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Harry Potter In The Witcher [47]
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 16:40:45 +0000 UTC"I still didn't use any offensive magic," Harry asked, his voice conversational, almost rhetorical, as he pulled his transfigured longsword from the ground where he’d left it and walked closer to the man, who was now struggling, and failing, to get back to his feet. "Does that mean I was still being honorable?"
"It would seem…" the man gasped, his voice tight with pain, as he managed to get off his hands and look up at Harry, his head tilted back. Harry could just barely see the man's dark brown eyes through the narrow slit of his helmet. "…that I made the mistake of underestimating your skill."
"Call it what you want," Harry said, his voice turning cold. "You hurt someone I cared for. You haunted her dreams. A fatal mistake. Any last words?" he asked, as he rose the heavy longsword high above his head, its blade glinting in the dim, smoky light.
The man looked him directly in the eyes, but still didn't bother to try and take off his helmet. "Long live the emperor," the man said, his voice filled with a final, defiant loyalty.
"A poor choice of last words," Harry said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "I can guarantee you, he won't live nearly as long as he would wish." And with that, he brought the sword down hard, killing the man almost instantly. He left the sword embedded in him and walked away, back towards where Sir Lazlo was lying on the ground, surrounded by the last four dead Nilfgaardian soldiers. He jogged over to the fallen knight, only to see him staring up at the sky with glassy, unseeing eyes.
Harry sighed, a heavy, weary sound. "Sorry, man," he said softly. "I hope you find the peace that so often eludes men in life, in death." He gently closed the young knight's eyes and sent a silent, heartfelt prayer for him to whatever god, or gods, may be listening in this strange, violent world. He then sat down on the ground by the fallen man and took a much-needed breather, the sounds of the distant, dying city still echoing around him.
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Calanthe's POV:
Calanthe stood in the highest tower of her castle, the wind whipping at her hair and her royal robes, and looked out over her burning, dying kingdom. She could hear the terrified screams of her people from down below, a sound that would haunt her for eternity, as well as the loud, rhythmic banging coming from the barricaded throne room door behind her, as the Nilfgaardian soldiers tried to break through and capture her, to do god knows what with. But they would never take her. She, the Lioness of Cintra, would not be taken prisoner, to be kept as leverage, or worse. She looked down at the long, dizzying drop.
"You sure you want to do that, Calanthe?" a calm, familiar voice asked from behind her.
She looked back swiftly, but did not turn her body, for fear of accidentally slipping on the treacherous, narrow ledge. She saw a man standing there, a man with hair as black as a starless night and eyes that shone like brilliant, polished emeralds. It had been more years than she could accurately say since she had last seen him, but she would never, ever forget that face.
"Apollo?" she asked, using the name he had given her all those years ago when he had saved her from the poison. "Or do you perhaps prefer the 'Black Mage' these days?" she asked, a single, weary eyebrow raised.
"Harry, actually," he said, a small, sad smile on his lips. "And I once cured you of a deadly, fast-acting ailment, Calanthe. It was, I must admit, one of my prouder, more satisfying moments. Are you… are you absolutely set on this path?" Harry asked her, his voice serious, his green eyes filled with a strange, ancient sorrow.
"That depends," she said, her voice steady despite the chaos raging around them. "Are you here to give me back my kingdom? To beat back the Nilfgaardian hordes and save my city?"
Harry shook his head slowly. "I am not," he said softly. "But… I could take you away from here. Right now. You could stay hidden, with no one in the world the wiser that you had survived. Just say the words, Calanthe, and we will leave this place."
Calanthe looked back out over her burning kingdom, over the smoldering ruins of everything she had built, everything she had fought for, and she felt a single, hot tear slowly make its way down her cheek. "I was born the Queen of Cintra," Calanthe finally said, her voice filled with a quiet, unshakeable finality. "I wish to die as one as well."
Harry said nothing in response for a long moment, just stood there, respecting her decision. "…If that is truly your wish," he said at last, "then I will respect it."
"Wait," she said, a sudden, panicked thought striking her. "I have a granddaughter, Ciri. She is making her way to the Yaru—"
"Do not worry," Harry interrupted her gently. "I have already made sure that she got across the river safely, before I came here. I cannot, however, say the same for Sir Lazlo. The man died making sure she had time to escape. He was a true knight."
Calanthe breathed a shaky sigh of immense relief upon hearing that her granddaughter, her precious Ciri, was safe. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "It seems you have a rather persistent habit of helping my family."
"More than you could possibly know," Harry told her, his voice quiet, almost wistful. She nodded, but didn't ask him to elaborate. She knew it would be pointless.
"I don't suppose… I don't suppose you know anything about death?" she asked, her voice almost rhetorical, as she once more walked to the very, very edge of the stone parapet, the wind whipping her hair wildly around her face.
"I'd like to think so," Harry told her, his voice calm and steady behind her. "Considering I have, in fact, died once before."
She raised an eyebrow at that, but did not turn around. "And?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the long drop below.
"…It's quicker, and easier, than falling asleep," he replied.
She smiled, a small, sad, but genuine smile. "Good." And with that, she stepped off the edge.
