Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Several years later, Dandelion could have changed the contents of the ballad and written about what had really occurred. He did not. For the true story would not have moved anyone. Who would have wanted to hear that the Witcher and Little Eye parted and never, ever, saw each other again? About how four years later Little Eye died of the smallpox during an epidemic raging in Vizima? About how he, Dandelion, had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and had buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful, and, as she had asked, buried two things with her: her lute and her sky blue pearl. The pearl from which she was never parted. No, Dandelion stuck with his first version. And he never sang it. Never. To no one.

Right before the dawn, while it was still dark, a hungry, vicious werewolf crept up to their camp, but saw that it was Dandelion, so he listened for a moment and then went on his way.

I think it’s Sapkowski’s way to show not only how famous and talented Dandelion is but, to show that even a monster can appreciate things of beauty and be swayed from their base instincts. Its a theme throughout the series of books and games how Geralt spares thinking monsters when possible and that Dandelion is a gifted and world renowned storyteller and musician. That scene proves both

“Ciri.” “I will, I will, I will! Afraid, are you?” “Dreadfully. You know, Ciri, you can die from having your head cut off.” “Are you mocking me?” “I wouldn’t dream of it.” “She’ll put you in your place, you’ll see. No one takes liberties with my grandmamma. When she stamps her foot the greatest knights and warriors kneel before her; I’ve seen it myself. And if one of them is disobedient, then it’s ‘chop’ and off with his head.” “Dreadful. Ciri?” “Uh-huh?” “I think they’ll cut off your head.” “My head?” “Naturally. After all, your grandmamma, the queen, arranged a marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Nastrog Castle in Verden. You were disobedient. As soon as you return… it’ll be ‘chop!’ and off with your head.”

The Witcher turned his head. The dryad’s eyes were sparkling, her mouth was half-open and she was running her tongue over her lips. He could understand. Little dryads were hungry for tales. Just like little witchers. Because both of them were seldom told bedtime stories. Little dryads fell asleep listening raptly to the wind blowing in the trees. Little witchers fell asleep listening raptly to their aching arms and legs. Our eyes also shone like Braenn’s when we listened to the tales of Vesemir in Kaer Morhen. But that was long ago… So long ago…

“Brokilon. The Last Place.” “I don’t understand.” “No one understands. No one wants to understand.”

“I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove to you that nothing is ending. That everything is only beginning.”

“It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. How easy it is to release the bowstring and think, it is not I, not I, it is the arrow. The blood of that boy is not on my hands. The arrow killed him, not I. But the arrow does not dream anything in the night. May you dream nothing in the night either, blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn.”

“The Sword of Destiny has two blades… You are one of them.”

“You can save him,” the voice of Eithné, from behind the curtain of smoke. “You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.”

“I don’t want,” she repeated, “to start again. And the thought of doing with you… what I meant to do with that young blond boy… According to the same rules… The thought, Geralt, seems to me somewhat improper. An affront to both of us. Do you understand?”

“Just today,” she said, looking at him with eyes wide open. “Just this night, which will soon slip away. Let it be our Beltane. We shall part in the morning. Don’t expect any more; I cannot, I could not… Forgive me. If I have hurt you, kiss me and go away.” “If I kiss you I won’t go away.” “I was counting on that.”

“Geralt?” “Mhm?” “It’ll soon be dawn.” “I know.” “Have I hurt you?” “A little.” “Will it begin again?” “It never ended.”

“We’re made for each other,” she whispered. “Perhaps we’re destined for each other? But nothing will come of it. It’s a pity, but when dawn breaks, we shall part. It cannot be any other way. We have to part so as not to hurt one another. We two, destined for each other. Created for each other. Pity. The one or ones who created us for each other ought to have made more of an effort. Destiny alone is insufficient, it’s too little. Something more is needed. Forgive me. I had to tell you.”

It was cooler. Cooler and cooler. And lighter and lighter. “Don’t go yet. Let’s wait until the dawn…” “Yes, let’s.”

“I don’t know if I believe in anything. And as regards… I fear it isn’t enough. Something more is necessary.”

A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman.

Go to sleep, Geralt. And just between us, Vesemir did not give you that name. Although it doesn’t change or reverse anything either, I’d like you to know that. Farewell and look after yourself. And don’t try to look for me…” “Visenna—” “No, Geralt. Now you’ll fall asleep. And I… I was a dream. Farewell.”

“Yes. Until today. We’re standing here, face to face, but I don’t feel any fear. You’ve taken everything from me. You’ve also taken the fear from me.”

“Doubts. Only evil, sir, never has any. But no one can escape his destiny.”

“Forever, Ciri.”

“You’re more than that, Ciri. Much more.”