Chapter Six

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Even with all the evidence in front of him, Geralt couldn't wrap his mind around it.

"Lambert?" Geralt breathed, not wanting to believe what he feared to be true.

A small tilt of the witcher's head confirmed Geralt's suspicion and the churning in his gut deepened. How could Lambert have done this? Geralt knew he had never been happy about his lot in life, but this? Being unhappy was a long way away from being a murderer. A mass murderer at that. "What have you done?" he whispered in horror.

"What have I done?" Lambert retorted, heat rising to his face. He looked shocked by the judgment in Geralt's voice. Like what he was doing was perfectly normal. "What have I done?! Do you know what atrocities they've committed?"

He certainly did. "Yes, I do," Geralt stated plainly.

"No, you don't. You don't understand, Geralt. You never have. You've always been on their side."

"Side? There are no sides."

Lambert snorted. "Of course there are. There is always a side, whether you choose to see it or not. There is us and there is them." He pointed outward. "Them? They get to live their happy little lives while we trudge along from place to place. Never welcome. Never treated like human beings. And we're supposed to accept that? Supposed to lie down and take it?" Lambert shook his head, his lip curling. "I'm not doing it anymore. I will no longer be meek. I will no longer be spat upon. If they want to treat us like monsters, then I may as well enjoy it."

Geralt couldn't believe what he was hearing. When had Lambert become so angry? When had he become so lost to madness? "What happened to you, Lambert?" His name felt so strange on Geralt's tongue. "This isn't who you are."

Quiet as death, Lambert said, "You have no idea who I am."

Maybe he didn't. Clearly he didn't. Geralt couldn't merge the two disparaging images of Lambert that now fought inside his head—one, a fellow witcher, a man he had grown up with. The other, a power hungry madman, bent on destruction.

Geralt knew what Ralen, what Lambert, had done, but now that he knew who he was… how could he kill him? He could have killed Ralen. But Lambert? Despite their differences, Lambert was a friend, a brother.

And maybe Lambert knew it. Knew how hard it would be for Geralt to fight him if he knew who he was. Maybe that's why he had finally revealed himself.

If that had been his plan, then it worked. Geralt couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Lambert. Lambert needed to pay for his crimes, but there had to be another way.

"We don't have to do this," Geralt offered. "You can end this, right now."

Lambert wasn't swayed. He squared his shoulders, his grip on his sword tightening. "I don't think so. You're not going to win this one. The Continent will learn to respect witchers, one way or another. They had their chance to make that decision on their own. Now I'm making it for them." He paused. "Walk away, Geralt," he said. It was almost a plea. "Walk away and I'll let you live."

Geralt had known Lambert wasn't going to back down. They both knew it. Yet he had had to try. But Geralt wasn't going to back down either. "You know I can't do that."

By now, the shock of losing his witcher mutations was waning and Geralt felt like he could breathe again. He felt slow and clumsy, but only like he was exhausted rather than wholly diminished. He could still fight, he kept telling himself. A sword was all he needed.

Pausing again, Lambert took a steadying breath, Geralt echoing him from across the room. They both knew what was coming.

"So be it."

In almost an exact mirror, they came at each other, swords swinging.

Their blades met between them and skirted outward in an arc, each man following his blade then coming around in a horizontal swing that forced both of them backwards. They circled to the right, careful to avoid the many holes that dotted the crumbling floor.

They came back together then, Geralt swinging his sword in an uppercut and Lambert sweeping it to the side. He made no move to attack. He just kept circling, Geralt falling in with him.

Then Lambert was the one to strike, lunging for Geralt. Sidestepping, Geralt bumped Lambert's sword outward with his own, spun with the momentum and sliced for Lambert's body. His blade made no contact as Lambert had already backed out of range.

That slow circle continued.

They were testing each other, gauging each other's strengths and weaknesses. It was a standard witcher opening move. The funny thing was, it wasn't necessary. They had practiced so much together as kids and young adults that they could practically fight each other with their eyes closed. They knew each other's styles. They knew each other's moves. And, from what Geralt had seen, not much had changed in Lambert. He doubted much had changed about himself either.

The analyzing look in Lambert's eye confirmed it. "I see you remember the basics, Geralt," he said tauntingly. "But let's get on with it."

Lambert came in hard, swinging furiously. Geralt deflected and parried, trying to keep his feet as much as he was trying to block Lambert's attacks. Knowing his time to strike would come, Geralt gave up ground willingly, backing around the room, but keeping himself in the light.

When Lambert got a bit too eager, Geralt went to block, but dodged to the side instead. Lambert, expecting the collision of sword on sword, fell forward, and Geralt struck out at him from the side. To recover, Lambert rolled and sprang to his feet.

Geralt closed with him and forced him backward. Through his movements, Geralt directed Lambert toward every hole, every scrap of stone littered around the room. He wanted Lambert to stumble more than he wanted him hurt him with his sword. If he could subdue him, then he could still end this peacefully.

Unfortunately, Lambert had always been quick on his feet. Even stripped of his power, he was deftly navigating the obstacles. And, perhaps sensing Geralt's intentions, his lack of commitment, Lambert pushed back.

They halted in the middle of the room, their swords still flying around each other.

Geralt took the moment to assess the situation.

The conditions around the room were abysmal. Chunks of stone covered the majority of the space, varying in size from that of an apple to large piles taller than Geralt himself. Then there were the holes in the ground. Most were large enough for a foot to pass through and one, Geralt discovered on his circuit around the room, would have been big enough for a fiend to fall through.

The light was becoming a problem as well. Without his witcher sight, Geralt was having a hard time seeing. The harsh light streaming down from above was only deepening the shadows everywhere else. With cat eyes, it wouldn't have been a problem. With human eyes, the contrast between the light and dark areas was making focusing a struggle.

Sweat was beading up on Geralt's forehead, his hands slick with it. Despite his self-assurances, his now mortal body was having a hard time keeping up with a witcher's battle. Even though Lambert was no longer a witcher either, neither one of them knew how to fight any differently. They were fighting in a style that required stronger muscles, quicker reflexes. The toll it was taking on Geralt now was something he couldn't have predicted.

Looking across to Lambert, it seemed he fared no better. The sweat dripping from his brow and the strain in his body betrayed his struggle.

Geralt couldn't get away with not putting everything into this fight. He would only wear himself out and Lambert knew him too well to fake it.

Grinding his teeth, Geralt fought with himself. He didn't want to kill Lambert. But he didn't have to. He could still defeat him without that final blow. At least, that's what he told himself.

Lambert took advantage of Geralt's momentary lapse in concentration and drove forward. Only this time, he didn't let Geralt dictate where he wanted to go. Lambert kept pushing him back, toward a boulder-sized hunk of stone. When Geralt tried to turn, Lambert forestalled the attempt.

Knowing he was going to be trapped, Geralt fought harder. His own life on the line, he threw everything he had at Lambert. Their progression stopped. Geralt kept it up. He couldn't stop until he was clear. Slowly, they inched the other way. Lambert snarled as Geralt drove him back. Faster and faster they went until they were almost tripping over each other's feet.

It wasn't until it was too late that Geralt saw what was coming.

Lambert backed himself into the darkness, effectively disappearing for the split second that Geralt was still in the light. Geralt tried to back off, knowing that Lambert was preparing to strike, but he wasn't swift enough.

A blade darted out of the gloom, slicing a gash into Geralt's left arm. He was only spared losing it because he had backed away. A foot to Geralt's midsection followed and he stumbled backward into a pile of rubble, his back thrown into its sharp edges.

Lambert emerged from the darkness, sword already mid-swing. Laid back against the stone, Geralt angled his sword downward across his body, catching Lambert's and slinging it to the side. He followed through with his elbow, bashing it into the side of Lambert's face.

Lambert trotted off a few steps while Geralt righted himself. His arm stung painfully and blood ran down to the point of his elbow where it dripped to the ground. When Lambert turned to face him again, the left side of his face was already bright red, the point of his cheek and his lip broken open.

They squared off once more, both grimacing against their injuries.

It was Lambert who broke the silence. He seemed more annoyed than anything.

"Why can't you let this go, Geralt?"

"If you don't know the answer to that, then you're more lost than I thought."

Lambert sneered. "You think I'm mad, don't you? You think I've lost it."

Geralt looked at him incredulously. "Look at what you've done. Do you even know what you've done?"

Rage shook Lambert's voice. "What I've done is nothing to what they've done! Nothing! You're the one who's deluded, Geralt. If you were even the tiniest bit honest with yourself, you would join me."

Shaking his head, Geralt said, "You're wrong. I know what they've done. I—"

"No, you don't! You have no idea what they've done!" He swept his arms around him. "To all of us!" Hurt flashed across Lambert's face, followed closely by hatred. "To me."

Geralt remained quiet, the slightest squint the only question on his face.

Lambert snorted, swinging out an accusing finger to the side. "They burned him alive, Geralt!" Lambert's voice dropped, weariness dragging the rage from him. "They fucking burned him alive."

Geralt knew who he was talking about. Aiden. The witcher Lambert had grown close to over the years. Only close didn't begin to describe their relationship. They were more than friends, they were brothers, soul mates. Lambert had always been a miserable bastard, but never when he was with Aiden. Aiden had healed something inside Lambert in a way that Geralt doubted even Lambert knew.

Several years ago, Geralt had heard rumors of Aiden's death when he had wintered at Kaer Morhen. But Geralt hadn't seen Lambert since then. Had never gotten the story of what had happened. And despite the current circumstances, a small part of Geralt lamented the sadness of it all. For the agony Aiden had had to experience. For the agony Lambert had to live through.

Geralt turned back to Lambert's livid, pained face. "I'm sorry," he said. And meant it.

Lambert almost seemed to be struck dumb by Geralt's compassion, as if he had forgotten what it was. His eyes searched Geralt's, seeking lies, but finding none.

He shook his head, that light of rage still burning in his eyes. "It's not just me. Every one of us has suffered at their hands." A look of hopelessness weighed down Lambert's face. "When does it end? If I don't stop it, who will?"

Geralt held a hand out in a placating gesture. "This isn't the way, Lambert."

A sad smile that turned cold all too quickly. "It is and you know it. The only thing people understand is power. So I took it. And I'm not giving it back."

Though he kept his face calm, Geralt was mourning on the inside. Mourning everything Lambert had become—the very thing Lambert raged against. He had fallen so far into hatred and grief that he couldn't find his way out anymore. Geralt could only offer his hand.

"I understand why you're angry. I understand."

Lambert once again sought the duplicity in Geralt's words. His face relaxed ever so slightly, like some burden had been lifted from his chest.

Geralt pressed on. "But, this isn't who you are. This isn't who Aiden would want you to be."

The second Aiden's name passed Geralt's lips, he knew he had said the wrong thing. Lambert's eyes whipped up to Geralt's, nothing but unbridled fury issuing forth. He spoke in a tone that was all too quiet.

"I guess we won't ever know, will we?" Lambert straightened, and were Geralt any lesser of a man, he would have recoiled from the threat limning Lambert's every fiber of being. He met Geralt's eyes, his gaze unwavering. "They don't get to get away with this. And it will never happen again."

Lambert roared as he charged at Geralt, holding nothing back. The power of their swords clashing shook through Geralt's arms as he took hit after hit. They circled around the room wildly, exchanging blows. Lambert was unhinged.

But for all his power, Lambert was forgetting his form, letting anger get the better of him. Geralt couldn't afford to do the same.

He kept up with Lambert, pushed back, the tide of their battle shifting from second to second. They were trading wounds, their evenly matched battle only wearing down both men in turn. A nick to Geralt's thigh for a slice across Lambert's forearm. A hilt to Geralt's face for some bloodied knuckles in return.

Neither one of them could keep up that pace and yet they kept going, their wounds accruing and their mortal bodies weakening.

Geralt searched desperately for an opening. But any time Lambert would leave one, his ferocity would force Geralt on the defensive.

Until he saw it.

Lambert came in too hard to Geralt's left with a one-handed swing. Seizing the opportunity, Geralt jabbed his sword down to meet Lambert's and caught Lambert's blade with his crossguard. A twist of the wrist wrenched the sword from Lambert's hand and Geralt shoved his shoulder into Lambert at the same time, sending him staggering backwards.

If Geralt thought it was over then, he was wrong.

Undeterred, still backpedaling, Lambert went for the knife at his hip. In one motion he drew it and flicked it toward Geralt.

Geralt wasn't fast enough to stop it.

The blade hurtled for him and Geralt brought up his sword to block it. Instead, he caught the edge of the knife, the blade deflecting and lodging into Geralt's leg. He howled in pain, his hands gripping his sword so hard, its leather wrapping creaked.

Then Lambert was running for Geralt, using the knife's distraction to close the distance between them. Geralt shifted back, but pained lanced through his leg and he could do nothing as Lambert barreled into him, toppling him over and sending them both flying.

Right into the open pit in the floor.

Geralt felt Lambert grasping at the silver sword over his shoulder, but they bounced off of the floor below and were separated. Stone and darkness twirled around Geralt, then, as he plummeted floor after floor after floor, each one leaving its mark on him. His ribs cracked when he crashed into the edge of the next level down, his body crumpling around it, falling deeper. Then his hand smashed against something hard and his own sword was lost from his grip. Down and down he tumbled, Lambert lost to his sight as he, too, went spiraling into the abyss.

It was almost a relief when Geralt collided with solid ground and stopped moving. He gasped in a breath, then ground his teeth at his broken ribs, his battered body.

Painfully, he looked around at what appeared to be some kind of dungeon. Gibbets hung from the ceiling and laid strewn across the ground where they had fallen, prison cages dotted the space, and ropes and chains were strung about, swaying ever so slightly at the air that had disturbed them. Pockets of light shone down from above where the stone had worn or fallen away, clearing the gloom just enough to see.

Groaning, Geralt pushed himself onto his side and searched for Lambert. A growl of pain came from behind Geralt and he turned to see Lambert struggling to stand. Blood poured from his head and he favored his left leg as he stood. Holding his side, he limped a few steps as he found his balance. Luckily, there was no sign of the silver sword near him.

Lambert pivoted, searching.

Geralt couldn't help the grunt that escaped him when he tried to pull his feet underneath himself. The knife had only been driven further into his leg by the fall. Glancing back at Lambert, their eyes locked and a fire ignited in Lambert's eyes. A fire that would consume Geralt.

Unchecked by his limp, Lambert came for Geralt, death a promise on his face.

Without thinking, Geralt reached for the hilt of the knife in his leg and yanked it free, a cry snarling past his teeth. He flipped the knife in his hand and threw it at the encroaching form of Lambert, aiming for his chest.

Lambert turned to the side, swerving around the blade. It sliced a gash in the arm he couldn't quite get out of the way then pinged off of a distant wall.

Geralt had to get to his feet or he wouldn't stand a chance. But his leg didn't want to work properly. So Geralt hurriedly dragged himself the few feet to the nearest prison cage, hauled himself up with its steel, checkered bars.

A soft click sounded, followed shortly by a twang. Then lightning exploded through Geralt's left shoulder.

As he roared in agony, he looked down to see a crossbow bolt protruding next to his chest. A few inches over and it would have pierced his heart.

He didn't have time to turn, didn't have time to recover from the shock of the bolt spearing his flesh. The next second, Lambert crashed into Geralt from behind, slamming him into the metal cage. Geralt cried out again as the bolt moved within him. Then Lambert grabbed a fistful of Geralt's hair, ready to bash him into the bars.

Expediency giving Geralt the will to push past the pain, he threw his head back, crunching through Lambert's nose and earning him some space. Then Geralt reached for his own knife with his right hand and swung around, slinging for Lambert in a wide arc.

Seeing Geralt draw the blade, Lambert had danced backward out of the way. The blade carved a shallow slice across his chest.

They stood across from each other, both of them letting their bodies admit how wounded they were, how broken. They hunched against their injuries, pain and exhaustion bowing them over, their breaths ragged. Lambert clutched the new gash in his chest while fresh blood oozed between his fingers and down his face. Geralt, for his part, could hardly use his left arm. Could hardly raise it more than a few inches before white hot pain blanked out his vision.

They stared each other down, not bothering to hide what the other knew was true. They had come to the final stretch on their path of mutual destruction. Their bodies were at their limit. And yet neither one would back down. Neither one would admit defeat. Not yet. Not ever.

Lambert wouldn't give in. If Geralt had had any doubts about it before, now it was obvious. Lambert would fight to the death.

Because of that, Geralt couldn't give in either. To do so would be to give in to death. He had lived a long life, but he wasn't ready to give up. He would fight to his last breath.

Now that he was up, Geralt could just about keep his leg underneath himself. He couldn't move fast, but he could move. That would have to do.

Both swaying on their feet, they came at each other, Geralt swinging with his knife. Lambert dodged Geralt's first slice then went to grab at the bolt in Geralt's shoulder. Geralt swung at his hand and Lambert had to retract it.

Geralt felt so slow, so clumsy. There was no finesse left in any of his movements. He did what he had to. Nothing more and nothing less. He didn't have the strength for anything else.

The lack of movement in his left arm wasn't helping his balance, either. He jabbed and slashed at Lambert to no avail, Lambert seemingly content to let Geralt tire himself out. Although Lambert was slowing, too.

Stepping in close, Geralt sliced high across Lambert, forcing him to bend backward to avoid the hit. Lambert lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. While he scuttled backward on his butt, Geralt hobbled toward him, hoping to secure his victory. Before he could, Lambert grabbed a fistful of loose rock and dust and pitched it into Geralt's face.

Shielding his eyes, Geralt flung up his arm and the next thing he knew, Lambert had a hold of it with both hands. Geralt wrestled against Lambert's grip, Lambert striving to pry the knife from Geralt's hand. He refused to relinquish his hold on it. Sensing he wouldn't win that way, Lambert clamped his teeth down on Geralt's hand, biting to the bone. Involuntarily, Geralt dropped the knife as he growled.

In response, Geralt kneed Lambert in the groin and shoved into him with his shoulder, throwing Lambert into a hanging gibbet that then went clattering to the ground. Lambert stumbled, but a manic fury had taken hold of him. He righted himself quickly and charged, fists flying.

Geralt had no time to scoop up his knife. He dodged to the side of Lambert and threw his own right hook, his knuckles cracking into Lambert's skull right where his elbow had earlier. Despite that early success, however, Geralt was at a severe disadvantage in a fist fight with only one arm.

Lambert spun with the hit, lessening the blow and disallowing Geralt to press his advantage. He came at Geralt again with a flurry of jabs which Geralt blocked, dodged, and ducked. Geralt managed a jab of his own to force Lambert back, but Lambert was undeterred. He swung in from Geralt's right and, when Geralt went to block his arm, Lambert made an uppercut from the left that set Geralt's teeth ringing. His vision flashed white and Geralt threw out a wild punch as a defensive measure.

When his vision returned, Geralt saw Lambert duck his blow, then launch himself from his crouch. He grabbed Geralt around the middle and ploughed forward. Geralt could do nothing but stumble backward as they gained momentum. Then Geralt slammed into the side of a prison cage, his breath partly driven from his lungs as Lambert crushed into his midsection.

Lambert was on him then, keeping him trapped against the flat bars and grabbing at the bolt in Geralt's shoulder. Geralt screamed as he twisted it, trying to fight Lambert off by punching into his side and kicking whatever he could. Lambert's eyes were so glazed with rage that Geralt doubted he even felt it in that moment.

Then Lambert backed off and it wasn't until Geralt went to follow that he realized there was the end of a rope in Lambert's hands, the other trailing back toward the cage where it was tangled through the bars.

Realization fluttered into Geralt's throat just as Lambert yanked and a loop of rope tightened around it.

Pulled back to the cage, his airway restricting, Geralt grabbed at the rope around his neck, fought to loosen it.

Lambert pulled harder, triumph lighting his eyes.

Geralt thrashed against his noose, desperately trying to pry it from his neck, gasping for air. Even his left hand raised as far as it could go and clutched at thin air, so desperate was Geralt's body to break free.

It couldn't end like this.

Lambert cinched the noose tighter and tighter, each tug at the rope jerking Geralt into the steel cage and stealing what air was left in his lungs. Geralt redoubled his efforts, clawing at the rope cutting into his neck. He couldn't draw a breath and his efforts only stole his air, too.

He couldn't let it end like this.

The dungeon was shrinking, a numb feeling spreading through Geralt. There was no more air. He could barely move his limbs and as he sagged, the noose seized him tighter. Geralt fought to keep his eyes open, refusing to give in. All that did was keep Lambert's maniacal smile in view.

At that look, something primal triggered in Geralt.

He wouldn't let it end like this.

Summoning the last of his strength, Geralt grabbed onto the bars with his hand and braced his feet underneath himself. His back was flat against the bars only because the back half of the crossbow bolt was protruding through them and when Geralt shoved himself upward, he snapped through it. Had he any air left in his lungs, Geralt would have cried out at the pain that shot through him. Instead, he grabbed the front of the bolt, yanked it from his shoulder, and, before Lambert could stop him, feverishly sawed through the rope at his neck, cutting into his own skin in his haste.

The rope snapped and Geralt collapsed to the ground as air flooded back into him. He gasped at it, groping around on the floor, trying to right himself. He didn't have any time to regain his composure, though, because Lambert was there immediately, kicking Geralt onto his side. Lambert kept kicking, a frustrated snarl escaping his lips. Geralt weathered it, pain exploding through him, pilfering what little breath he had.

When his brain caught up to what was happening, Geralt spotted Lambert's next kick, watched it draw closer. As soon as it made contact, Geralt latched onto his foot and twisted, forcing Lambert to turn and bend his knee. Lambert went down and Geralt brought the bolt that was still clutched in his hand up over his head. With a crunch, Geralt slammed it straight through Lambert's knee.

Lambert howled and dropped to the ground. He rolled on the floor in agony, clutching at his skewered leg.

There would be no coming back from that injury. Geralt had shorn through the ligaments, piercing underneath the kneecap and into the joint below.

Completely exhausted, Geralt slumped backward from his hands and knees, ending up in a kneeling position as he finally had a moment to catch his breath. Blood and sweat poured from him in equal measure and pain hounded his every movement. He could barely keep himself upright.

Lambert was seething next to him. He was covered in blood much as Geralt was, anger the only thing keeping him going. His eyes flickered onto Geralt, the hatred behind them a force to be reckoned with. Even so, with Geralt's last strike, Lambert was too wounded and debilitated by pain to put up a fight. He sneered up at Geralt, livid. "Are you happy now?" he asked, voice shaking. He ground his teeth and groaned, fighting off a bout of pain. "You win again."

Geralt was too tired to feel anything but pity. And sadness. He pulled in a ragged breath to reply. "I didn't want this, Lambert. You gave me no choice."

Loathing burned through Lambert. "If you think it ends here, you're wrong. I'll get my powers back. No matter what I have to do, I'll find a way."

Miserably, his gut twisting, Geralt answered, "I know." He knew Lambert wouldn't give up. Knew what he had to do to stop him. He supposed he had known it from the moment they had started fighting. There was only one choice. They still didn't know if the compound would wear off. Even if it didn't, Lambert was hell-bent on his mission. He could recover, he could break free. And then he would start this all over again. And they wouldn't be able to stop him a second time. Lambert would make sure of it.

Geralt had to do it. He had to kill him.

He dragged himself closer to Lambert who hardly noticed Geralt's approach, so lost was he in his agony.

Then Geralt took one last, sorrowful look at his friend, his brother.

In that moment, Geralt's heavy heart weighed him down more than his injuries. He leaned over Lambert and, with a swift jerk, ripped the bolthead from Lambert's knee. When Lambert threw his head back to scream, Geralt plunged the bolt down into Lambert's chest.

Right into his heart.

Lambert's cry died on his lips as his eyes went blank and his face slackened. Then he was still. Utterly still.

Geralt let out a choked sigh as he slumped backward once more, feeling like he had plunged the bolt through his own heart.

He didn't know how to deal with the emotions flooding through him. Didn't know how to deal with the dichotomy of hating Ralen, but still having a place in his heart for Lambert, even after all he had done.

He sat there for a minute, unable to find the strength or will to move.

Get up, he told himself. Keep moving. That was all he could do. Move. And keep moving until he found a way out of here. The rest he would have to deal with later.

When he finally did move, his body protested. Geralt tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't hold him and he collapsed to his hands and knees. Conceding to his battered body, Geralt settled for looking around instead.

He didn't know how he was going to get out of here. The only staircase in sight was blocked by rubble and there were no other doors that he could see.

Groaning, sweat and blood dripping from him, Geralt crawled, slowly and painfully, toward where they had first fallen, toward the faint light coming from above. He didn't know why. It wasn't like he could have climbed back up. But he couldn't think straight anymore and he moved toward the only thing that signaled freedom.

His arms and legs trembled beneath him, his breath wheezing past his lips.

Keep going. He just had to keep going.

The world was fading, Geralt's mortal frame failing him. Despite his determination, his legs gave out halfway to the opening and Geralt dragged himself a few feet further before his arms did too. He tried to push himself back up onto his elbows. If he could only do that, then he might make it. But he had nothing left. His strength was gone and his mind was hurrying to follow. Perhaps his life, too.

Geralt's breathing slowed and his eyelids drooped, his head getting heavier on the dusty floor.

He held on just long enough to see a thick rope uncoil into view from the hole above.

Then everything went dark.


Cerys had seen the bomb explode, had seen Geralt and Ralen disappear into the fog below her. She had to get down there. And, much as she hated to, she had to leave in order to do it.

There was rope back in the supply wagons. Of that, Cerys was sure. She prayed to the gods that she would find some closer than that.

She ran back to the stairs with what remained of her squadron around her. Half of them had been killed by Ralen, Gudrik among them. She saw him take the hit, saw him fly backward with a pained cry. There had been nothing she could have done, so entrenched was she in dodging from cover to cover. Ralen hadn't spared them any time to breathe, let alone grieve.

The other half that had survived had merely been lucky. She knew none of them stood a chance against Ralen, knew that they had been fodder to keep Ralen distracted long enough for Geralt to get close. She had offered their lives and hers willingly. Ralen had to be stopped at all costs. Not only for the sake of avenging her family, but for all of Skellige.

And now Ralen and Geralt were down there, beyond her sight and reach. She couldn't take it. She had to get to them as soon as possible.

"Over here!" came a shout from Cerys' left, breaking her from her reverie just before she reached the stairs. She ran over to the caller.

"Gudrik!" she exclaimed as his mangled form came into view. She looked worriedly to the man who was kneeling next to him. "Is he…?"

He gave a pert nod. "He's alive."

Indeed, she saw him breathing and a weight Cerys didn't know she was holding lifted from her shoulders, though she assessed Gudrik gravely. Blood ran down from the rock where his head lay, the bone in his left arm protruded from the skin in a few places, and his leg was clearly broken. She could only hope he hadn't broken his back as well.

Finished with her assessment, Cerys turned to the man leaning over him. "Take care of him. Get him back to the medics as soon as you can."

She wanted to stay, wanted to see him taken care of, but duty called her onward.

So she ran back to the stairs, the others waiting dutifully for her, and descended. They had to fight their way downward as more of Ralen's men swarmed upward in the vacuum they had left in their rush to attack Ralen. None of them posed much of a threat to their contingent. In fact, when they cleared the tower and looked out across the battlefield from the wall, Cerys could see that the battle was already won. Maybe not immediately, but the momentum was there.

With Lugos and Ralen so clearly out of play, some of the opposing forces had turned and run, charging out of the fort wherever they could or laying down arms with hands held up in submission. Many still fought and Cerys' army swelled to match them. The enemy wouldn't last. If they were too stupid or stubborn to see their defeat, then they would be put down quickly enough.

Cerys herself helped plenty with that as she made her way back to the supply wagon. She spared glances to the side as she ran, hoping she might find a length of rope earlier, but none appeared.

She yelled ahead her request to the young man tasked with keeping the supply wagon and snatched it from his hand as soon as she was near enough to do so, the man and woman running right behind her grabbing several lengths of rope as well. They all turned on their heels and sprinted back the way they had come.

The going was easier on the way back. As Cerys had predicted, the battle was all but over, her army mostly holding prisoners at swordpoint.

Yet it wasn't finished for Cerys. Not yet. And hopefully not for Geralt either.

"Hold on, Geralt, we're coming," she breathed as she ran, sheathing her sword to focus on pumping her arms. She knew Geralt's skill. Knew most men could never dream of matching his proficiency in combat. But she had never seen Geralt so afraid as when he had talked about Ralen, about how dangerous he was. And on top of it, Geralt had been dosed with the very compound meant to take down Ralen. She didn't let herself think about what that might do to him long-term. Here and now, it meant that he was powerless, weakened. At best, he would be on even footing with Ralen. At worst…

Cerys ran faster.

She outstripped the squadron trailing her, not caring that she was leaving them behind. She pounded up the stairs to the wall, into the tower, and through its maze to the top. Sparing a glance to the side, Cerys was happy to see that they had already taken Gudrik from where he had lain. No one else remained up there.

A scream rent the air from down the hole where Geralt and Ralen had fallen and Cerys' heart leapt into her throat. She searched frantically for a place to secure her rope. She spotted a partial wall that she judged sturdy enough and looped the rope through, tying a knot and throwing the other end into the hole. The woman that had taken the rope from the wagon appeared at the top of the stairs then, followed closely by the man with the rope and the others. Cerys gestured them over urgently, but didn't wait for them before she swung her leg over the rope and climbed down.

A strangled cry echoed around her as she rappelled. Then there was silence.

Cerys' feet met stone and she backed away from the rope, drawing her sword. The others were descending the rope as well, fanning out behind her as they landed. None of them made a sound. She dared not call out in case that cry hadn't been Ralen's. In case that had been Geralt that had been silenced. Her chest constricted at the thought.

Then there was the blood. It was everywhere, spattered around the room.

Someone hissed through their teeth to get Cerys' attention and she swung to them. They pointed at a large hole in the ground and the blood and scuff marks leading up to it. A sword lay discarded to the side. Gesturing with her hands, Cerys had them secure another rope and lower it into the darkness below.

They came to a narrow landing a few floors down, quickly discerned that no one was there, and continued their descent with another of the ropes.

When the hole opened up to a sizeable dungeon, Cerys didn't have to look far to know they were in the right place. Geralt lay, face-down, ten yards into the gloom, another figure, too far for Cerys to see properly lay another ten yards beyond him.

Her feet touched down in a pool of blood and a quick survey of the room told her that this one, too, was covered in it. She drew her sword and moved swiftly, but cautiously forward. When her men landed behind her, she motioned those on her left toward Geralt and those on her right to follow her.

She ached to go check Geralt instead, her stomach knotting in fear that she might be too late to save him, but she couldn't let her guard down until she knew that Ralen was no longer a threat. She forced herself to breathe down the panic and inched toward the figure lying past Geralt.

When she got close enough, she could see that it was, indeed, Ralen. A wooden shaft stuck up from his chest and he wasn't breathing. Still, she had to be absolutely certain. She held her sword to his neck, pricking the skin with its proximity, as the man next to her knelt down and checked him for any signs of life. He looked up at her and shook his head.

Cerys wasn't expecting the sudden fit of anger that boiled up inside her, aimed at the man lying before her. When her compatriot withdrew, Cerys yelled out her fury, swung her sword, and lopped off Ralen's head in one stroke.

She felt the eyes of the others on her as she mastered herself and, as the anger subsided, the relief swept in.

Geralt had done it. Of course he had done it. But Geralt… she swiveled back to him, fear gripping her heart once more.

They had flipped him over, but from that distance, Cerys couldn't tell if he was breathing.

Cerys' clear voice broke their held silence. "Is he alive?"

There were four people tending to him, but the woman who was bandaging his arm looked up. "He's breathing," she answered reservedly, so obviously avoiding giving an affirmative answer to Cerys' question that Cerys' heart dropped. Cerys moved closer, crouched down next to him.

Geralt looked lucky to even be breathing. She could see more blood, bruises, and dirt on him than she could his skin. What little of his skin was showing was paler than it should have been. Pale and wan and cold to the touch. And his breathing was so shallow that Cerys could barely see his chest rising from right next to him.

She felt sick. No man could survive Geralt's condition. Had he still had his witcher mutations, she may have thought he had a chance, but…

They couldn't let him die like this. He had given everything for them and they would do everything for him in turn. They owed him that. Beyond that, Geralt was her friend. She had to help him.

The inborn commander in Cerys snapped her out of her helpless stupor. She looked to those around her. "We need to get him out of here and to the healers, now. And find Ermion. He may be able to help. Then get him to Gedyneith as soon as you can. If anyone can save Geralt, the druids can."

Those around Geralt finished tying off their field bandages and hefted him between them, carrying him back to the opening. Two went up the rope first and, once those down below rigged up a harness for Geralt, they hauled him upward. Cerys was among the last to ascend.

"What about Ralen?" the last man next to Cerys asked.

She didn't even bother looking over her shoulder at the headless figure lying in the dark. "Search him. Find any serum and the formula and bring them to me," she said, grabbing onto the rope.

He forestalled her. "What about the body?"

"Leave it. It's not worth the effort," she spat. She wouldn't spare one more thought for that man.

From there, her men did as Cerys had ordered, rushing Geralt to the medics, to Ermion, who had come down from his vantage point. He did what he could for Geralt, but he was no healer. And then Geralt was gone from Cerys' sight. They took two horses and galloped off with Geralt, racing for Gedyneith. As much as she wanted to go with them, Cerys had other responsibilities.

They had won the battle. And in killing Ralen, had won the war against him. Yet there was still so much to do. The leadership of Skellige was in chaos. With Lugos dead, Clan Drummond was without a leader. Clan An Craite as well since Cerys hadn't officially been named jarl. Then there was the kingship to consider. Crach had been acting king, but now they would have to decide who would claim the genuine title.

Cerys had been so focused on stopping Ralen that she hadn't let herself consider what they would do after that. Now, the weight of what was ahead came crashing down on her all at once.

One step at a time, she told herself. She took a deep breath and set to it.

It took several days to gather the fallen and arrange their bodies into mass pyres. The infernos that roared fifty feet tall had a sobering effect on all of them as they gathered to honor the dead.

When the fires were burning stolidly, Cerys fingered the two little vials she had kept in her pocket ever since her man had brought them to her after searching Ralen. All the witchers had been searched, but this was all they had found. Those and a small piece of parchment rolled up inside another vial in Ralen's pockets—the formula.

Cerys pulled all three from her pocket and regarded them in her hand, letting herself feel all the pain they had caused.

That ended here.

She closed her hand around them and looked back to the fire, felt the heat of the blaze wash over her face. Then she chucked all three into the flames.

A gout of green fire spouted up where the vials broke, but it was gone in a blink. Cerys watched as the piece of parchment at its base caught, watched it float up into the air as it burned, as it crumbled to ashes.

She stayed watching that fire long after the others had left, until the last flicker of embers had burned itself out in the small hours of the morning.

It was over. It was all over. And yet, somehow, it had only just begun.

After a few more days of organizing, Cerys and the majority of the army departed for Gedyneith, a small contingent staying behind to hold what remained of Ralen's forces. Gedyneith was no place to hold prisoners.

And so, a week after the battle, Cerys found the great tree of Gedyneith rising up before her, greeting her warmly. Its leaves were just starting to turn, announcing the season's change. Cerys breathed in the familiar sights and smells, let them settle her. This place had always had that effect on her.

Except, this time Cerys' heart warred against the calming effect of the clearing. Geralt was here. And Gudrik. She hadn't had news of either since they had been brought here along with all the gravely wounded.

As soon as she was able, Cerys made for the makeshift infirmary. Drom greeted her at the doorway and guided her to her friends, their beds side by side.

Gudrik came into view first. His body was healing as expected, Drom explained, but he had suffered a major concussion and hadn't woken up yet. Then there was Geralt. He had been cleaned and bandaged, his face somehow even more pale now that there was no blood covering it. He hardly seemed better off than he was a week ago.

Cerys turned to Drom. "How is he?" she asked cautiously.

Drom's hesitation kicked Cerys in the gut. "We've done all we can for him. He still lives. How long that remains true is mostly up to him now." Giving Cerys a somber look, Drom excused himself and went to tend to his other patients.

Cerys sat with her friends the rest of the afternoon, sending silent prayers for their recoveries. Though it clawed at her, she refused to give in to despair. Like Drom had said, they still lived. As long as they did, there was still hope.

Her prayers were answered the next day when Gudrik awoke. His mind was muddled by the concussion and he could hardly move on account of his broken limbs, but he was awake, smiling up at Cerys as he was finally able to bask in their victory.

He got better each day and held a constant, solemn vigil over Geralt. Cerys joined him whenever she could, to keep Gudrik company as he recovered, to have a friend to talk to, and to be close to Geralt. As if their presence could somehow heal him.

She couldn't tell if he was making progress. He seemed to be hanging on by a thread, his breathing still shallow and his face gaunt. But this was Geralt. He had already defied expectations by making it this far. He may have lost his witcher mutations, but his indomitable will was a power that could not be stripped from him.

And then, one day Gudrik came hobbling out of the infirmary on a crutch and found Cerys as she was chatting to the other clan leaders. Her eyes lit up as she saw her friend up and walking around again, but that wasn't why he had come. He bade her to follow.

"What's going on?" she asked, fearing the worst.

"You need to see this for yourself," was Gudrik's only answer.

He led her to Geralt, gesturing toward him. "Look."

Not understanding, Cerys stepped closer. She didn't know what he was talking about. "What is it? Did he wake up? Did he say something?" Excitement rolled through her at the prospect, but Gudrik shook his head.

"Look, his bruises. They're gone."

Cerys inspected Geralt. Gudrik was right. Where there had been minor bruising the day before, now there was no trace. And the major ones, that had been a vivid purple, were nothing but mottled yellow today. Cerys' heart leapt. Her eyes shot back to Gudrik, hope filling her face. "Do you think—"

But he was already nodding, a relieved smile breaking out over his face too.

Geralt's powers were back, speeding up his healing. It was the only explanation.

Tears filled Cerys' eyes at the relief that spread through her. Geralt wasn't out of the woods yet, but with his witcher healing back, he stood a chance. A chance that had been slipping away from him day by day, she let herself admit.

She sat with Gudrik for a time, their shared joy palpable between them.

Geralt's going to be alright, Cerys chanted to herself. He was going to be alright.


The smell of wet earth and grass and pollen floated into Geralt's nose, tickling him to consciousness. Then came the soughing of leaves, the quiet murmur of voices, and the chirruping of morning birds. By the time he sleepily opened his eyes, Geralt already knew where he was. Gedyneith.

He stared at the packed dirt interior of one of the dwellings beneath the hills, then let his eyes fall to his surroundings. He was in a larger room, some kind of infirmary judging by the beds lined up and the bandaged occupants therein.

Then his eyes fell upon Gudrik, alive and well save for the splint on his leg and the sling around his arm. He was reading a book in a chair next to Geralt, so captivated by its words that he hadn't noticed Geralt stir.

"I didn't know you knew how to read," Geralt chided, his voice much weaker and more gravelly than he expected.

Practically throwing his book down, Gudrik jumped in surprise. "Geralt!" He leaned over, a smile stretching his face. "You're awake!"

Geralt made to push himself up, but grimaced as his body barked at him to remain still. His breath caught at the pain that wracked through him.

"Take it easy there, old-timer," Gudrik said good naturedly, holding his hand out to keep Geralt where he was.

When Geralt had caught his breath again, his tone grew serious. "How long?" he inquired.

"Almost three weeks."

Geralt could read in his voice everything that Gudrik wasn't saying. How close Geralt must have been to death. How worried Gudrik had been. It was etched all over his face.

"We," Gudrik paused, as if considering whether he should go on, "we didn't know if you would make it. You were holding on, but your injuries weren't getting any better." His face lit up a bit. "But then—"

"Then my powers came back," Geralt finished for him. He had known what Gudrik was going to say, had known that his powers were back the moment he had awoken. He could feel it. Could feel it in the way he breathed, how his body moved, how his heart beat in his chest. Could feel it in how the world was clearer around him, the smells deeper, the sounds sharper. Everything had felt right again.

Gudrik gave him a questioning look. Understandably, he didn't know how Geralt could know. The changes in Geralt were only outward to him. Gudrik could never know what it was like for Geralt. How his witcher mutations were more than just healing or magic, but an entire way of being.

There was no way to explain it so Geralt offered a demonstration in something Gudrik would understand. He looked over to the candle at the small table by his bedside and, with a shaking hand, snapped his fingers. A tiny flame flickered into existence on the wick and the corners of Geralt's lips twitched upwards. Like that little flame confirmed the return of his powers even for him.

An all-out grin took over Gudrik's mouth and he huffed a little chuckle.

His elation at seeing Geralt restored was infectious and Geralt couldn't help but return his smile whole-heartedly. He basked in their friendship, grateful to be a part of it.

After a few minutes of chatting, Gudrik left to find Cerys, promising he would be back shortly. He kept his promise, though Cerys came running in long before Gudrik limped through the doorway. She was just as thrilled to see Geralt awake as Gudrik had been.

They talked for hours, exchanging stories. Geralt relayed what had happened down in the tower, who Ralen truly was, and how they had fought, how Geralt had ultimately defeated him. Cerys and Gudrik were like two kids at storytime as they listened, their eyes wide in awe and fear. Then it was their turn to catch Geralt up on everything that had been going on since the battle, Geralt eating voraciously while they did so.

All of the clans were weakened, their numbers wasted on Lambert's scheming. But from the battle rose a mostly united front. The An Craites fell in line behind Cerys. They had never had much choice in the fighting to begin with. It was Clan Drummond's fate that was unclear. As far as anyone could tell, Lugos had fallen in with Lambert willingly, wanting a taste of the power he offered. Though not all of his men agreed with his decision, Lugos' coup nonetheless reflected upon the clan. And there were disparate opinions on how to deal with them.

Even though three weeks had passed, they still hadn't chosen a new king. They had all wanted to sort everything out, to figure out how to move forward before putting a decision like that to a vote. Everything was going along as well as it could so they had felt no need to rush. Though the time for waiting was drawing to an end.

Another week passed with Geralt and his friends spending the evenings chatting amiably, still at Geralt's bedside as he remained weak, though he grew stronger every day. By the end of the week, he could just about stand on his own, his legs wobbly from disuse. In another few days, Geralt was walking with an arm slung over a friend. He was happy to be able to get out of the infirmary; he was going stir-crazy in there.

The day after, the three of them were eating lunch out in the crisp autumn air when Drom came to them, summoning Cerys to the circle underneath the great tree. They all exchanged confused glances.

Drom waved them forward, a comforting smile on his face. "Your friends may come too, if they wish."

Shrugging at each other, they rose, Cerys throwing Geralt's arm over her shoulder to help him. On Geralt's account, it was slow going as they made their way to the circle in Drom's wake, a curious silence between them.

When they stepped into the shade of Gedyneith, Geralt could see the other clan leaders standing in a semi-circle, waiting. Cerys stiffened next to him, but kept going until they were standing before the gathered party.

The oldest of the bunch, a man with grey hair, a shaggy beard, and a bright spark in his eye spoke. "Cerys, I'm sure you can guess why we've called you here."

She straightened under Geralt's arm. "To vote on the next ruler of Skellige."

A light of amusement winked in the man's eye. Geralt could already guess why, but he knew Cerys was too humble to even think it.

"Actually, we already did."

Geralt gently squeezed Cerys under his arm as he felt anger rising in her. She thought she had been left out. Geralt's action advised her to wait.

The man removed his hands from behind his back and held out a makeshift crown. Geralt could tell it wasn't the official crown of Skellige, but it was finely crafted by a blacksmith, its steel surface gleaming in the flittering light that broke through the canopy above. He extended it toward Cerys. "Deliberations were short. Yours was the only name considered."

Cerys stiffened again for an entirely different reason. She looked to all the leaders and back to the crown, stared at it. Geralt could feel her breathing pick up its pace. He pulled his arm from her shoulder, assuring her he would be fine on his own when she looked back at his withdrawal. "Go," he bade.

Gudrik filled into Cerys' spot next to Geralt, allowing him to place a steadying hand on his shoulder while Cerys stepped forward.

The old man went on. "Don't look so surprised. You've been our Queen for some time now." He held the crown higher, inviting her to step beneath it. "It's time we made it official." Cerys obligingly stepped up to him and knelt. He rested the crown atop her head, saying, "Long live the Queen."

The other leaders echoed the phrase, then Geralt and Gudrik joined in on the next round. By the third chant, they were shouting it, their fists pumping into the air, the glade ringing with their exuberance.

When their cries died away, Cerys stood and turned, beaming. She met Geralt's eyes and he returned her smile, dipping his head in reverence.

He was proud of her. He had always known she was destined for greatness. When hardship sought to pummel her into submission, not only did she rise above it, but she pulled everyone up along with her. Pulled Skellige back from the brink of ruin and united the clans.

There was no one more deserving of the crown.

Later, when the whole camp was drinking and celebrating, Geralt already having partaken in as much as he could, he sat on a bench watching his friends continue their merriment. He was happy for them. He was happy himself—something he didn't readily admit.

The cost had been great, but they had done it. They had stopped Ralen.

Geralt found it difficult calling him Lambert. He wasn't Lambert. Not really. Lambert had died the day Aiden had, some monster born of grief taking his place. Geralt didn't regret what he had had to do, but he lamented that it had had to be done. Lamented the choice Lambert had made to take that path. And all the pain and suffering he had inflicted along it.

Geralt shook his head, ridding himself of such dark thoughts. It was over and what was done was done.

He had to take whatever happiness life gave him because darkness was always looming. At least here, with his friends, that darkness seemed a little less threatening, a little more distant.

When Cerys and Gudrik came back over to him, beckoning him toward one more round, Geralt grinned and let them haul him to his feet, let them escort him back to the festivities.

He let all of his troubles fly away, forgotten on the stiff breeze, the music thumping through the clearing, the smiles on the faces around him.

He let happiness overtake him. Let it heal those dark places inside of him, the ones that couldn't be forgotten, only illuminated; lit up so brightly that they were no longer frightening. Illuminated so they could be examined from a place of safety until, even in darkness, they held no more threat.

This night was to be one of those nights. A night to forget and to remember all at the same time. A night for fun and peace and happiness.

Geralt was going to seize every moment of it.

For however long it would last.

Epilogue

A few weeks after Cerys had been crowned Queen, Geralt found himself standing on the outskirts of Kaer Gelen, their lives moving forward rapidly now that her Queenship had been announced.

Cerys' first act as Queen had been to pardon Clan Drummond on the provision that the other clans would decide their next jarl and that that jarl would then have to swear fealty to the crown. It was all for show of course. Lugos himself had probably sworn fealty to the crown. Yet Cerys viewed it as an act of good faith between the rulership of Skellige and Clan Drummond. She wanted Skellige to move forward, not hold on to past grievances. Her decision had been disputed by a few, but widely accepted.

Since then, the vast majority of Cerys' army had been dispersing, returning to their lives back on their respective islands. Only the leaders and their chosen parties had remained. They, along with Cerys and Gudrik, were heading for Kaer Trolde for an official coronation and a reclaiming of the castle since Ralen's befoulment of it.

They took the southern road out of Gedyneith, forgoing the mountain pass. The decision had mostly been about the weather, but Geralt suspected there was a more sentimental reason than that. In any case, he had told them that he needed to go back to Kaer Gelen, that he would meet them at Kaer Trolde. Gudrik had offered to come with him, but Geralt had wanted to go alone.

He told them he was going to find his swords and that had been the truth, though perhaps not all of it.

Geralt didn't entirely know himself why he felt like he needed to go back there.

And yet here he was, the cloak the druids had furnished him with pulled tight against the biting chill, a sprinkle of snowfall drifting down lazily around him. He hitched his horse on the leeward side of a wall, grabbed the several lengths of rope he had borrowed, and strolled into the fort.

Little evidence remained of the battle, the birds and beasts doing a comprehensive job at cleaning it up. Only the discarded weapons lingered, hints of rust already starting to show on some of them. Geralt strode for the tower, crunching across the already accumulated snow. He wound his way to the top and secured a rope above the hole down into the tower's core. Hesitating a moment, he descended.

Flashes of the battle hit him as his feet met the cold stone, feelings of pain, anger, and desperation adding to their intensity. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out once, letting the emotion threatening him subside.

When he opened his eyes again, for the first time since entering Kaer Gelen, Geralt saw traces of blood. Only birds and insects would have had access here and they did not do so thorough a job. It was like their battle had left a permanent mark on this place. The air around Geralt grew oppressive, but his business wasn't finished here.

He ambled toward the large hole in the floor. Ralen's sword lay, forgotten, to one side. Geralt kept moving, tying off another rope and carefully lowering himself toward the narrow shelf below, scanning the gloom for any sign of his swords. He knew they were between here and the dungeon below.

He spotted his silver sword first, thrown to the far wall of one of the first levels down. It was tricky retrieving it, as there was no direct landing, but Geralt managed to swing himself over to the ledge, jump to it, sheathe his sword, and then ease himself back into the opening.

Geralt landed on the shelf a few floors down, having not yet seen his steel sword. It was somehow harder for him to secure the next rope, his hands fumbling over the knots. Finally having completed the task, Geralt peered over the edge, into the darkness below. He stood transfixed by it, unable to look away, until, berating himself, he swung over the edge.

It wasn't until the final level before the dungeon that Geralt spied his steel sword, propped up against some loose rubble. It was almost within reach. Geralt wouldn't even have to dismount the rope to grab it.

He rocked his body back and forth, building momentum in the direction of his sword, his hand inching closer. Judging the timing, Geralt waited until he came forward again and then grabbed at it. But the tip snagged on a rock and it tumbled from Geralt's grasp.

"Shit!" Geralt exclaimed as he watched it fall. It clattered to the ground below.

Without thinking, he followed after it, lowering himself until his boots met the dust and blood covered floor below.

The smell was what hit him first—that of rotting death.

Geralt had never asked what Cerys had done with Ralen's body and she had never said. He assumed they had disposed of it. He didn't know why, but he had.

But when that putrid scent invaded his nostrils, he knew immediately what—who—it was. His sword forgotten, Geralt rotated slowly toward the source of the smell. His cat eyes cut easily through the gloom so he had no trouble spotting Ralen's rotting body, still laying where Geralt had last seen him, that bolt still piercing his chest.

Geralt approached, his own chest tightening.

The head was severed, another detail Cerys hadn't shared. Now tilting sideways, Ralen's milky eyes stared at nothing, his slack-jawed mouth gaping in a silent scream.

Geralt's heart dropped at the sight. His eyes wandered the room, seeking anything to look at besides the wretched sight before him while his emotions bubbled up from within. When he could fight the tidal wave of emotions no longer, Geralt returned his gaze to the body at his feet. He closed his eyes, letting the sorrow wash over him.

Taking a few deep breaths, Geralt opened his eyes again. With wet eyes and grinding teeth, Geralt swallowed down his grief, acknowledging its existence, but refusing to let it conquer him like it had Ralen. Like it had Lambert.

He didn't know why, but now that he was here, staring down that horribly distorted face, Geralt could no longer let himself deny the truth. This was Lambert. Someone Geralt had grown up with, had shared many a fire with. How Lambert had changed from that acerbic, yet caring young man to the volatile, apathetic Ralen, Geralt didn't understand. And he supposed he never would.

It was strange, how he still considered Lambert a friend. Even knowing it was undeserved and likely unrequited.

All Geralt could do was offer Lambert one, final kindness, a last remnant of their kinship.

Geralt knelt down and closed those unseeing eyes, then, stepping back, he snapped his fingers. The body was alight instantly, the flames obscuring the grotesqueness of its advancing decomposition.

"Goodbye, Lambert," Geralt breathed into the dark. "I hope you can find peace."

Geralt stared at the flames only a moment longer before turning to leave, snatching his sword up as he neared the rope. He could have grabbed his knife while he was down there, but he couldn't bear to stay any longer. He had done what he needed to do.

He climbed up out of that black pit, the heaviness pressing on him receding as he rose toward the light. He didn't even bother to untie the ropes.

Geralt just left the fort, mounted his horse, and trotted away toward Kaer Trolde, a weight lifting from him that he hadn't known was there.

In the weeks to come, when Geralt reunited with Cerys and Gudrik, neither one asked him what had happened at the fort and he hadn't felt the need to share, though he could tell by their demeanors that they had guessed what had occurred.

Then it was time for the grand coronation, to take place at Kaer Trolde. Everyone who could attended, all thrilled to see Cerys given the crown. The party afterwards lasted several days and encompassed the entire port city. Geralt had a great time, though, to be honest, he had been too drunk to remember much of it.

When everything had settled and their hangovers had faded, Geralt, Cerys, and Gudrik found themselves nursing warm mugs of cider, gathered around a cozy fire blazing in one of Kaer Trolde's many fireplaces. Cerys had her feet thrown up on the luxurious, red sofa she occupied alone, a pillow clutched to her chest. Geralt and Gudrik lounged in matching chairs to either side, their feet propped up on a low table in between them. They talked and laughed for hours into the night, remembering all that had happened, the good and the bad, in a bittersweet reverie.

"I wish my father could have been here to see this," Cerys offered to the room when a cordial silence fell. A sad smile touched her lips, her eyes welling.

"He'd be proud," Geralt answered honestly. "As we all are."

Cerys' smile deepened at his praise, her face lightening. She took another sip from her mug, a somber silence falling once more as they returned their gazes to the fire.

They couldn't help it, thinking on all they had lost. It was easy to dwell on it. Geralt knew that well enough. Perhaps better than most in his largely solitary life. He himself had drowned in such thoughts on other occasions, in years long passed.

It was easy to remember all of the bad and none of the good. For as much as they had lost, they had gained other things as well: their bond between them, Cerys' Queenship, the uniting of the Skelligen clans.

None of those things may have been interchangeable with what they had lost, but they tipped the scales away from despair, if they could only keep their brooding thoughts out of the way.

Cerys sniffled loudly from her seat, then swung her legs over the edge, straightening.

Geralt looked to her at the movement. The sadness didn't drain from her eyes, but hope sprang up alongside it. Like she knew they weren't mutually exclusive.

"Enough of this sulking," she announced to them, meeting their eyes in turn. "I propose a toast." She raised her mug and stood. "To moving forward."

Gudrik sat up then, cheer spreading across his face. He placed his feet on the ground and rose, tilting his mug toward Cerys. "To Crach," he offered her. Her eyes lit up and she snorted out a smile, touched at his tribute.

Geralt looked at their expectant faces and pushed himself to his feet. He didn't know what to say that hadn't already been said. He had never been good with words anyway. So, smiling at the two of them, he raised his mug and tendered the only thing that mattered to him in that moment.

"To friends."

THE END


Thanks so much, everyone, for sticking with me until the end. I hope you enjoyed it. To those of you who commented (and some of you repeatedly), I want to say another huge thank you. I love to see what people's reactions are to the chapters. Did any of you see the Lambert reveal coming? Instead of Ralen, I was initially going to name him Berden as a closer mashup of Lambert and Aiden's names, but in my head it felt super obvious that that's what it was. So then I just took the letters from their names and mixed them up a little more.

I also had a lot of fun writing Gudrik. To be honest, I just wanted Geralt to have a true friend, as he so rarely does.

By the way, if you liked this story, then check out my other Witcher stories! They are all in a similar vein as this one. I'd have to say that The Heart of Winter and The Curse of Love are my favorites if you're looking for a place to start. They are all separate stories so it doesn't matter which one you start with.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading! And please do leave a comment with any thoughts you have. I love hearing it!