The Battle of Wills || The Witcher

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."