"You always were an unruly child."
She walked towards them with her head held up high. Just like she would do when he caught her slacking off during training. With pride. Without remorse. As if pretending that to be unaffected by everything around her.
Always trying to be tough.
"I adored that about you."
Vesemir's hand closed onto his dagger. The grip around his neck was harsh, but all that filled his mind was that summer afternoon in Kaer Morhen's courtyard.
The little girl's ashen hair floating in the afternoon sun came back to his mind. Her clumsy hand on the wooden swords, her sloppy footsteps, but most of all…her puffed up, defiant cheeks.
"Now fly!"
Beneath the ribs. Between the gap of his waist and his plate armor. It was a spot that he was very familiar with – he had plunged his dagger into the same before. Knights. Brigands. Soldiers. Countless times. And now he will do it again.
The dagger sank into the tender flesh.
The Wild Hunt is not so mystical after all.
"Now fly!"
Vesemir expected the end to come quickly, and it did.
A crack.
And then darkness.
"Where's that idler gone?"
Martin put down the hammer and wiped his hands on his apron. His approaching wife simply shrugged her shoulders. It seems like their son has been out and about…once again.
"Blast it. I haven't seen him all day!"
The old blacksmith stepped out of the shed, escaping the roaring heat. He was greeted by a gentle spring breeze. In the distance he saw the sun slowly setting over the Bohemian mountains. Night would fall soon.
And yet his son was nowhere to be found.
Martin slowly put away his blacksmith's hammer and turned to his wife. He could see the hint of a frown on her face and the shadow of a crease on her forehead.
She was worried as well.
"Andrea," Martin simply said to his wife, "go to the tavern and see if Henry's there."
A flash in the darkness.
Parry. Pirouette. Two steps forwards. A thrust. Then parry again. Parry, parry, parry. Too slow! And so the flash of silver. Or steel? It matters not. Because you are dead. Too slow!
Faster!
Sloppy footwork!
Better timing!
A thousand flashes of times past came. Each was foreign, and yet somehow familiar. It was all the same. And all the different.
There is only one truth…and it was the sword.
But he was falling. He fell into a deep, terrible abyss from which there was no end. Only the wind rushed past his face. The terrible void stretched below his feet. No end.
He shall fall forever.
The abyss has finally come to him.
I shall stare into it, he thought, such is the Witcher's way.
He limbs did not listen him. Instead they rebelled against his commands, as if they had a mind of their own. Finally, it seems like his senses have failed him.
Just like it was during the Trial of Grasses, he was mortal again. Frail and mortal.
He fell.
The wind rushed past his ears, and he waited for it to end, although he did not expect it to. After all, such was his fate. He who stares at the abyss shall become it. Such is the way. Such is the path.
But the fall did end.
It ended when he heard someone call out his name.
Andrea went to the tavern first.
She asked all of the usual suspects: Fritz, Matthew and even Bianca. But none of them knew where he was. But Andrea told herself that her son must be playing dice. Yes. It must be with Matthias. That good for nothing…
Matthias did not know where Henry was.
By then Andrea was panicking. But once again, the woman comforted herself, saying that it was no issue.
After all, Henry was no longer a boy. He was almost a man now. He can take care of himself. Surely there was nothing to worry about.
But then she came across the mill wench Theresa.
"Oh, Henry?" the girl replied, "I saw him walking into the woods…"
"The woods…really?"
"Yes…"
The girl scratched her head.
"Truth be told…I don't know what got into him. I called out to him but he didn't answer. It seemed as if he was…in a bit of a daze."
That's when Andrea began to panic.
The woman hurried back to her husband and told him everything. The blacksmith listened intently and patiently. When she was done, the experienced soldier was silent. He thought about it for some time before speaking up.
When he did speak up, it was low and solemn.
"Get the bailiff," he commanded, "we need to find Henry."
By nightfall the whole of Skalitz was searching for him.
Parry! Parry! Parry!
The grip of the wooden training sword cut splinters into his hands, but he did not stop. Instead he kept swinging. The sword master did not have any mercy on him.
"Too slow! Do you really think that will be able to ward off a dozen of drowners swarming you? Faster! Attack!"
Vesemir pulled back from the training dummy to regain his stance. Then, after a short breath, his feet pushed forwards again. His wrists ached from the same movements, but he knew that a muscle ache was better than being dead.
Attack!
Years later, as the master fencer he would put the young Wolves through the same paces. But he was not there yet. Young Vesemir was still a witcher-in-training.
He had only recently completed the Trial of Grasses. They told him that it was the new experiments that would change his body. It would make him stronger, they said, it would make him a real Witcher.
And yet Vesemir was still too slow.
"Perhaps we should give you more of the Grasses," the master of swords muttered.
And so he was send back to Trials, again.
Parry! Parry! Parry!
I need the herbs.
His hands blindly groped at fresh earth, clawing for any plants he could find. The black dirt greeted his fingers with each handful. And indeed he was rewarded with the rich taste of roots and green stems.
I am a Witcher.
The roots disappeared greedily in his mouth. He needed to eat. He needed the mushrooms and the herbs to become strong. His body needed to undergo the transformations.
It was the only way for him to face the monsters on the Path.
With each mouthful, he felt his strength growing. He felt his feet growing ligther and his hands becoming more nimble. Strength flowed through his veins.
I am a Wolf.
But alas, it was not meant to be. For he was interrupted by a terrifying call. It was something that the Witchers had never prepared him for. It was not within any codex or bestiary. And yet it was a noise known to everyone.
It was the call of a concerned mother.
"Henry!"
They found him chewing on grass.
The young man was bent over within a field, stuffing plants of all manners into his mouth. There was mud and dirt all over his body. If it was not for the light of their torches, the Skalitz villagers would have mistaken him for a terrible hound. A creature of the night.
But it was indeed Henry.
Or was it?
His shirt was torn off and the young man waved madly at any who dared to approach him. His eyes were blank with an incomprehensible gaze. The young man's face was steeled in an indomitable expression.
But the guards among the search party recognized the young man's movements. They were not arbitrary or random. It was the movements of a swordsman, his feet shifting with each strike and his hands manipulating an invisible sword.
He was fighting.
With each twist of his wrists and the each shuffle of his feet, the lad was fighting an invisible enemy. And even the ignorant villagers could see that young man's skill as he danced around the torches. He dodged shadowy blows and delivered phantom strikes.
And all this while, there only one word escaped his lips.
It was constant, and in a language they did not understand.
It was neither Czech, German nor French.
None of the Skalitz villagers knew this, but it was a name that lingered on his lips.
"Cirilla."