And the darkness will drag him down again.
One last demon attacks his heart.
Its teeth bared to rip his chest.
It tries to tear his soul apart,
But he fends it off as he has the rest.
A final surge toward the line.
Through the surface his head breaks free.
He gulps the air that tastes like wine,
And basks in the light triumphantly.
For he's finally now beyond death's grasp,
His weary soul has been renewed.
And his faith is stronger than in the past
For he survived that taste of blue.
One day ahead, if a new voice starts,
That he didn't hear, he won't pretend.
He'll risk more scars to his heart,
And wrapped in grace, he'll dive again."
Geralt exhaled deeply, closed his journal, and then his eyes scanned the words on the tombstone for what must have been the thousandth time. He shifted his focus upward about a foot, to the top of the headstone. Lying on the flat surface was a silver, wolf-head medallion – the one that had belonged to Vesemir and Ciri. The medallion that he'd given Evie on their wedding day he kept around his neck, resting close to his heart.
A small, sad smile appeared on his face.
"I know. It's a bit…cliché."
He then sighed.
"Ah…baby…how I wish I could hear your laugh right now. I can just imagine you telling me that you're not sure which I'm better at – poetry or carpentry."
Geralt swallowed and then looked up into the early night sky. It was a deep purple in the west, and the stars were just becoming visible. He knew that in less than an hour, thousands of them would be twinkling above. He thought he saw a shooting star out of the corner of his eye, back towards the east, but when he quickly shifted his gaze that way, it was already gone.
He exhaled deeply and spoke again.
"I still miss you, Evie…two years later, and it still feels like a part of my heart is missing. But…I'll be home with you one day."
At that thought, his smile changed, growing a little less melancholy.
"And what a great day that will be. Me and you, living in the presence of Essea."
He exhaled deeply a second time and nodded to himself.
"What a great day that will be."
In the days following the Second Conjunction, Geralt had wondered several times why he'd chosen to escape from the temple ruins atop of Mount Dealande. He knew that he could have simply stood next to Apophis' device and let the explosion kill him. Then, he could have been with both Essea and Evie – the one place he wanted to be more than any other. But he'd only pondered the question a handful of times before he'd quickly understood why he'd chosen life over death in that moment. It was simple - His God valued life, and he wanted to respect his God. In the two years since, he'd never once regretted his decision to live. He knew Essea would take him home at the exact right time – no sooner and no later.
After a few more minutes of contemplation, Geralt slowly stood. He winced a bit from the throbbing in his right leg. It always hurt after a long bout of walking like he'd done that day. He was looking forward to a shot of healing potion followed by a long night of sleep.
He peered at the headstone a final time and then began gingerly walking back towards his house, but halfway there, he heard the sound of a horse-drawn wagon coming up his drive. He increased his gait, and, once back to the house, he dropped his journal on the porch table and then quickly headed inside. He came out a moment later with a lit torch in his hand. He limped down the steps to where the wagon had stopped, pausing along the way to place the torch in a nearby brazier in order to give some illumination for his guests. There were two figures on the carriage seat, both wearing cowls that covered their faces. The person without the reins carried two bundles, one each resting against his or her shoulders.
"Greetings," said Geralt. "And welcome to Corvo Bianco. Name's Geralt. Can I offer you a meal and a place to stay for the night?"
The driver hopped off the wagon and approached Geralt. She lowered her cowl and replied, "Greetings, Geralt…and yes, you can."
For a moment, Geralt couldn't say anything. He just stared at the person in front of him – a look of wonder on his face.
"Lydial! What are you doing here?" he finally asked, stepping forward and pulling the elf into a warm embrace.
They held onto each other tightly for a long time, neither one even bothering to speak. Eventually they broke their hug, and she stepped back from him. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes, but she also wore a joyful smile.
"You once said that I was always welcome here. And…we thought you could use some company."
"Of course, you're welcome here, and yes, I can definitely use the company," he said, returning her smile. "But, tell me, who's 'we?'"
His eyes glanced toward Lydial's companion.
Lydial walked over to the other passenger. She, too, had dropped her cowl and Geralt could tell she was an Aen Seidhe.
Lydial carefully and tenderly grabbed one of the blanket-covered bundles from the other elf, and then they both approached Geralt.
"This is my friend, Ettariel, and her adopted son."
"Hello, Geralt. I've heard a lot about you. I hope this isn't an inconvenience."
"Not at all," he replied with a warm smile. "I've got plenty of space here. You can stay as long as you like. And it's a pleasure to meet you."
He then turned back towards Lydial and looked at the bundle in her arms.
"And who is that?" he asked.
"This," said Lydial, "is my adopted daughter. She's come all the way from Dol Blathanna to meet you. Would you like to hold her?"
"Uhh…I don't know. Don't have a lot of experience with babies. Are you sure?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"I trust you, Geralt."
He smiled and gave a small shake of his head. "Alright, then."
Lydial placed the elven baby in his arms, and he gently moved the blanket to one side and looked down into her sleeping face. She had thin, brown hair, adorned with a tiny, pink bow. He was no expert on kids, but given her size and how long her hair was, he was sure she was no infant. He figured that she was at least two years old.
Geralt didn't say anything for the longest time. He just stared at the little elf in his arms. He noticed that some of her hair was resting against her cheek so he used his index finger and tenderly brushed it back behind her ear, just like he'd seen Evie do hundreds of times.
"What's her name?" he eventually asked in a whisper.
He still couldn't take his eyes off of her, resting in a peaceful slumber.
"I named her Evangeline."
Geralt quickly raised his head and looked at Lydial. She was smiling warmly back at him. The two just stared at each for a long time. Geralt felt his breath catch in his throat, and he clenched his jaws tightly. The firelight shimmered off the tears now running down Lydial's cheeks. Finally, a small smile came to his face. He nodded his head at his friend and looked back down at the child his arms.
"Well…welcome home, Evangeline," he said, his voice breaking. "Welcome home."
oOo
The End
oOo
Final Author's Note (July 2018):
I, again, want to thank everyone at CD Projekt Red who made such an incredible game with such well-developed and interesting characters that it inspired me to write this tale. I also want to give much praise to the composers of the Witcher music. Throughout this entire writing process, I had Witcher songs - from both the official soundtracks and in-game only - playing in the background. The music is amazing, very inspiring, and definitely worth buying.
I am also very grateful to my best friend of thirty-five years who acted as a great sounding board during this entire process. This story is much better because of his insight and suggestions. Thanks, Tim.
If you got this far, then I'm going to assume that you enjoyed the adventure. I hope you got as much out of reading it as I did writing it because it's been an amazing experience for me. This story took nearly two years and over 300,000 words to tell. Just reading that sentence makes me shake my head, for there were many times – during several bouts of writer's block - when I doubted if I'd finish it. So, if you ever left me any kind of feedback at any point, then you have my heart-felt gratitude. You'll never know just how much your encouragement meant to me. It truly made a difference.
I look back to the first chapter of Book 1 and see where Geralt was at the time, and then I see where he finished, and I think, "Man, I put the poor guy through a lot." It was definitely a hard journey for him, but I like where he ended up. My hope is that you did, too. Thank you, again, and may your life be filled with grace and peace.