Stuck (with each other)
"Why did they not come after us? Not the mages, nor the guards, bloody nobody!"
"They are probably convinced that we won't get far no matter what we do. We are on a goddam island!"
"I know."
"How?"
"I read maps before I lead an army into enemy territory."
"Of course, you do." Yennefer huffs. "Those maps give you any useful ideas on how we can get away from here?"
Cahir shrugs. "Why don't you portal us out?"
"Don't you think I'd have done so by now if it was that easy? Or do you actually believe I'm enjoying trudging through the wilderness and rain in the middle of the night? With a fucking Nilfgaardian!" Yennefer bristles, then explains in a somewhat calmer tone of voice. "Any portaling activity in and out of Thanedd is closely monitored. The Brotherhood's probably just waiting for me to try."
"If you didn't have a sound escape plan, or any plan at all, why save me? Why not just do what you were told and execute me? You killed thousands of our men with your fire, one more would hardly have made a difference."
"I never do what I am told. It's against my code of honour. But that is probably beyond a simple soldier to understand. As they don't do anything but follow orders."
"I am not a simple soldier."
"Right. Simple soldiers actually fight and die instead of watching the battle from afar." Yennefer has, of course, seen Cahir cross blades with Vilgefortz, and win, so she knows the insinuation is not really fair. However, her mood being particularly foul after what feels like hours in the cold in nothing but her rain-drenched dress, she has to lash out at something, someone.
"Count yourself lucky you did not end up with a simple soldier," Cahir spits. "A simple soldier wouldn't know the first thing about how to trick the enemy."
"And you do? Then why again are we aimlessly stumbling through mud and brambles in the dark in the fucking wrong direction?"
"They'll expect us to head straight for the bridge. So, obviously, that's not where we are going."
"What's your ingenious plan then, commander?" Yennefer asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or is it general?"
"Commander general, if you must know." The evident pride in his voice almost makes the sorceress laugh out loud considering their current situation. However, since it probably is not a good idea to antagonise the man too much before hearing about his plan, she suppresses the urge and listens to his explanations. "The island is hollow as you might know. We hide in one of the hundreds of smaller caverns, lie low for a few days until your fellow mages assume that we've somehow managed to leave the island undetected, and when they stop paying close attention, we make our way to Gors Velen."
This does not sound entirely stupid. There are some obvious flaws in the plan though.
"You are aware that, even in the unlikely event that we manage to climb down the cliff in the dark without breaking our necks, we won't have anything to eat. And no, I can't levitate us down or conjure up any food. The Brotherhood are sure to have set up an alert for any magic with my signature."
"We'll have to take the risk and make the climb at first light, then," Cahir concedes. "And if food is your biggest worry," he continues, "humans can survive weeks without any, even a spoiled sorceress should be able to make do for a few days."
"Then we are not only going to freeze our asses off, but also starve. Bloody brilliant. And there I thought you'd come up with a way to craft a weapon of sorts to hunt for rabbits. How very disappointing."
"If you had brought that axe along instead of throwing it to the wind, I'm sure I could knock up something. But I am not a mage. How would I do that without even so much as a simple bread knife?"
"Right, of course it's my fault now. Maybe I should have used that axe on you after all."
"A bit late for regret, isn't it?"
"Better spare your breath, Nilfgaardian. You huff and puff like a dying grampus."
"Do I detect a note of concern?" Cahir sneers, trying, not very successfully, to suppress his wheezing.
"Don't flatter yourself. You killed some of my friends. I couldn't care less if you lived or died."
"Then find a hidy-hole on your own, witch," he grinds through clenched teeth. "You're nothing but dead weight to me anyway." He has had enough of the sorceress's constant jibes and bickering. The fact that she is not wrong souring his mood even more. He is indeed panting and wheezing dreadfully. Has done so for quite a while now. His lung is burning, his head aching and his legs feel more and more like jelly ...
"I, dead weight?" Yennefer laughs scornfully. "Says the guy who is slowing me down, dragging his feet like he is older than dirt. Go die in a ditch, asshole."
Yennefer turns on her heel and starts walking in the opposite direction, not really knowing where to go and what to do, well aware that this is probably a very bad idea. Surely, they would have a better chance of escaping together than each on their own, the man, besides being a Nilfgaardian war criminal, certainly being capable, otherwise he would not have risen to the rank of commander general at his relatively young age. Admittedly, he is looking very much worse for wear at the moment, but that is hardly his fault, the long months in the dungeon and the torture having undeniably taken a heavy toll on the Nilfgaardian. Moreover, he is not to blame for either her foul mood nor her dire situation. The Brotherhood is. Stregobor. Vilgefortz. What hurts even more, Tissaia has also abandoned her. She could certainly have done something to help. But she did not. Chose not to. For the sake of her position on the Council. Or because she is truly in love with Vilgefortz, the bloody bastard who stole her victory? The only one who did help was Istredd. Probably still feeling guilty for ratting her out to Stregobor. Without the horse they would not have stood a chance of getting away. However, being an ivory tower historian, not a soldier, the mage had not thought of equipping the mount with anything useful, like a cloak, a bedroll, blankets, a waterskin, food, a knife ... Cahir would certainly have done a much better job. He would have thought of everything, Yennefer was sure of that.
Fuck it!
Yennefer turns around again. Where is that bloody Nilfgaardian? He cannot have gone far yet.
There are some lights in the distance. Yennefer can make out Loxia, Garstang, and, of course, the familiar eery glow of Aretuza. Which helps her find her bearings. Luckily for the witch, the rain has stopped by now and the clouds that obscured the stars and the almost full moon are slowly dispersing, too. But will it be enough to find a person in the darkness of this vast wilderness of brambles, shrubbery and lichen-covered rocks? Can she dare call out his name? What are the odds that someone besides the two fugitives, someone searching for them is out here in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night? Before Yennefer does call out for her unlikely travel companion, she sees something move in the light of the moon, now free of the masking clouds. A vague shape against the night sky. A man. Cahir!
She quickens her pace as much as possible on the uneven ground which is riddled with rabbit holes and rocks and overgrown with heather and other dwarf shrubs that seem to be conspiring against her, wanting to halt her progress, to trip her, maybe even aching to break her ankle or leg, leaving her helpless in the dark. Rubbish! Why would any plant desire to hurt her? Chasing away those morbid thoughts, Yennefer calls out for Cahir to stop. However, he does not seem to hear her. Or is ignoring her. Still, Yennefer is gaining on him. He seems to be slowing down more and more. Which is, on the one hand, good news since she will soon be able to catch up with the man. On the other hand, it does not bode well for his physical condition which had not been too good even before their strenuous, head over heals flight.
He is stumbling. Falling to his knees. Struggling back to his feet. Falling again. Finally, he does not stand up.
"Cahir!" Yennefer almost runs the last metres, afraid she might lose the spot from her sight where he has collapsed, afraid she might not find him in the dark. But she does. She almost falls over his prone figure in the heather. He is breathing heavily between spasms of dry coughing.
"Cahir!" she repeats softly, kneeling next to him and touching his shoulder. He turns toward her with an effort.
"You came back. For me?" he rasps, wheezing.
"For me, idiot. Figured I'd be better off with you than on my own. Looks like I was wrong, though. Who's the dead weight now?" Despite her sharp tongue, there is concern in her voice now. She feels his clammy forehead. A bit too warm for her liking but not worryingly so. If they are lucky, he is just exhausted from the long hike, not being in particularly good shape thanks to the torture and prolonged stay in the dank dungeon cell. But what if they aren't lucky, if Cahir is seriously sick? Then they are royally fucked.
"Just give me a minute, witch," he grates, then closes his eyes. And makes no move to get back up whatsoever. Not after one minute, not after two or three. He is shivering slightly in his soggy, mud-caked shirt and pants, but his laboured breathing is evening out a bit. Has he fallen asleep? Yennefer sighs. Well, she can hardly blame the man after all the stress and exertion. She, too, feels dog-tired all of a sudden. With another sigh, she lets herself sink to her knees, then lies down in the prickly heather bushes right next to Cahir, who does not stir. Huddling up against her former enemy as closely as possible to share some body warmth, she closes her eyes and drifts to a fitful sleep.