Purple and green
"So now we are married? And quarter elves?" Cahir eventually asks after they have trudged along the narrow but well-used and therefore easy to find path through the forest in silence for a while, the Nilfgaardian walking a few paces behind Yennefer. So far they have not seen or heard any other people, human or halfling, although they passed several dwellings that were hidden between the trees, judging by the rather small size of the buildings most likely the homes of halfling families.
"It was convenient. For the moment." Yennefer turns toward her companion. "And it worked, didn't it?"
"Don't think she believed a single word of what you were saying, Lily," he smirks.
"Does it matter? She still let us go. Gods know why." The sorceress shrugs her shoulders and walks on. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, do you? Main point is that they are free and not on Thanedd anymore, curse the place. She would never set foot there ever again, Yennefer swears to herself, at least not as long as Stregobor and Vilgefortz hold any power over the Brotherhood.
"It wasn't all a lie," she suddenly adds, "I am quarter elf."
"That why the Brotherhood mistrust you? Why you, the Hero of Sodden, needed absolution?"
"That asshole Stregobor expects me to become the next Falka. You have heard of Falka's Rebellion?" she asks, unsure about how versed a Nilfgaardian, a rather young one to boot, would be in Northern history. After all, the rebellion happened more than a hundred years ago, two decades before she herself was born, in the far away kingdoms of Redania and Temeria. Far away from a Nilfgaardian's perspective. Looking over her shoulder she sees Cahir nod, but he does not comment. "She was quarter elf," Yennefer continues, "and black haired. That seems to be enough these days. Oh, and the fact that I was a prisoner of bloody Nilfgaard and then of a band of elves who threatened to kill me but all of s sudden had a change of heart and let me go."
"They simply let you go?" Cahir asks, astonished. "Because of your elven blood?"
"Because of my beguiling personality, extraordinary charm and beautiful purple eyes, dumbass."
"Not to forget your colourful language."
"Maybe that, too." Yennefer smiles to herself. As annoying as the Nilfgaardian can be, no, is most of the time, she does like his dry sense of humour. When he is in the mood for humour. Which, unfortunately, has been a rather rare occurrence. Well, maybe not entirely his fault considering the unfavourable and far from funny circumstances of the days they have spent together. Or rather have been forced to spend together. Seven days. Somehow it feels like she has known Cahir for a lot longer. Although, come to think of it, she hardly knows anything about the man besides the obvious and a few bits and pieces that he has deigned to share along the - metaphorical - way. Since he seems to be in a relatively good mood at the moment, not too grumpy nor offended by her teasing, why not try to find out more about her enigmatic companion?
"So, what about you? Any elven ancestors? I've heard that most Nilfgaardians have some elven blood. If not for that godawful scraggly beard, you'd almost look like one, too."
"Not that I'm aware. And, just for the record, I'm not a Nilfgaardian."
"You? Not a Nilfgaardian?" Yennefer splutters, stopping dead in her tracks. She turns around abruptly, almost causing Cahir to run into her. There could hardly be anyone more Nilfgaardian than the commander general, could there? He must be pulling her leg. But not today.
"Don't you dare hoax me," she reprimands sternly, looking up at him. "I'm totally not in the mood for another cock and bull story. Giant kraken bait, my ass."
"What if it had been true? If it hadn't been a sailor's yarn?" Cahir inquires, changing the topic and looking at her intensely. "Would you have used your magic? To free us?"
"There is no us. And yes, of course I would, as a very last resort. I don't have a death wish." Yennefer pauses thoughtfully. "Although the Brotherhood would probably not execute me if we got caught. Exile at the end of the world, maybe, for a couple of years, or decades." Not something she would be looking forward to, but hardly as bad as what would happen to Cahir. In her experience, mages usually are rather lenient with their likes as there are not so very many left on the continent. Now, after Sodden and thanks to the Nilfgaardian commander general in front of her, thirteen less mages. Bearing in mind what kind of girls Aretuza has been taking in lately, the gift of magic seems to become rarer and rarer, too.
"I bet they would even take Fringilla back if she came whining and begging and licking their boots."
"Fringilla would never do any of that!"
"How can you be so sure?" Suddenly a thought hits Yennefer. Fringilla told Cahir about her schooldays in Aretuza and how she envied her then. She would not tell just anybody about that, would she? Only close friends, though Yennefer finds it hard to believe she has any, and - "You aren't lovers, are you?" she blurts out.
"What?" Cahir sounds genuinely surprised, taken aback by Yennefer's question as if that notion has never even crossed his mind. Thank goodness, whatever they are or were, lovers it is clearly not.
"We are friends, Fringilla and I!" Cahir states with conviction after having recovered from his bafflement. Then, when Yennefer huffs dismissively at his declaration, he unceremoniously shoves her to the side and briskly walks on along the narrow path, not looking back.
Friends. Yennefer strongly doubts it. Not that she suspects for one second that Cahir is lying, on the contrary. However, she is certain that he is seriously mistaken about Fringilla. Like Yennefer herself Fringilla has not been trained to make friends, just to use people to her own benefit, if necessary by making them believe they are friends. In the several days they were together after Sodden, Fringilla did not mention or inquire about Cahir even once. Not that Yennefer would have known anything then, but a true friend might at least have tried. Moreover, from what Yennefer has heard, Fringilla and her new elven friend Francesca are living happily ever after in Xin'trea, all their wishes coming true thanks to the Deathless Mother. If Cahir makes it to Cintra, Fringilla will not be thrilled at all about her 'old' friend's return, Yennefer is sure of that. He'll find out soon enough how quickly people, and especially mages, forget about you when you are no longer of use to them. Funny how strongly this Nilfgaardian believes in all the wrong things, and, at the same time, how very tragic. Prophecies, destiny, all that White Flame nonsense, and now true friendship with a sorceress. How utterly foolish. If he does not wake up one of these days, he will certainly lose his head sooner or later. What a waste.
And what does she believe in? Now that chaos has abandoned her? Does she, Yennefer of Vengerberg, believe in anything? Anything at all? Who then is the more tragic one of them both?
The light, almost playful mood from just a few minutes ago completely faded away, Yennefer trudges after the Nilfgaardian - or possibly non-Nilfgaardian - in silence. At least the birds are still singing happily.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Cahir, wait! Let's stop here for a moment. Aren't you thirsty?" Yennefer hopes he is, at least thirsty enough to talk to her again after they have not spoken for - how long? Two, three hours? He cannot stay cross with her for the rest of the day, can he? Especially not as this might be the very last one they are spending together. And she definitely needs a break. And a long drink of fresh spring water. Preferably in the company of somebody who does not stare daggers at her or simply ignores her.
There, at the edge of a sunlit clearing, is a burbling well that, almost irresistibly, beckons passing wanderers to stop by and drink from it, the Nilfgaardian probably being the one and only person in the history of mankind to just walk past it without a second glance. When Yennefer calls his name again, he turns around, though. Maybe she can convince him to stay for a while after all?
"We need to hurry. Not long until dusk now." Cahir is right, of course, it must be around four in the afternoon already, maybe later, and neither of them has any idea how far away they are from their destination. However, they haven't had anything to drink since they left the Biberveldt-Hofmeier family, let alone stopped to take a rest.
"Just a few minutes," Yennefer pleads. "We'll be a lot slower if I collapse from dehydration and fatigue."
"I might just walk on without you then."
"You wouldn't. And admit it, you can use a break, too." Yennefer looks pointedly at Cahir's right foot. He has been limping for a while now, not badly so, but his ankle seems to be giving him some trouble again. No wonder after all the swimming, climbing and walking of the past twenty-four hours or so.
"All right then. But be quick." He sits down against a tree and closes his eyes against the almost golden rays of afternoon sunshine that illuminate his face, obviously enjoying the rare sensation after those cold and rainy last couple of days. Not to forget the dark, dank Aretuza dungeons. Come to think of it, for somebody used to a more southerly climate the lack of sunshine might have been even harder to bear than for her, and Yennefer loathes the northern weather with a vengeance most of the time.
The well consists of a semi-circular stone basin built into the hillside, a thin stream of fresh spring water pouring into it from a wooden chute. On the right side the stone rim has an indentation, an outlet where the excess water spills over and collects on the ground to form the very beginnings of a tiny forest brook that runs along the edge of the clearing and eventually disappears between the trees. It looks old and mysterious, almost magical. Parts of the dark grey stone are overgrown with liverwort and moss, and the water in the basin appears nearly black, the surface closest to the rim and further away from the chute not rippled but almost perfectly still. Like an enchanted mirror.
However, enchanted it is not, although Yennefer truly wishes it was. Because, when she looks into the waters, she sees a face she doesn't recognize. Who's this? Who are you? What changed? So strange not to behold the image of the beautifully made up, perfectly styled and impeccably dressed, powerful sorceress she has been used to see in every and each mirror for so many decades. Instead, the tired, dishevelled visage of a stranger stares back at her. She blinks back a tear. What is lost, is lost, Yennefer reminds herself. No time for self-pity now. She will survive, and one day she'll get her chaos back, and her beauty and her power. Maybe she'll even find a purpose, something to believe in. One day. With a determined movement of her hand she scoops up some water and wets her sweaty, tired face, simultaneously whisking away the disturbing reflection. In her cupped hands she then collects the clear spring water directly from the chute and drinks the pleasantly refreshing liquid in big gulps.
"Aren't you afraid you'll turn into a fawn, little sister?" Cahir teases as he is walking over to the well with a slight limp, the brief sunbath obviously having brightened his mood considerably.
"I'm neither your little sister, nor afraid of anything" Yennefer snorts in mock-indignation. "And, isn't it little brother who's turned into a young deer while his sister then has to save his ass?"
"Right. I see you did listen to me this once." He smirks and Yennefer is tempted to playfully splatter the stubborn idiot with well-water, but having no idea whatsoever how the commander general would react to something as childish as this, she resists the urge and moves away a little so that he can get to the chute and drink his fill. Which he does, luckily without transforming into a deer or any other animal.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
When the sun dips lower toward the horizon and is soon to disappear behind the treetops, there is still no sign of the city. More and more farmsteads scattered throughout the forest, most of normal size now, might indicate that they are getting closer to their destination, but Yennefer strongly doubts that they will make it before the gates are locked for the night. Looks like they'll have to spend another freezing night outside, this time under a tree or something. And she's had plenty enough of that after the elves left her to her own devices all alone in that blasted forest only a few weeks ago. At least she had a cloak then, although she has no idea where it had come from. It was just there when she woke up. As black as it was, the cloak probably belonged to a dead Nilfgaardian soldier. It was a bit rough against her skin and smelled of blood and smoke, but it was warm and sufficiently water-repellent. How she wishes she had brought it to the execution instead of throwing it away with the rest of the tattered clothes she was wearing when arriving at the doorsteps of Aretuza. Aretuza - thinking of her old school still makes her so angry. Angry at the other mages, and angry at herself. Why on earth had she been so stupid to return there in the first place? She should have known that nobody would thank her for her heroic deed, for her sacrifice. How very foolish of her to expect gratitude, appreciation, maybe even admiration from any of them. She should have known that she was on her own, as always.
Suddenly Yennefer sees something through the trees, something that catches her eye. A clearing with another homestead, nothing special, but next to one of the buildings an alluring glimpse of purple in the wind. Determined, she starts to walk toward it.
"Yennefer! What are you doing? Come back! We don't have time to fuck around!" Cahir hisses, but in vain. The sorceress continues walking straight up toward the buildings, gods know why. "Yennefer!" he tries again, catching up to her and grabbing her by one shoulder none too gently. "Stop it. You're going to get us both killed! Or arrested!"
"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," she hisses back, shaking off his hand. "I'm going to get us something we need. You'll see!"
"We need to get to Gors Velen. Now!" Cahir tries to dissuade her, urgency palpable in his voice. "Before they close the gate! We can still make it!"
"I'll be quick. You'll thank me yet!" And off she goes hurrying toward a small outhouse at the edge of the clearing. She sneaks around it and then into the adjacent garden. Hiding behind an old gnarly apple tree she surveys the dwelling. Nobody around. Swiftly and purposefully she makes a dash for the washing line, picks two pieces of clothing off it and tucks them under her arms. As quietly and quickly as she has come, she disappears into the forest again. Where Cahir is impatiently waiting for his wayward companion.
"Here, so the guards won't see your telltale Nilfgaardian uniform pants and arrest you straight away." Yennefer hands him a long green cloak, smiling smugly while draping a bright purple one around her own shoulders.
Cahir huffs. "You couldn't have found a less conspicuous one for yourself, could you?"
"No, I could not," Yennefer spits while fastening the silver clasp of her new piece of clothing. Criticism instead of a simple thank you, how typical. "What do you take me for, a total moron? There were only two cloaks there! Go complain to whoever's living in that house!"
"Look like elven garments, too," Cahir grumbles as he scrutinises the cloak in his hands. "Might make us a target if what you say about the persecution of the elves is true."
"Feel free not to wear it then. Freeze your ass off, get arrested, what do I care?" Yennefer bristles, turns on her heels and stomps off, her purple and very visible cloak swishing through the air billowing behind her like a bright beacon in the darkening forest. Of course, no amount of gratitude or appreciation to expect here either, let alone anything resembling admiration. How foolish of her to believe otherwise. If Cahir was a mage, he'd perfectly fit in with Stregobor and Vilgefortz and all the other power-hungry assholes in the Brotherhood. Why did she even bother? They are nothing but accidental allies thrown together by pure chance, or some twisted kind of destiny. Soon they would part company and never see each other again. And good riddance. Steaming with anger Yennefer marches on, a flash of purple rushing along the forest path. This time she is not looking back, not even once.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Yennefer, wait!" she hears from behind her after a while. "I'm sorry I've done it again."
She slows down a little but does not turn around. She'll not forgive him that easily.
"It's never my intention, but it happens all the same," Cahir then offers. It sounds genuine and contrite enough. She glances back and almost breaks into a triumphant smile. He is wearing the green cloak after all. Yennefer has to admit that together with the ornamental golden clasp it looks undeniably elvish which might not exactly be a good thing in Temeria at the moment, nor is the flamboyant purple colour of her own cloak. But the fabric is light and soft and clean, and it smells pleasantly of lavender soap. She feels nicely warm for the first time since they escaped from the execution, too. Even if the cloak had 'elven bitch' spelled all over it, Yennefer would not give it up again.
"And I am grateful. As you're probably right about the guards," Cahir continues, now standing directly in front of Yennefer, looking her in the eye. "Although I fear we won't find out today." He glances up at the darkening sky, the sorceress following his gaze. The sunset's last remnants of orange are quickly fading away, the moon and evening star already visible. They would not make it to Gors Velen in time. Those halflings must be very nimble creatures indeed in spite of their short legs, a lot swifter than their human counterparts. They are certainly well rested, well fed and not limping either whenever they make their way down from the cliff to the city on foot.
"Does it matter? We'd have to sleep in some dirty back alley or backyard anyway, maybe even a rat-infested sewer." Yennefer shudders in disgust at the thought. "We can do better here. The city will still be there tomorrow."
Cahir looks around. "Let's find a good place for the night then before it gets too dark."
It does not take them long to discover a moss-covered, acceptably dry spot behind an old, fallen tree not far from the path, and a little further away they can hear the welcome murmur of a brook. In the last faint light of dusk Yennefer and Cahir first quench their thirst and then settle down against the gnarly tree trunk to share what is left of Regina Biberveldt's bread. It's not much but better than nothing. They stretch out on the soft moss huddled up against the cold in their stolen elven cloaks and look up at the snippet of sky that is visible between the treetops. It is nearly black now, cloudless, and more and more stars appear speckling the dark canvas with thousands of twinkling lights. A large nocturnal bird of prey flies high, high into the night bringing death on soundless wings. But not to them. Although they both are bone-tired, neither Yennefer nor Cahir are ready to sleep quite yet.
"I was wondering," Cahir asks, "Alexander, why that name?"
Yennefer starts to giggle.
"What?" He turns onto his side and looks at her, not seeing much more than a vague black shape in the faint light of the moon though, although the sorceress is so close that if he reached out, he could easily touch her. Even her purple cloak looks black now.
"You finally asked. I've been waiting for that question for ages." Yennefer smirks but does not elaborate.
"What's so funny about that name?" Cahir probes, intrigued and irritated at the same time by the witch's sudden burst of amusement. "Is it even a name?"
"Oh yes, it is," Yennefer confirms trying hard to suppress another giggling fit. "That's what I called one of our pigs."
"A pig? By the name of Alexander? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"
"It was a presumptuous pig. A huge bristly boar with a pedigree." The boar was easily her stepfather's most precious possession, worth far more to him than any of his own children, let alone the ugly unwanted daughter he had always loathed. "I liked Alexander - sometimes," she adds, a tad more serious now, "Especially when he tried to bite off my stepfather's hand."
"Not a very happy childhood then, I suppose?"
"No." Not happy at all, but she got over it decades ago, didn't she? "Know what's truly funny though? My not-so-happy childhood might have saved your neck."
"How's that?"
"Besides feeding the pigs my stepfather made me chop fathoms of wood for the winter as he was too lazy himself and I was the oldest." With her deformity it was very difficult and tough work, but as skill comes with practise and practise she had plenty of, she got better at it every year.
"Guess that explains how you didn't split my spine open. I was wondering about that, too." Cahir turns onto his - thanks to Yennefer's loathsome stepfather - unharmed back again, gazing at the stars pensively. "Who'd have thought that the mighty hero of Sodden grew up on a farm between chopping blocks and pig muck," he states eventually.
"And you grew up in a castle, of course." It would not surprise her at all if he did. At the moment he might not look much like a knight in shining armour who'd call a castle his home, but somehow Yennefer can easily imagine it.
"I did," he confirms her suspicion. "My grandfather's. Darn Dyffra in Vicovaro."
"Vicovaro?" A vague memory of a map of the Empire comes to Yennefer's mind. It's one of the southernmost vassal states of Nilfgaard, isn't it? Wedged between Nilfgaard proper and the Tyr Tochair mountain range.
"I told you that I'm not a Nilfgaardian."
"Right, you did." And she thought he was pulling her leg. Seems like he wasn't joking after all. "Tell me about Vicovaro," Yennefer suddenly says.
"Why?"
"I've never been there. And I'm curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know." But then Cahir tells Yennefer about Vicovaro anyway, the rolling hills, lush green valleys, clear, sparkling rivers full of trout and salmon, sun-flooded forests with plenty of deer, the mild winters and hot summer days best spent inside the cool castle walls or in the mountains, about olive, lemon and orange groves, the vinyards which are not quite as famous as the ones in Toussaint but no less good according to him, the rich pastures for cattle and horses, the picturesque villages, the spring festival of flowers ...
"Sounds like a beautiful place," she says sleepily after a while. "You miss it."
"Yes." Cahir pauses for a moment, engrossed in freshly awoken memories. "Perhaps I can show you one day," he then offers.
"Perhaps." Yennefer strongly doubts it, but smiles anyway as it is quite a nice thought to fall asleep with. Which she does almost instantaneously.