Original subtitles

Fuck.

- Why are you up? - We've lost too much time already.

If we're to stop Ciri's marriage to Emhyr, we need to cross this river.

What's needed is rest.

We barely made it out of there alive.

Jaskier's head... And don't get me started on your leg.

The crossing's that way. I'll scout ahead.

Hmm. Mmm.

Whoever patched me up, thank you.

- Regis could've done better. - That gherkin could've done better.

Call me a pickle again, I'll have your nuts on toast.

Jaskier, we need to move.

The ride won't be easy.

I will not be what slows us down.

Steady.

- Can't you see he needs to rest? - Stay out of this. It doesn't concern you.

You and I have a lot more in common than you think.

I sense Ciri too...

Do not speak her name.

Dreams that feel portentous.

Cirilla dancing with death.

A mouth full of glowing worms.

You can take this and kill me now if you regret your decision to spare me.

Like Cirilla did once.

Or you can listen.

Bad news!

The crossing's completely washed out.

We either wait for it to clear

or retreat to the cluster of fucking armies we just escaped.

Besides, Jaskier needs to rest.

We should be at our strongest when we get to Ciri.

Hmm.

Etchel Trogulten.

- Swing! - Hang him!

Long live Redania!

- Erik O'Carney. - Hang him!

Let him swing!

If he's too heavy, I'll hang him for you!

And he's done it.

- The Nazarian. - No! No, please.

- No, please. Please don't. - Hang the traitor!

I... I'll talk. Please, I swear it. Please.

- I can give you names. - A little late for that.

But I... I've information... about wizards.

Hang him!

Commander Vascoigne.

Eva. What an unexpected pleasure.

Just get on with it!

- Come on! - Fucking kick him off!

- Hang him! - Why don't we squeeze him dry?

Show him no mercy!

Then... then this... this, uh, Fire Fucker, um...

uh, Rience, I think.

He... he was on the... on the trail of a, uh, a witcher.

Uh, uh... Geralt.

See, um, uh, Geralt and... and this old fart, uh...

Juris, um... Codrow... uh, Feno, uh... something,

well, uh, they were having meetings in Dorian.

Uh, all's I know is, Rience killed 'em frightfully.

He saved their cat, if... if that matters?

It doesn't, but do go on.

Well, uh, Rience, he employed my professional help to nab this lass.

Uh, which... it weren't the easiest of tasks,

since she was under the care of a druid and a werewolf.

But, uh, managed all the same.

They're... they're both corpses now.

I know something of this.

My Lord.

- Tell me more about this girl. - Uh...

Uh, ashen hair.

Uh, uh... green peepers.

- Do you recall her name? - Oh, no, no. She...

She... she was all out of sorts, uh... Didn't speak all that much.

Uh, is... is it gettin' hotter in here?

It sounds like Cirilla.

But I happen to know she was on Thanedd at that time.

What became of her?

We handed the small fry over to a... a wizard. Terrifyin' fella.

Uh, name escapes me.

It's somethin' like Vil... Vil... Vilge...

Uh... Vil... Vilgefartz!

- Do you mean Vilgefortz? - Yeah!

Ugh! What the fuck?

A parting spell from Vilgefortz.

His name was the trigger.

What do you think it means?

He's trying to cover his tracks.

It means Vilgefortz gave Emhyr a fake.

Psst!

Vascoigne heard that Emhyr's...

princess is a fake.

What?

- Are you sure? - Mm-hmm.

Hmm. Thank you.

- Can we trust her? - For now.

At present, I'm more concerned with the loose lips of the Redanian commander.

Any more pillow talk, and everyone on the Continent will know the truth.

- I'll handle him. - Good.

- You do that. - Mmm.

Your... scheme to unseat the emperor

wouldn't happen to hinge on this particular information staying secret,

would it?

We need more than cold nothing for a soup if that is our goal.

- We can forage for what we need. - I'll get the salt.

Anyone have any old family recipes they'd like to share?

My gran used to add the finest Mahakam vegetables.

Mahakam veg? Yeah, right.

Everyone got scraps

from that dipshit Brouver's mountain goat roast.

Oh, Brouver did more for the clan than you know.

- Where are you going? - To look for another crossing.

Even your stubbornness won't bend nature.

Right, Jaskier?

Right.

We should stay, Geralt. Just for an hour or two.

Give us both some time to heal.

Zoltan.

Who's this Brouver you speak of?

Alderman of Mahakam.

Good riddance to him.

I'm never goin' back.

- Why's that? - 'Cause the fucker can't.

- You don't know what went down. - Did you forget? I was there.

Aye, and whatever you think you know is all ghoulshite!

Friends, please.

Tales whet the appetite,

and this is one I'm sure even Geralt is dying to hear.

You were there. We were not.

Tell us what happened.

Back in Mahakam,

everything we did was for the clan,

and Zoltan's forge was the crown jewel.

I would deliver the weapons he forged to Brouver,

who shipped them down to the dwarven front lines.

Dusty old fud Zoltan here

was holding back a big shipment for bloody humans.

In fact,

I was on my way to confront you when I saw it.

Brouver told me you destroyed your own forge so no one would find out

you were arming humans too.

Playin' both sides for your own gain.

- When our clan were dyin' in the fields! - Hogwash!

You don't know what went down that day!

Tell us, then.

I poured my life into my work for our clan,

until I found out Brouver was driving my wares to humans,

who were killing dwarves.

I wasn't about to sell out my own,

so I tells him he'll never take what's ours.

Bet you didn't know Brouver paid me a little visit,

guilt written all over his face,

blamin' you, blamin' me,

pointin' fingers at everyone but himself!

He started the fire, hopin' to take me down,

and his secret with it.

The place blew. I was trapped below.

It took hours to get out of there, and in that time,

Brouver spread lies that I betrayed Mahakam.

He lied to us both,

and you believe him over me.

I lost everything!

My home.

My forge.

My friends.

If only I'd known.

I'm sorry,

friend.

Fucking friendship!

- Best ten thalers I ever spent. - I'm not sure the bird agrees.

Uh-huh.

Hands off! Hands off!

No-o-o-o!

Eh. He's free to make his own way, just like the rest of us.

Fucking family.

That didn't go exactly as I'd planned.

Look what I found to get us started with our soup.

- What the ever-loving fuck is this? - No human word for it.

It's a common tuber,

found in sub-surface dirt on every roadside you've ever traveled.

Maybe that means we shouldn't be putting it in our mouths?

Learned to cook with it in Brokilon.

It's getting late. We should check the crossing.

Hmm. Milva?

You've never spoken of Brokilon.

Or how you came to be there.

- Would you like to share? - No.

My stepfather made sure I knew fear.

In return,

I made sure he knew suffering.

The rage took me over,

and it was worth it.

I did whatever it took to survive on my own.

And soon, I realized I could do the same for others like me.

Negrasha.

The dryads offered me refuge after that.

I found a home among them in Brokilon.

I helped by escorting Scoia'tael to and from the forest

to keep them safe from humans.

Look out!

Milva.

But at times, I felt like

Death leading souls to the afterlife.

They willfully lived in the present,

ignoring the darkness around them.

But I kept my distance. It was best not to get attached.

Until that last mission...

when I finally understood what their fervor was really about.

Connection.

Their search for joy to forget their circumstances.

You said it was your last mission?

They were ambushed the next day.

They all died.

Back in Brokilon, I found a new task.

A witcher in need of healing.

I didn't know.

You do now.

Anyone in favor of beddin' down for the night?

What a marvelous idea.

I, for one, could use a good...

Easy.

Ow! Oh, I'm good.

I'm good. Phew.

Hey! No, wait. That is my private work.

If you've written anything about me, I'll stab you in both ass cheeks.

Oh, you should be so lucky as to be immortalized in the written word.

But you want to tell us what you're writing, don't you?

Aye, you know he does.

- Go on! - Ah, come on, bard.

I'm getting old.

And I've come to realize that

I won't be around forever.

But my stories might be.

Picture it

If you'll abide

- Oxenfurt, my collegiate pride - Uh...

Will the whole thing be in song?

Yes, bitch.

My head was mending from an ache

Anarietta gave my heart a break

Not exactly how I remember our time in Oxenfurt.

Was on a stroll I oft would take

Yeah, good time.

Follow me!

Ooh!

It's funny how the world can feel

The opposite of what is real

My mood is grim, that is no lie

Yet still, the sun hangs in the sky

Yeah, look, I know this isn't your sort of thing,

but, you know, just sort of go with it.

I couldn't help but hear you're down

Perhaps you'd like a reach around?

I thank you, love, I shall abstain

Unless the Witcher'd like a go

- She's very good - Hmm!

Just saying -

- No. - Hmph.

Hmph.

- As for what would fill my soul - Hmph!

A distraction, hobby

- Or a goal - Oh, it's...

Ladies and gentlemen, Valdo Marx.

There once was A man from Ebbing

Could that be my answer there?

Where?

Who had a problem bed-wetting

He'd lay down his head Asleep in his bed

And awake to find piss in the bedding

Hmph!

Tosser.

That lad may lack credentials

But I cannot deny the potential

Thank you.

My task is big, I must admit

But first things first The perfect fit

Embellishments and finery

The boy just needs refinery

Show off what we've been up to

I'm ready for my big debut

Oh.

Did I offend?

You did, my friend

We don't do velvet

Burn this.

Besides,

being a bard is about so much more than the trappings of fashion.

Next is my style of performance-ship

To craft a tale is truest wit

For some, it may be clothes or hair

Or how they dance on air

To quote a dear friend

"No."

Pray tell me more, my hunger's deep

How do you track Which trends will keep?

'Tis here I keep my greatest works

My precious dreams And unrealized cirques

I'd be all right deprived of garbs

Without these, I'd be cursed

If hesitation strikes my bard

Mm-hm, mm-hm

Do keep your own heart well on guard

Mm-hm, mm-mm-mm-mm-hm

I'll understand, respect your choice

Some songs could use

A second voice

Take this one about the chill Of winter's breath upon the hill

What themes of loss What mighty quill

I see in you a younger me

You'll get there, pray, eventually

God strike me down for carin'. What happened next?

The fucker stole his songbook.

- Come on, you! - No!

- Get out of here! - Move!

Whenever will This feeling end?

Go on, fuck off!

Ugh!

Or are these symptoms of a trend?

New dulcet tones from over there

You think he'll wanna yank me hair?

- Ooh! - Consensually, mind, yeah?

Ladies and gentlemen, Valdo Marx!

Around your house

- Now white with frost - Do my eyes deceive?

- Are sparks of ice and floe - Or is this true?

- Your longing eyes may grieve the loss - A final turning of the screw

- But naught will change your woe - This truly is

- Perverse! - Oh, you

- He took everything from me. - Valdo! Valdo!

- Everything! - Valdo! Valdo! Valdo!

- Valdo! Valdo! - Let's go.

Valdo! Valdo! Valdo!

Val can keep

His stolen songs

Stay haunted in his devious wrongs

But my whole life

The things I've seen

They are chronicled in binding seams

It's this This is what I'm meant to give

These words and stories

They'll

Outlive

Bra-fuckin'-vo!

- Let's take that fucker, Val. - Aye.

That is but one chapter

in what will one day be

50 Years of Poetry.

I thank you very much.

Aah.

Oh...

We spoke about this.

I'll just be long enough to check the poet's health.

Relax.

Poet... your blood smells good.

Let me rephrase.

I cannot detect the stench of infection.

I would like to put in a few stitches, if that's all right.

Be brave, Jaskier.

Oh, I am being brave. I'm letting you touch me, aren't I?

I couldn't help but notice

you're lacking spices for your dinner.

Ow!

My suggestion?

Basil, pimento, bay leaves and

sage, I think will do nicely.

You may take what you need from my bag.

For fuck's sake! What's wrong with you lot?

Hmm.

If we added garlic to our soup, would that repel you?

Hah!

Tall tales from primeval campfires.

He's right. Much of what humans associate with vampirism are myths.

I overheard your tale, poet. I have a suggestion, if you're open to it.

Well, everyone's a critic... Go on.

"Half a Century" might be a touch more poetic than "50 Years."

Ah, that's not... terrible, I suppose.

If you're finished, you can go.

We both know he is not.

Fine.

Be quick about it.

- Hmm. - Gods, Geralt.

- Looks worse than it is. - That is untrue.

Hmm. I wonder...

When you look at me, do you see comrade

or an enemy?

I haven't decided.

How high would the bounty on me have to be for you to decide?

Bloody high. You're not exactly an ordinary vampire.

I doubt anyone could pay enough.

An ordinary witcher

wouldn't have blinked twice before slaying me.

And me.

Curious.

Our witcher is in a state of flux.

All his endless talk of risks, dangers,

a struggle with doubt,

components of a baptism of fire,

if you'll permit the turn of phrase.

Tread carefully, Regis.

I meant no offense.

Hmm.

You are simply experiencing emotions you are known for disregarding.

You are becoming something new.

I can relate

because, as you've said,

I'm not an ordinary vampire.

I'll be on my way.

Oi!

We've trusted the bat to treat us, break bread with us,

even fight alongside us.

Will not one of you ask him to tell his story now?

I'm afraid of what it might be.

You need not fear me.

I don't touch blood

anymore.

The reasons perhaps require

a reintroduction.

I am Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.

Presently, I am 428 years old, according to the human calendar.

A descendant of post-Conjunction relics left to fend for themselves.

In vampiric society, our young are given freedom of choice.

With their gift of immortality,

many choose to take what they want.

But if you don't partake,

you risk becoming an outcast.

I always tried to avoid human blood,

but the euphoria you feel when it's fresh,

ah, there's nothing like it.

Suddenly, nothing else matters,

as long as you have hemoglobin and a full moon.

Blood eases the pains of life. It removes inhibitions.

It takes away many things,

including civilized behavior.

It wasn't long before alarming symptoms made themselves known.

But I ignored them all.

I had lost control.

Until fate found me a moment of clarity.

One evening, I was sent to fetch blood.

At that point, I was constantly under the influence,

and so I had a little... accident.

The next thing I knew, I heard the most angelic voice.

Betháne.

The spark was instant.

The fire it ignited, devastating.

We lived in a fantasy.

I had cut off my friends.

I was off blood.

She had a green thumb.

She loved herbs.

Taught me her favorite recipes...

many I still use to this day.

And then, one day,

she didn't return from the market.

The despair I felt was awful,

but the horror was just beginning.

I was blinded by rage when I learned

Betháne's disappearance had been orchestrated by my own coven.

Punishment for a relationship they called "playing with my food."

I owed them a visit.

But I arrived too late.

And so, I lost it.

I don't recall much of what happened that night...

But one thing has stayed with me.

Betháne's final moments.

Her face betraying her disgust, her horror

at what I'd always known resided deep within my soul.

In all my bloodlust, I had failed to realize

that I had made myself known to the village.

They burned every vampire I had left standing.

As for me,

I was staked,

decapitated,

and buried.

And here's one more vampiric myth disproved.

It takes a lot more than that to properly kill a vampire.

Alas, my victory was short-lived.

How long were you in the mud?

Oh...

50 years or so.

"Half a century" sounds better.

Yes, poet.

Half a century

faced with the worst mistake of my life.

I haven't touched blood since.

How can I trust someone constantly battling their worst impulses?

How, indeed?

How does the Butcher of Blaviken fare?

- Some days are better than others. - Aye.

Some decades too.

I think it's a pike.

- Nice catch, Cahir. - Thank you.

Anyone want to say a few words?

Fuck no. Let's eat.

Your best poem yet.

Hmm.

Go on. Tell us what's going on in your head.

Just thinkin' of the quiet life I lived before I met you lot.

- Aye. - Hmm.

All of our stories involve some amount of regret,

and we have heard from everyone except our fisherman friend.

Oh, I regret plenty.

I spent my time as a soldier following orders.

Oh, you were "following orders" when you terrorized my child?

Geralt. Like the others, there's another side to his story too.

What's the harm of us hearing it?

- Go on, Nilfgaardian. - I'm not a Nilfgaardian!

I'm from Vicovaro.

Which we know is not Nilfgaard,

and is, in fact, a place very near to Nilfgaard.

Ignore me. Continue.

In my youth, I... I just...

I wanted purpose.

And working directly with the emperor, it's an honor where I'm from.

And my journey to where I am now started with the very first mission for him.

That's a story I've never told anyone.

Gaze upon your brother.

The Usurper has wounded us greatly, Cahir.

- I hate him. - Say it like you mean it!

I hate the Usurper!

- Your brother died honorably in battle. - Father.

- The destiny all real men strive for. - Father, you're hurting me.

Become a real man!

Cahir! Cahir!

Shed this boyhood weakness.

Cahir!

I didn't mean to scare you, lad.

Who are you?

Uh, I'm a man who needs a favor.

My... sick friend needs providing for while I'm away.

In a cave some paces from here.

Leave food and drink.

But don't enter.

And don't come after nightfall.

I don't have money.

You'll find more than enough.

And keep whatever's left.

For weeks I returned, never seeing the wizard's friend.

Until...

What you got there?

Nothing.

Give it.

You're dead!

What the fuck?

Yah!

I was saved...

by a monster.

A face full of spikes.

Huh.

Thank you.

I should be thanking you.

You've helped me keep up my strength.

Mmm.

You're Ceallach's son, aren't you?

How did you know that?

I am not who I appear to be.

Hmm.

Time passed, and I put him out of my mind.

But then,

years later,

not long after I joined the army...

Thank you, Your Grace.

I always thought my destiny was to be

even the smallest cog in the largest gearwork.

The thanks is all mine.

If it weren't for your help all those years ago...

The water there was for the horses.

I wouldn't have followed destiny to the north.

I've had my eye on you, son.

Since the moment my guards freed you from the Usurper's shackles.

I know that you're a far cry from Ceallach.

Loyal.

Discreet.

The right man to help me embark on a very precious mission.

- Leave us. - Yes, sire.

You're the Hedgehog Man.

- Now you understand. - Hmm.

- What's wrong? - Geralt?

The Hedgehog Man, Urcheon.

When I knew him, he called himself Duny.

Pavetta's ball.

Where it was revealed that she was...

- Pavetta? - Pregnant. Yes.

- The same man. - I need to sit down.

- You're already sittin'. - Then I need to lie down.

Can someone explain?

If what Cahir says is true,

who I knew as Duny...

You saved my life.

Became Emhyr var Emreis.

And he's marrying Ciri.

His own daughter.

Years ago,

Vilgefortz convinced Emhyr

that his destiny rests on the fulfillment of Ithlinne's prophecy.

To have an heir?

With his... daughter?

Ciri is my Child of Destiny.

If I'd claimed her at birth, none of this would be happening.

I don't believe that.

Destiny involves choices.

You chose a path. Not claiming her was a choice.

I was created to kill monsters and collect coin. That's all.

Clearly not.

- You're evolving. - We all are. Don't you see?

I blindly put my faith in Emhyr,

but when I saw Cirilla at Thanedd, I saw the future.

I chose a new path. To help her.

And then I met you.

It's not a coincidence, Geralt.

The dreams you've both been having. It makes sense.

It makes no sense.

Do you know that your Yennefer saved my life once?

If you asked her,

I'm sure she'd have no idea why she made that choice.

But she did.

It's destiny, you understand?

For all of us. To get us to this very moment.

No, this is personal to me.

And me alone.

Then you haven't been listening.

Geralt, it's personal to us all!

The sun will be up soon.

Perhaps now is the time for rest

and reflection.

Humans, it turns out, are

complicated.

Sometimes.

But in this case,

his story, what drives him, is actually very,

very simple.

Need some help?

I'd sooner ask Coen. Thank you.

Coen doesn't have hair.

My gods, that's the joke.

Ah, humor.

I remember that.

It may shock you,

but... I do know things.

Yennefer would preen for hours.

You miss her, don't you?

I do.

As a boy, I... would help my mother with her hair when she was ill.

I'd struggle imagining you as a young anything.

When I was younger than you,

I dreamt of one day becoming a knight.

Geralt of Rivia isn't an honorific?

Oh, I gave myself that name to attract better contracts,

though it wasn't my first choice.

Please tell me what was.

Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.

Yes. Vesemir had a similar reaction.

Well, you could still be a knight if you wanted.

If all this witcher malarkey crumbles to the ground.

Although,

a knight has to trust his sovereign,

and you don't seem to trust anyone.

It's less about trust and more about what it might lead to.

What, you mean emotions?

Of course, you witchers don't have those, do you? Or so they say.

Sometimes...

acting on the heart can lead to more meaningful outcomes.

Or terrible consequences.

Trusting people isn't that bad.

At the very least, there's... glory in the attempt.

There we are.

See?

I let a witcher do my hair, and it turned out incredible.

Trust.

I knight you,

Sir Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde.

Etiquette, dressing...

All lessons seem to evade her grasp.

And which tactic have you employed?

The carrot or the stick?

I don't think there's a stick big enough for that one.

- Let me have a word with her. Hmm? - Be my guest.

Your Grace?

I haven't spoken to you much, have I?

And for that, I

apologize.

Your, uh... treatment here must feel like torture.

I prefer them closed!

Tell me something.

Are you familiar

with mummery?

Hmm? Acting.

Theater.

- Like player troupes? - Indeed.

Uh, I... I did a touch of acting.

It can be very difficult.

Where to stand and...

and what to say...

when.

You know, there's really nothing quite like good theater.

Nothing worse than

bad acting.

Do you follow my meaning, Cirilla?

You know, some of my, uh...

some of my best memories were when I knew my role

and... and the part I was given,

and for what reason.

And some of my worst...

were when I...

resisted

the part I was given.

When you were acting?

That is the secret.

I have never stopped acting.

I know my role.

Ah, my real question to you is,

do you know yours?

- I'm a princess. - Ah.

And do you know what becomes of good little princesses?

- They become queens. - Yes.

If they behave themselves and... take direction from those who know better,

like your good friends Miss Stella and Mr. Skellen.

And then all those things that felt like torture

can feel like what they really are.

A reward.

And instead of feeling like a queen,

you'll live long enough to actually be a queen.

As long as no one learns the truth.

Do we understand each other?

We do.

Good. Very good. Hmm.

Well, I must be on my way.

I... I do hope that we can maintain

this air of trust between us.

Wouldn't that be charming?

Ah, a glorious day.

Your Grace.

Guys, wake up.

Gather your things.

We need to find a way across this river.

Did he say "we"?

- You all right? - His leg's better.

It's like all he needed was a day of rest.

Seems we all did.

Aye.

What a company I've ended up with.

Two dwarves.

A gnome.

A poet.

A half-dryad, half-woman.

A Nilfgaardian who insists he is not a Nilfgaardian.

Well, I'm not.

And a vampire.

Fucking...

Aah... oh, that is not gonna get old.

And leading our party,

the witcher who suffers pangs of conscience.

I wouldn't be here without you.

All of you.

Milva.

Think that crossing is passable?

I'm sure it is.

It was yesterday.

Hah!

Squirrel!

Fuck.

Please!

Tell me where they hide.

Tell me.

Tell me...

where they're hiding.

Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.

Tell me, tell me, tell me.

Tell me.

- Tell me. - Tell me where they're hiding.

- I... - Tell me... tell me...

No. Stop. No more.

- Please! - Tell me where they're hiding.

Montecalvo.

- They're in Montecalvo. - calvo...

Hmm.

Now, did that have to be so hard?

Rest in piss.

Yen.

Vilgefortz...

He's coming.

Prepare.