Author's Note: Yes, I am still alive.

THE BLACK BLADE

"Here may you see the tyrant."

- Macbeth, Act V, Sc. 8

I. Festival Eve

They sat by the hearth, thawing themselves with flame and mead. Temeria would now only have felt the first chill sting of winter, but the frost had long since settled over Skellige's frigid shores. Now was the time of return: the men that romped and raped and rampaged across supple continental farm-fields and continental farm-wives, supple or otherwise, now found themselves returning to their own meagre fields and wives with a small nation of equal parts accumulated wealth and worthless bric-a-brac.

There was a crash, and though it happened behind him, Harry was certain that a chair had just been flung from one end of the room to another. Judging from the sound of splintering wood and a yelp, the seat had struck true.

"Spout that shite abou' me wain one more time!" someone, apparently angry enough to throw a chair, snarled at another.

The Return was a time of death in the young Skelliger's life: the end of something great, and the beginning of something infinitely lesser. At least, it would be the end until the winter fled from the Isles and they could once again take up the Great Crusade against their poor, blighted neighbours. But, until then, they remained caged animals, building up tension.

"Yer little cunt of a boy is weaker than me mam was on her deathbed; takes after your bleedin' wife 'e does! Does nothin' on the raid, Sigurd, jus' sits pretty waiting for everyone else t'do the work," growled the other, and stood. "May as well use him as a masthead for all the fuckin' good he's done me!" Harry kept his back turned, but his companion decided to otherwise, turning back and gawking with no sense of tact or decency.

Usually, the tragedy of The Return meant that the first few days back on the Isles would be a time of mourning, where great burly men would find the many taverns of the isles, get soused, and sing sea ditties about the lands they saw and the women they had so very gallantly ploughed. Ale would be thrown to-and-fro, and within a moment of that, fists would follow. Since throwing fists was about as good a pastime as any in Skellige, the Islanders were damn good at it, and were a witcher to be in town, he'd be the one to challenge.

And two would be cause for a fisticuff-laden celebration.

"I think we'd best be going now," Harry said to his fellow pilgrim, once having turned around to see a burly, berserker type advance with a jagged, broken bottle toward another of his ilk.

Harry's companion, a handsome, dark-haired man with eerie, cat-like eyes, nodded his assent, though he did so begrudgingly.

They left just in time to see that jagged bottle slash across the mouthy man's cheek and over his bulbous nose.

Harry usually was very good at avoiding this nonsense. He didn't return to Kaer Almhult often, preferring to work through the winters on the continent; there were, after all, always a good deal of spirits to be put to rest after the Saovine celebrations. However, on the off chance that he did return to the fortress that had nurtured his talent, Harry made habit of arriving good and early, before most of the raiding ships made their returns from their usual piratical haunts.

This year hadn't been one of those years.

"I still think we ought to have stayed," said Harry's companion once they were out in the snow again, "things were just beginning to heat up!" Just as he got ready to complain once more, he was jostled by a quick procession of men, equally as drunk outside the tavern, as those inside had seemed.

Harry shrugged. "They've already had their yearly war, Cedric; this is actually the cooling down process."

And what a cooling down process it was: there was music and mead, dancing and debauchery; there was even one large lad whooping and riding a tamed boar as though it was a war-ready destrier. So loud was the commotion that Harry almost missed Cedric Diggory's laugh.

"Of course, of course. And I've heard you've had quite the cooling down process yourself! Outrunning mages now, are we? Sirius should be ever so disappointed in you. So, who was it?" Cedric's laugh was as golden as his eyes, deep and full, and so unlike the barking equivalent Harry had learned from Sirius via childhood osmosis.

"Who was whom?" Harry asked, feigning ignorance.

"The mages, you arse," said Cedric. "Either you've made very persistent enemies, or very desperate friends, given your sudden popularity. So, who was it? Sorcerer, or sorceress?"

"Sorceress," said Harry.

"Naturally," quipped Cedric in kind.

"Or, rather, sorceresses," Harry stressed the plural, to another peal of laughter from Cedric, just barely heard over a sudden, furious blast of frigid wind and celebratory drums in the distance. "Hermione Granger and Ilona Laux-Antille were the ones looking for me."

"Granger and Laux-Antille? Harry, lad, you don't do half-measures do you?"

Harry grimaced; Honey-brown hair and a coy smile stole into his mind's eye and he ruthlessly crushed the geyser of nerves that quite suddenly erupted from the pit of his stomach. "Know them?" he asked, cursing how breathless he sounded.

"Only what Susie and His Majesty tell me," answered Cedric, seeming to take no notice of his friend's change in demeanour. "Which isn't much. Most of what Sue knows about Granger comes from you and Gardic pretty much only knows that Granger is an Aen Seidhe sorceress, which is always a recipe for disaster. And for Laux-Antille to be an elf's mentor... well, she'd have to be more than talk to impress. Still, it might be worth seeking out Granger. There have been rumours circulating that she might one day become Aen Saevherne; having an elven sage on our side would be a huge advantage."

Harry shook his head. "Always thinking about how to best serve the country."

"Not all of us can be like you, Harry," Cedric said half-defensively, running a hand through his hair, and along a jagged scar that ran the length of his skull, right at the part line. "You may be happy to declare yourself apolitical, while sleeping in swamps and bathing in rotfiend innards, but one day the allure of The Path will escape you. Then you'll be just like the rest of us: preferring gold, safety, and a bed to sleep in. Gardic offers that in spades. He's really not so bad as you like to think."

There was silence for a long, reflective moment, before Cedric broke it once again:

"So does the reason you've attracted the prospective Sage have anything to do with your little adventure with her in the Kestrels?"

"Naturally," said Harry, mimicking his companion's earlier gibe.

"Bloody hell, what a shag you must be to have an elven sorceress chase you across the continent for half a year! Are you part horse or something?"

Cedric jested, but Harry knew that there was some reason for Granger's sudden pursuit of him, in fact he'd heard the reason several times over from secondhand sources. Their last meeting on the mountaintop had not been friendly to be sure, but it had seemed in a way final; the sorceress had accepted his dismissal of her, and had kept a wide berth of him for months. But as soon as the hottest winds of summer had passed by, Susan passed on the rumour: wherever The Bear went, The Sorceress followed in his wake, armed with a miracle of starlight and a song of the black blade.

It sounded suitably cryptic, of course, but meant nothing to either of them. All Harry knew was that he wanted no part in Granger's miracles nor her songs, whatever they may be.

"Sadly, no," said Harry, "We simply had differing philosophies. Vastly differing."

"On horses?" Cedric asked lightly, looking rather pleased with himself.

"You know you're not nearly as clever as you think you are."

"I beg to differ. If not the horses, then what's the trouble?"

"She's got an encyclopaedia for a brain and a trash can for a heart. Future sage or not, there's a hundred other mages like her. Besides, as powerful as Laux-Antille may be, she's not the person for Hermione to be apprenticing under if she wants to take the next step," Harry said. His tone was light, though he was certain that Cedric's enhanced hearing could pick out the subtle tightness in his tone.

Yet, if Cedric heard it, he ignored it. "Doesn't help her that Ida simply disappears whenever she wishes. The last I'd heard, she was in Zerrikania."

Harry nodded; he'd heard the same rumours about the current Aen Saevherne, though he didn't take much stock in them. It was, after all, doubtful that the human butcher that had apprised him of this information truly knew the coming and goings of an elven sage.

Both men were quickly losing interest in conversation about mages and sages, and Harry rather would have liked to forget everything about his time with Hermione, let alone have a lengthy discussion about it. Luckily, Cedric saved him by taking notice of a small procession starting to gather up the path carved all the way to the mountain-hewn citadel, looming over the lower city like a colossus.

"Think it's time for us to go, then?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "It's your deal, isn't it?"

"Temerians and wine," Harry murmured as the duo waded through a crowd that had assembled along the bridge to the Kaer Trolde citadel, "how is that I always get roped into your schemes and why does it always have to do with bloody wine?"

"You always seem to show up whenever a wine deal's about to be struck. Could be your latent alcoholism's led you here," sniffed Cedric, to a snort from his companion.

"Come on, Cedric, you're the first lad I got pissed with," Harry said matter-of-factly as he steadied a portly, drunk man about to topple over onto the duo, "you know I don't like wine. Well, except Erveluce, but that hardly counts."

Cedric pirouetted away from a coming crush of men and women, all a tangle of arms and legs, and cast an amused look at his companion. "Erveluce? When has a penniless lout like you had the chance to try Erveluce?"

"In Novigrad with Granger. Susie was there, too. Made me feel a right tit for trying it."

"Wining and dining the sorceress with Erveluce, then? In Redania? No wonder she's so desperate to find you," Cedric smirked. "Must've stuck in Susie's craw."

"Didn't seem to bother her at all," shrugged Harry. "I reckon it's payback for all the wining and dining she gets in the royal courts."

Cedric raised a questioning eyebrow, but said nothing, for which Harry was grateful. He knew the deal: they had the same upbringing, underwent the same trials, and ventured out into the same wide world that barely tolerated them. Such a life imparted several essential truths, not the least of which being that love and companionship were foreign concepts to witchers, no matter how much Harry and Cedric might have wished otherwise.

It used to burn at him, the anger that some vital, essential bit of humanity had been robbed of him with the Trial of the Grasses. If only he had been as he was meant to be: the son of a voivode with a title and lands. Surely then commitment would have meant something. Yet it was not meant to be: Harry would never be able to offer someone like Susan stability or a family, and she would grow old and die before he even had so much as a single grey hair. Any attempt at a lasting relationship would bleed them both dry. So Harry continued on his Path, and Susan hers.

It had worked to varying success, until Harry's fateful journey into the Kestrel Mountains with a surly swordsman and a precocious elf.

Now, Harry couldn't help but be surprised at his disinterest: he was still quite attracted to the bard, as their one meeting in Pont Vanis proved two months earlier, yet he felt no lasting affection the way he had before. Instead his traitorous stomach decided to gambol about at every half-remembered thought of honey-brown hair, at every whiff of vanilla or parchment paper, at every scant mention of Hermione Granger.

And as Harry did whenever Granger's long, willowy form entered unbidden into his thoughts, he immediately focused elsewhere. In this case, his focus happened on the crowded bridge where they stood.

The celebration outside the fortress was just as wild and reckless as it was in the city down below. Men and women laughed and sang and stamped their feet, even while dressed in stiff tunics and gowns. Having spent most of his childhood in Skellige Harry knew that he really shouldn't have been surprised; the only thing Skelligers knew better than raiding was throwing a party. Still, it was such a far cry from The Continent, where droves of Princes and Dukes and Barons and Counts spent long gala nights sat mulishly by fine wines and gourmet meats sneering at the men and leering at the women, that Harry couldn't help a fleeting bit of astonishment at the sight.

Such was the delight and merrymaking that Harry and Cedric almost missed the darker undertones of the celebration, which a glance to either edge of the bridge quickly rectified: Standing on the raised ledges were fourteen men, split into two groups of seven, with tied hands and feet. They wore burlap sacks over their heads and rags on their bodies. Wrapped snugly around their throats were thick, braided ropes that dangled just over the edge and were tied to load-bearing iron stakes impaled into the stone of the bridge-side. Given how crowded the bridge was, it was a wonder that no one had jostled into the prisoners and sent them plummeting to their deaths, but Harry suspected it was fear of the Konung's rage that kept those on the edges of the crowd wary of where they stumbled.

"Looks like we're just in time for the entertainment," Cedric said as they emerged from the human crush in a tone that suggested he thought the coming proceedings would be anything but entertainment.

"Which one's the Drummond boy?" Harry asked, looking at each doomed man in attempt to discern which of them was the ringleader.

Cedric shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. When they've got the masks on they all look the same."

Cedric looked as if he was about to say something more, but whatever it was died in his throat when a chorus of harsh whoops rang out from the courtyard beyond the bridge. Fourteen men, each clad in wolf furs and each carrying a ceremonial flamberge, marched in a flying-v formation in front of a tall, limping figure.

"Hail to the King," murmured Harry lowly as the sea of people parted for Harald an Craite and his berserkers. There was no need for shouting or shoving when the Konung came by; he and his men exuded a quiet bloodlust in peacetime that would spark and rage every few years, permitting everyone to see the terrible fury "The Cripple" was known for. Such ferocity was more than enough to keep most docile and out of his way.

His story was, in a way, both remarkable and unremarkable in a place like Skellige. Every old skald had recounted Harald's unexceptional skill with the sword in his youth, and how a chance meeting with a wild bear left him with an agonizing leg wound that augmented his ferocity like magic. In the few times Harry had spoken with Konung, usually with Sirius not but a few feet away, Harald had advised both Witchers to seek out the nearest and most savage monster:

"Nothing like a debilitating wound tae get your blood boiling," he had laughed through a tankard of ale and slapped Harry's back with a meaty paw, "pain has a way of honing a man!" Harry, only a boy then, did all he could just to keep from falling flat on his face from the smack.

Back then, Harald had only the first inklings of age lining his skin, but now things were very different. In his old age Harald's hair had turned whiter than snow and his beard had grown wild and mangy, yet his eyes still carried a malice honed to a fine edge, seemingly unbothered by the excruciating pain every step was rumoured to cause him. But when the Konung looked from left to right about the crowd and saw the two witchers among them, the evil look in his eyes abated for just a moment, replaced by something akin to friendliness. But in a flash, the look was gone, and The Cripple returned.

His retinue pushed onto the bridge, and all the nobles spilled off it, either in the direction of the courtyard or back toward the path leading to town, so long as it was out of the way of the Konung. They came to a stop in the middle, and all the Berserkers spread out to cover one of the doomed men on the parapets.

Just as the Berserkers took position, another group clad in blue tartan tore out form the inner courtyard, shrieking unintelligible war cries and slamming the flats of their axes against decorated targes. The steady rhythm of steel on leather and wood filled the cove with a heady drum beat—the sound of war.

The gathered Skelligers remained silent as the grave while the newcomers whooped, a surprising thing given their usual rowdiness. A faint atmosphere of expectation lingered in the air, as though everyone were going through the motions of tradition and waiting for something far more interesting to come after. Last out from the gate leading to the inner-courtyard was a mountain of a man, tall and thick, clad in the ceremonial armour of Clan Tuirseach.

"Thorfinn, one of Tuirseach's men," said Cedric lowly. "I've heard he was quite the hero during this last little war."

Harry nodded. "The Tuirseach axemen have always been critical to The Cripple's battle strategy, but this lad's a cut above. Is it true that he killed Eidur's brother in single combat and then brought the boy to the Konung himself?"

"Heard he was behind the capture of their mage as well," Cedric said. "Wouldn't surprise me either, man's a unit on his own. Give him a band of dimeritium and he might even give old Dumbledore a run for his money."

The Tuirseach man was tall, incredibly so, but he moved with a grace and deftness more fit for a dancer or circus tumbler than an axe-wielding marauder. Unlike most Skelligers, Thorfinn's blonde beard was kept short and trim and his hair hung loosely to broad shoulders. He had a heroic look, one that rather uncomfortably reminded Harry of a sea-raiding version of Gilderoy Lockhart.

The line of Tuirseach axemen let Thorfinn onto the bridge; half of them broke off with him and half stayed behind to line at the end of the bridge, preventing anyone from entering now that the two Jarls stood together. Harald and Thorfinn came together, grasping forearms as the rest of the axemen flowed by and blocked off the other end. They spoke quietly for a moment, both baring wolf-like smiles at each other, and then The Cripple turned to the side so that he could see both sides of the bridge in his periphery. He flicked his cape of red tartan over his shoulder, and howled, long and loud.

Evidently, the men of Ard Skellig recognised this howl, because suddenly the courtyard was filled with the thunderous sound of burly men stamping their feet and axes thudding against shields. Harald finished his howl, let them shout on for a moment, but then he raised a hand and all fell silent:

"Axemen! Shieldmaidens! Berserkers! Tonight is a blessed night," he barked out in harsh, percussive cadence. "For our brothers from the South have had their fancy notions of dominion quashed," another cheer rose up from the crowd, and Harry saw the nearest masked prisoner stiffen atop the bridge. "But, unlike them, I respect impudence, and hold no grudges over past sins."

Harry and Cedric exchanged looks. They knew what was to happen now: they had seen it before when they were young and traveling with Sirius. Before then, Harry had seen men ripped and torn apart by all manner of monster from wolf to griffin, but that night was the first time he saw man become wolf to man. And it would not be the last.

"And impudence may yet decide their fate," said the Konung, pointing two of his berserkers to one of the men on the parapets. "Eidur of Clan Drummond! Face me and save your men, or die like cowards!"

They dragged down a large man, and pulled the sack off from his head, revealing a boy of about 20. He was handsome in that rugged Skelligan way, but the gauntness of his cheeks and the mad, starved-wolf look in his eyes gave off the impression that his time at war had made beast out of man.

A sword was dropped at his feet, a fine flamberge that impressed even the two witchers, used as they were to weaponry of exacting specification. Eidur's eyes glanced back and forth between the blade, his captured entourage, and the old scourge of his people: the man who had stolen his lands and murdered his family.

"No witches this time," said Harald with a bloodthirsty leer. "You've shamed yourself, but pick up that steel and you may yet find Valhalla, boy."

Whatever had made the Drummond boy hesitate vanished with the mention of Valhalla; he reached down, grasped the greatsword by the haft, and used it to steady himself as he rose to his feet. With very little preamble and no flourish, he readied himself with the blade. The Konung smiled grimly, and beckoned one of his berserkers, who approached with a box, long and thin.

"Valhalla," Cedric sighed and shook his head as the berserker kneeled before Harald, "ridiculous concept isn't it?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know about feasting halls and eternal battle, but... if nothing else, I reckon dying with a sword in hand is better than with a sack on your head and a rope 'round your neck. A bit merciful when you think about it."

"Oh yes, the Konung's gone very soft in his old age," said the other witcher sarcastically, both of them watching The Konung opening the box. "I'm sure dying in single combat atop a bridge is a glorious death, but I figure dying peacefully in my sleep between two elven maidens would be the way to go," he feigned offence at Harry's equally sarcastic snort. "Oh, and you have a better idea?"

"Honourable suicide, of course," deadpanned Harry, with a face grave enough to convince anyone but Cedric of his earnestness.

"By all means, go and join the Drummond boy, then. A fight with The Cripple is as honourable a suicide as a good man can muster."

"Ah, but there's the rub," said Harry lightly, "Rather regrettably, I am not a good man, Ced."

"So he says," remarked Cedric, shaking his head. "You should remember what a bad man you are the next time you ride by an elf-lynching. Maybe then you'll ride on without an arse-full of fletching and a stalker," Cedric's needling was punctuated with a friendly clap on the shoulder as well as the oohs and ahs of the crowd as The Cripple drew the Winter's Blade.

It was a fine weapon that Konung held, a dwarven-designed runesword with an upward-curved crossguard and a peculiar, tapering edge that suddenly jutted out near the point, and once again tapered to give the tip a look reminiscent of a spearhead.

The steady drum of axes against shields rose again, reaching fevered crescendo as The Cripple faced his downtrodden enemy. The Winter's Blade remained at his side, giving Harald a deceptive air of nonchalance despite eyeing his quarry as a hawk would. For many years, The Konung had been fueled by rage and rage alone, but in his old age he had acquired that most dangerous and fleeting of traits in a Skelliger: cleverness. He would not make the first move, and he would not have to, for the Drummond boy was fueled as he had once been, by rage and rage alone.

Eidur circled the bane of his clan, looking for an opening, and Harald obliged, for a short time. He only allowed them to wheel around the bridge once, and as soon as they did, a scream rent the air as one of Eidur's clansmen was shoved from his perch on the bridge's parapet. The scream was silenced suddenly, replaced by the sickening crack of a neck snapping. Both witchers in the crowd grimaced at the sound.

The Konung brought an unoccupied hand back to the handle of his sword. "Don't wait too long, boy, or there'll be none of your men to save."

The words made Eidur's decision, Harry knew, Valhalla would accept no man who allowed others to die due to his own indecision. With a mighty roar, Eidur charged forward for grim honour, knowing death would find him before morning's rise.

Author's Note: Been a while since I've updated, I know, but I'm starting to get back into the swing of things. Giving you lot a nice, small chunk to whet your appetite for the next arc. Expect an update soon.

Notes:

Harald an Craite: Some of those who've played Gwent might recognise this guy; he's an ancestor to the Crach, Hjalmar, and Cerys, as well as the major reason behind why Clan Drummond hate Clan an Craite so much by the time Geralt comes around to Skellige. In his youth, he stole lands from Clan Drummond, and now that he's King of the Isles, he's crushed a Drummond-led rebellion, which probably won't help endear him to them.

"...and a trash can for a heart": All thanks to Gigi Buffon for the best sports meme of 2018.

Bear School: The Witcher TTRPG released recently seems to confirm that the Bear School is, in fact, located in the Amell Mountains on The Continent rather than Skellige. To be honest, it was kind of long speculated that the School was not from Skellige, but given the cold weather accoutrements on the armor, as well as the fact that I've already established The Bear School in Skellige, there's very little chance of me changing it now.

Leading from that, a note about the Witcher TTRPG: since R. Talsorian have worked in conjunction with CDPR to make the Witcher tabletop (likely as a trade-off for CDPR getting the rights to make a video game adaptation of Cyberpunk), and considering that it has a ton of cool information and extrapolations of lore that are never quite explored in either the books or games, I will be considering the tabletop's handbook as canon. So a lot of that book will be relevant to TLK, except for where it blatantly contradicts with stuff I've already set up, such as the aforementioned location issues with the Bear School. Plus, if any of you lot are into TTRPGs and want to try something else besides D&D or Pathfinder, it's looking to be a pretty solid choice.

Til next time and a d'yaebl aép arse,

Geist.