A Remedy for never-ending nothingness
The late morning turns into a bleak, rainy afternoon, the soft patter of raindrops on rock Yennefer's only miserable distraction from the desolate monotony and emptiness of the seemingly endless day. Undoubtedly this is neither the place nor the time for her to find something more. To find anything at all except for never-ending nothingness. Nothing to eat, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to as the next day will probably not turn out to be any different, nor the next or the day after that. When dusk is falling, Yennefer is so totally fed up with it all that she, in spite of the constant drizzle, drags herself up to go for an evening stroll on the little beach now that the risk of being discovered is pretty low in the twilight of the evening. Not that there is much to see or do on the beach either, but, looking out over the vast, lead-grey sea and breathing in the fresh albeit chilly ocean breeze, at least she does not feel as trapped as inside the cave with its increasingly oppressive atmosphere, the welcome safe haven of a few days ago slowly turning into a hated prison cell in her perception. It feels good to stretch her legs a little, too, her bruised toe luckily not giving her any trouble worth the mention.
When, after a while, Yennefer returns to the almost darkness of the cavern, her hair and dress wet from the rain and shivering, she can vaguely see Cahir, who has finally woken up, nodding at her from the far corner of the cave but he does not say anything. Sullenly, Yennefer lets herself slump against the rock wall as far away from where he is sitting as possible. Couldn't the Nilfgaardian at least say something along the lines of 'where the hell have you been?' Then again, he might be somewhat apprehensive of accidentally provoking another one of her temper tantrums after this morning's fateful emotional outburst. Yennefer cannot totally blame the man for being reluctant to strike up a conversation as she has to admit - to herself, not to him, of course - that, taking into account that the Nilfgaardian had just barely recovered from his fever, she probably overreacted to his Geralt-like 'hmm' a bit. Geralt - just thinking of the name makes Yennefer want to scream in frustration. But that and everything that happened between her and the taciturn Witcher after the dragon hunt is, naturally, not Cahir's fault. Maybe this whole mess has made her a tad volatile ...
Sticky like goo, the evening drags on. Its sullen silence stretches uncomfortably, enveloping everything and everybody in its eternal emptiness. Or at least that's what it feels like for the sorceress. She has no idea though whether or not the Nilfgaardian feels anything similar, feels anything at all. He just sits there, hardly more than a shadow in the near darkness, barely moving or making a sound. He can't have fallen asleep yet again, can he? Well, even if he has, Yennefer definitely has no desire nor does she plan to spend the next couple of hours in this somber, suffocating absence of sound.
"Four marks for your thoughts." Although not spoken particularly loudly, Yennefer's words seem to pierce the silentness, a faint echo reverberating from the cave walls.
"What?" Not asleep. That is something. Not exactly a witty, brilliant or in any way intellectually stimulating remark, though. Let's try again.
"I said four marks for your thoughts," Yennefer repeats a little louder, trying hard not to sound impatient. "You are capable of conscient thought, are you not?"
He huffs. Amazingly enough it sounds more amused than annoyed. That is encouraging. Less so is the fact that nothing else is forthcoming. No retort, quip, taunt, jibe, or dig. Nothing. Yennefer is almost about to give up on any attempt at conversation with a sigh when Cahir turns toward her.
"Why?" Another monosyllable, what a surprise. However, it is still better than naught.
"Because I'm bored. And dead tired of this senseless sitting around. And I'm fucking famished.
"And whiney?" Two words. They are making progress.
"Whiney? I? You've got to be kidding me," Yennefer says in mock indignation. "I haven't had anything to eat in ages! Can't you see, I'm barely more than skin and bones. I'm literally starving!"
"It's only been three days. Rest assured, you won't show any severe symptoms of starvation for another three or four weeks." Two complete sentences. Maybe the Nilfgaardian isn't an utterly hopeless case after all. Perhaps there is a chance of relief from the mind-numbing monotony. However, Yennefer does not especially care for the patronising tone.
"Another three or four weeks? I'd be dead long before that - from sheer boredom." The sorceress sighs exaggeratedly. "And it's all your fault. You are worse at conversation than a fucking tree."
"Talked to many trees lately?" the Nilfgaardian sneers. Or rather, she infers that he sneers as Yennefer cannot really make out any facial expressions in the darkness.
"What if I had?"
"Might think you are mental."
"Mental? I? And you aren't? That look you gave me in the dungeons through those bars was definitely mental."
"Maybe." He shrugs. Then silence.
"See. You've done it again!" the witch suddenly bristles.
"Done what?" Cahir asks, genuinely confused by Yennefer's unexpected outburst.
"Another one of those typical, unbelievably verbose and evening-filling monosyllables of yours. And then - sod-all! Don't they teach you how to fucking talk in Nilfgaard?"
"Get yourself a poetaster or a bloody bard if you want to be entertained."
"I'll keep that in mind for the next time I save somebody's ass and get stuck with them in a cave. Nilfgaardian general commanders definitely being at the very bottom of the list."
"Three or four more days until we can proceed with the plan, cross the bridge, get to Gors Velen, sneak onto a ship. And then, good riddance."
"I like the good riddance part. But fuck all your plans, I'm bored. Now. Can't you tell me a story? Please? Before I go raving mad from this deadly dumb-ass dullness."
"What story?"
"Story of your life, perhaps?"
"Did the trees tell you their stories?"
"Of course not. They are trees!"
"Then why would I?"
"To keep me from going crazy in here!" Yennefer is almost shouting now. Why must the Nilfgaardian make this so fucking difficult? Is he doing it on purpose to aggravate her? She saved his life, after all! Well, after barbecuing his army and being the reason for why he ended up in the Aretuza dungeon in the first place. He is probably still holding a grudge. As is she. Not exactly the best premises for an amicable conversation.
Yennefer sighs again. "OK, forget it. Your story, as any story from bloody Nilfgaard, is probably as shitty as your piss-poor ale anyway."
"You are not wrong about the ale. That's why I prefer wine."
"Oh, you don't say?" Now Yennefer is the one to sneer. "Better not let the benevolent White Flame hear that. Might be considered treason."
"Bollocks. You know nothing about the White Flame. The Emperor knows that I'm devoted to the cause!"
"Right. And, once you return, he'll totally forgive and forget that you lost him the fucking war at Sodden."
"Because of you, witch!" the Nilfgaardian general commander spits, venom in his voice. "Anyway," he states with conviction, "there are more important things than the war."
"I hope you are right." Funnily enough, Yennefer, to her own surprise, finds that she truly does in spite of everything. "Believe it or not," she continues, "I don't wish for you to look another beheading block in the eye. But I've heard there were quite a few executions after the defeat."
This is obviously news to the Nilfgaardian as he turns toward her with a jerk. Unfortunately, because of the lack of light in the cavern, Yennefer cannot discern whether he is just surprised, or shocked or even frightened by the information. Anyhow, whatever invisible display of emotion it might have caused, Cahir manages to get it under control admirably quickly.
"The White Flame does whatever is necessary for the good of his people and the continent. I do not question his decisions."
Yennefer is close to shouting at the man that maybe he should start questioning, should start thinking for himself instead of blindly following orders, of fanatically trusting in this almost god-like mythical leader figure, but then she thinks better of it. It would probably just incite another serious and utterly futile fight. He might have to learn the hard way some day that his unwavering faith in the Emperor is misplaced. A learning process that hopefully won't include another dungeon, scaffold or gallows. Well, this is hardly her problem, though. Her problem is here and now and it is creeping up on her again, this tenacious treacle-like tediousness of the day that, in the silence following Cahir's final statement, is extending its thousand tentacles toward Yennefer once again, threatening to suffocate her.
"What about a legend then? You have legends in Nilfgaard, haven't you?" Yennefer nudges, almost desperate now. "Or a fable? A ballad? Poem? A bloody limerick? There must be something you Nilfgaardians do for entertainment besides invading other countries, right?"
"I know a fairy tale or two," Cahir finally and rather reluctantly offers. " 'Snow-white and the seven dwarves of Mahakam' acceptable? To stop your whining?"
"This isn't whining, it's surviving," Yennefer corrects her companion. "And if you, too, wish to survive, better give it your best shot. 'Snow-white' it is."
To Yennefer's very surprise and growing delight it turns out that Cahir isn't half bad at telling fairy tales. Actually, he is pretty good at it and knows far more than just one or two. If they had had a nice campfire going, some choice bites of crisply roasted venison and a good bottle of dark red wine, preferably Est Est, her favourite from the famous cellars of Castel Ravello in Toussaint, and, of course, a nice hot bath and clean and dry clothes, this could have been a truly remarkable and entertaining evening, a night to remember. As it is, her stomach painfully grumbling from hunger, her clothes and hair filthy and dank and not a chance in hell of a bath or even the cheapest of wines, sitting on the sandy floor of a now completely dark and uncomfortably chilly cave, it will probably not make it onto the list of Yennefer's one hundred best nights. However, it is definitely acceptable. Maybe even more than acceptable. Yennefer gives a little smile that, of course, nobody can see in the darkness. This is actually and totally unexpectedly - enjoyable.
"How come you are so good at telling fairy tales?" Yennefer asks after the third one, 'The Bremervoord Town Musicians,' when Cahir takes a break to drink some water. "You know, you could make a living from it if you ever got tired of soldiering."
"I have nephews and nieces."
"You, the commander general of Nilfgaard, tell them bedtime fairy tales? And in the morning you sing them awake with a song about pirates, perhaps? Before you go off to pillage villages and burn down cities with your army? I can so totally picture that," Yennefer half giggles while rolling her eyes, which, of course, the Nilfgaardian cannot see in the darkness.
"Haven't done the part with the pirate song," Cahir says matter-of-factly and swallows down another gulp of water. "Might keep it in mind though for the next time I visit my sisters." He puts down his boot-turned-drinking-vessel. "Want to hear another one? All free of charge tonight. Just for the hero of Sodden."
Yennefer nods affirmatively, smiling at the man's dry sense of humour. If her assumption is right and it is meant as a joke. Without being able to see his facial expression, she cannot be a hundred percent sure, though. Damn the darkness. Although, come to think of it, with the bushy beard covering most of his face, it isn't easy to read him even in bright daylight. Unless he is steaming with anger.
When the Nilfgaardian does not proceed with another 'Once upon a time', it suddenly occurs to the sorceress that Cahir could not possibly have seen her nodding and is still waiting for her reaction. How stupid of her.
"Sure, I'm all ears. Fire away."
"Let's see, how about another one with an evil witch?" Yennefer could swear Cahir is smirking now. "Hänsel and Gretel? Jorinde and Joringel? Little Brother and Little Sister?"
"Are there, by any chance, also fairy tales with nice witches?"
"Hmm, let me think - there are benevolent fairies in some, but I don't think I know of a single one with a nice witch. Most are ugly and old, too."
"That's how you Nilfgaardians see sorceresses then? No wonder you are such a backwater shithole country."
"Funny you say that." To Yennefer's bafflement, Cahir seems to be - chuckling? After she has deliberately insulted his home country? What's wrong with the man? Is he feverish again?
"Those fairy tales," he continues, still sounding unduly amused, "are all from the north, not Nilfgaard. Which makes yours the backwater shithole country, I guess. How did you not know?"
"Are you trying to pull my leg, Nilfgaardian? How would you possibly know so many northern fairy tales?"
"My grandmother was from the northern kingdoms."
"You aren't serious, are you?"
"My father used to call her 'she-wolf from the north' when he was angry." Cahir pauses, apparently lost in thought, or rather memories. "When I was little," he eventually continues, "I was dead sure she transformed into a real wolf during full moon nights. My older brothers Aillil and Dheran had put this silly idea into my head. 'Can't you hear it howling?' they would ask and I was so convinced of it that I hid under the covers and refused to let her into my bedchamber for the usual bedtime story whenever there was a full moon. Until one night grandmother caught them both standing beneath my window making all kinds of scary wolf-like noises. They were given a thorough hiding with her belt which made them howl even louder."
"Sounds like a fun childhood."
"Yes - until the Usurper took over." Cahir's tone of voice has darkened considerably at the mention of the Usurper, the name apparently evoking a lot less amusing memories than the ones he has so unexpectedly been willing to share with her. The brooding silence that ensues is a clear warning for Yennefer not to push for more information on what happened back then if she does not want to spoil the so far surprisingly entertaining evening.
"All right, then let's hear those evil witch tales of yours if you can't come up with anything better. I'm ready for all sorts of slander of my profession if it amuses you - and kills some time."
Time it does kill indeed and helps Yennefer forget about the painful emptiness in her stomach for a while. Moreover, to her great relief, Cahir also knows plenty of fairy tales that do not revolve around evil witches - funny ones like 'Hans in Luck' or 'The Golden Goose', romantic ones with knights in shining armour saving the beautiful princess from a hundred-years-sleep, others with giants and unicorns, talking animals, magic tables or princes turned into bears or frogs. From time to time she has to pinch herself to check that this is really happening and not some weird dream of sorts. Who would have thought that, one day, she, who had never had anybody whosoever tell her any bedtime stories in her entire, unnaturally long life, would sit in a cave and for hours listen to an enemy commander recounting fairy tales. Just for her. Lucky that it is pitch dark in the cave as she is probably grinning from ear to ear like a crazy Cheshire cat.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"With a single powerful stroke of his silver-bladed sword the grim-looking witcher cuts off the werewolf's shaggy head just as it is about to devour the frightened little girl. Blood splashes onto the maid's face and her red riding-hood and she starts to scream - at the witcher. Angrily. After all, the werewolf was her beloved grandmother and the monster hunter had mercilessly slaughtered her. The witcher takes the bloody severed head, grunts a farewell and leaves the grandmother's hut and the still screaming Little Red Riding-Hood to go collect his coin in the village."
"Oh yes, and to drink copious amounts of beer sitting broodingly in a dark corner of a shady tavern feeling sorry for himself because people are so inexplicably ungrateful," Yennefer butts in. "This is not a fairytale. I know the type. I'd bet any amount of money that this is a true story and actually happened somewhere a couple of hundred years ago. Maybe even just a few decades ago."
"You know a witcher? I've only heard tales and songs about them but never met one in person."
"Count yourself lucky, then."
"I've told you how many fairy tales? Easily more than a dozen. Now it's your turn," Cahir urges, his curiosity piqued. "What about that witcher?"
"What about him?" Yennefer stalls. However, the Nilfgaardian is right, after the cornucopia of fairy tales she can hardly refuse to reciprocate, if just a little. Damn, why didn't she keep her mouth shut? Now it's too late. "Well, we went on a dragon hunt together, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, and I ..."
Carefully leaving out the more personal details, Yennefer not only retells the dragon hunt story but also some of Geralt's other adventures, the Devil of Posada, saving the Striga, the Blaviken fight. It is far beyond midnight when both Yennefer and Cahir start yawning and finally decide to call it a night.
Soon they are fast asleep in their respective corners of the cave probably dreaming of the delights of a magic table or the delicious taste of a piece of gingerbread house.