Whumptober prompts:
No. 3 Hair's breadth from death
No. 15 - Emotional damage
No. 17 Hanging by a thread/threat
No. 28 Anger born of worry
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"Fringilla?"
"Cahir?" Utterly perplexed the sorceress gets up from the kitchen bench she is sitting on very close to the Witcher and stares at the former Nilfgaardian commander general as if she is seeing a ghost. "You are alive? And here - with Geralt?"
"It's a long story," the newcomer to the kitchen says when he has finally recovered his wits enough to speak, no less surprised than the former Nilfgaardian sorceress. Although, come to think of it, it makes sense that she is here in Toussaint where not even the Nilfgaardian Intelligence Service dares send its agents. Why though has always been a mystery to him. Definitely not because of Toussaint's military which is, aside from the few knight errants, non-existing. Hasn't Fringilla mentioned once that she has kin here, too? Then she has probably been staying at Beauclaire Castle with her relatives ever since that fateful day in Cintra. The day when Emhyr caught them lying to him. When she disappeared into the portal while he- Cahir swallows. No, don't think about it. It is the past. Concentrate on the present. He blinks and focuses on Fringilla again, looking her up and down appraisingly.
"Glad to see you alive," he then says with a little smile. "You look good." And obviously happy, judging from the fact that she was almost sitting in the Witcher's lap just a moment ago when he, totally unsuspecting, entered the Castle kitchens. Where he expected to only find his friends. However, instead of Milva and Regis, there she is, Fringilla Vigo in the flesh. Jaskier never said anything about the sorceress when he ran into him in one of the many hallways of the beautiful building that looks like just recently sprung from the pages of a fairytale book. He only pointed him to the kitchen and said that he would join them shortly. Apparently Geralt has not told Fringilla about Cahir either. Perhaps they had no idea that they know each other? If Fringilla hasn't mentioned it to him, Geralt might not even be aware of the fact that she is from Nilfgaard. Well, now he does, Cahir suspects. He has a closer look at the pair. Are the Witcher and the Sorceress holding hands behind the folds of her pink dress? And isn't there a love bite on the side of Geralt's neck, just below the ear? Curious. Geralt seems to have quite a liking for sorceresses ...
"You don't look so great," Fringilla states, glancing meaningfully at the bandage adorning Cahir's forehead. The knight is a bit pale in the face, too. "What happened?"
"The idiot tried to catch a hatchet with his head. Bled like a pig. I thought he'd croak it then and there. Looks like the druids fixed him up all right, though," Angoulême pipes in with her mouth full of goat's cheese. She is grinning broadly at Cahir, obviously very happy that he did not croak it after all.
"Well, glad to see you alive, too. Again." Fringilla gives Cahir a smile, not as broad a smile as Angoulême's, but she is genuinely happy that, against all odds, his head is still attached to his shoulders. They were and still are friends, aren't they? Then, suddenly, the sorceress frowns as if a disturbing thought has just occurred to her. A very disturbing thought. What if they are not, have never been, what if- She looks at her former superior with growing suspicion. "How are you still among the living, Cahir? I was dead sure Emhyr would have you executed. Unless - unless Emhyr knew what we were going to tell him. He was in on it from the start! Was it to test my loyalty? To see if I would go along with your plan? A ploy to get me out of the way? To become more powerful yourself? Tell me Cahir, was it?"
Cahir goes even paler than he was before as Fringilla spits her accusations in his face. "Do you really believe I would do that?" he finally asks in a flat voice.
"I don't want to! But how else are you not dead? And now you intend to get to the Princess through Geralt? To finally fulfil your mission?" Fringilla has become so agitated, she almost screeches. "Maybe I should have slit your throat after all? Together with the other dastardly generals?"
"Fringilla, stop it, I don't think-" Geralt starts, however, it is too late. Cahir has already turned around in the door without another word and left.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"You stupid cow! What have you done?" Jaskier fumes at Fringilla. When he entered the cosy kitchen a few minutes ago, he instantly sensed that something was wrong. Now he has a good idea what. "Melitele's tits! You know nothing about him, do you?" he goes on chiding. "Cahir spent two years in the Cintra dungeons! And was tortured! Because he lied for a friend." He looks at Fringilla accusingly. "For you!"
The sorceress goes as pale as possible with her dark skin. "He told you that?"
"Just bits and pieces. After he was having a fucking breakdown!" Jaskier does not add that it was him, or rather his song, that triggered the breakdown then. It is not of importance now anyway. What is a lot more important is that they find Cahir before he has another meltdown. Or does something stupid, whatever this might be. He himself would probably look for the next tavern and get as pissed as possible in a similar situation. But the Nilfgaardian - no, Vicovarian - does not strike him as somebody who would drink himself into oblivion. Probably more the type to jump onto his horse and gallop away through the rain at breakneck speed, possibly breaking his neck in the process. Or get into a fist fight, like when Geralt wrongly accused him of treachery. Or hammer his head against a tree again, or a wall, or something equally hard and unrelenting. Which would definitely not be a good idea after just having recovered from a severe concussion.
"I'm sorry, I had no idea. I really am sorry," Fringilla says contritely. "I guess I have become a bit paranoid with all the backstabbing at court. Those generals who wanted to supplant me just because I'm a woman and a sorceress ..."
"Go apologise to Cahir, not to me." Jaskier rolls his eyes, his anger gone as quickly as it came. He knows a thing or two about scheming parvenues and devious, designing upstarts that would do anything to replace you or steal your talent and achievements. Backstabbing bumlickers like one Valdo Marx, his nemesis, for example. Cahir is nothing like him. He has always been a loyal member of their Hanza, in spite of Geralt's initial misgivings and mistrust. He has earned his place in their company with his blood. Admittedly, Cahir has betrayed his Emperor, however, Jaskier knows for sure that he would never betray a friend. Fringilla's insinuations must have hurt. A lot. And might have triggered traumatic memories, too ...
"We better go find him. You lot," he nods at Geralt, Fringilla and Angoulême, "search the courtyard, castle greens, stables and wherever else Cahir might have gone. I'll go look in the gardens. Although I hate that shitty weather. And there I thought the sun always shines in Toussaint ..." Mumbling on about the abominable weather conditions, Jaskier turns toward the door again, then walks down the hallway and out the backdoor that leads to the kitchen gardens and orchard.
There is not a soul to be seen between the large patches of cabbage and pumpkin. Jaskier calls out for his comrade, but there is no answer. However, the bard is not entirely sure if Cahir would answer even if he had heard him. Maybe not. So, he walks on, hunched over against the rain until he reaches the gate in the wall surrounding the castle orchard. As befits an orchard, there are plenty of trees. With plenty of tree trunks. Jaskier does not spot Cahir anywhere near one, though. Not that he can see very far in the pelting rain, but Cahir is tall and the orange and lemon trees are not. He is pretty sure he will notice his friend eventually. If he is here.
When, drenched to the bone and slightly shivering in the chilly autumn wind, Jaskier is about to turn around to go back to the warm kitchen, he notices a movement out of the corner of his eye. Somebody is standing by the stone wall at the far end of the orchard. A tall and lean figure. Must be the Vicovarian. Who else would be out here during this deluge? Nobody in their right mind, that is as clear as mud. Of which there is plenty at the moment. His new leather boots, a present from Anarietta, the Duchess of Toussaint, are covered in it. Damn it. How he yearns for a hot bath, preferably together with said Anarietta. His little weasel. In her luxuriously large, gilt-plated bath tub. However, first he has to check on his friend. What is he doing by the wall, anyway?
When Jaskier gets closer, to his great shock, he realises that Cahir is not standing inside the garden walls, but on the outside, the side facing the hillside, a very steep, cliff-like hillside ...
"Cahir, what the fuck are you doing? Get back from there this instant! Do you hear me? Cahir!" he shouts across the orchard so angry with worry that his hand itches to slap his friend in the face. The other man does not react. Standing precariously close to the precipice, he continues staring down into the abyss.
"Shit, Cahir, get away from there. Please." Jaskier is by the waist-high wall now, a little out of breath from running. Just looking at his comrade standing so close to the edge, just beyond arm's reach, makes the poet feel queazy. There is no way Cahir would survive if he fell by accident. Or maybe by intention?
"Don't you worry, bard. I won't jump," Cahir says eventually without looking up.
"Then why the fuck are you standing there? Have you been hit in the head once too often? This is fucking dangerous! Explain it to me."
"Puts things into perspective."
"What things? Which perspective? The perspective of a bloody idiot with a death wish who has totally lost his marbles? This doesn't make any sense at all!"
"Reminds me of why I am not going to jump."
"There are a thousand reasons why one shouldn't jump! You'd end up dead, for one. And probably not a very nice sight splattered all across the cobble stones below. Think of the poor people who have to clean up the mess. They'll get the shock of their life, too!"
"Spare your breath, Jaskier. I've already said I'm not going to jump." Cahir finally looks up and half turns around toward the man on the other side of the wall. "I made a promise to Geralt. To help rescue Ciri. I keep my promises."
"Then why don't you get back here. And out of this blasted rain. We could go to the tavern, yes? Have a drink together. Fringilla is truly sorry, too. She didn't mean what she said."
Cahir huffs. But he takes a step in the right direction, away from the rim. Good. Two more steps and he will be by the wall. However, the rain has turned the ground into a treacherous mire. Cahir slips, loses his balance and, swearing loudly, falls onto his knees in the mud.
"Fuck, Cahir, told you this is dangerous. Give me your hand." Jaskier bends over the wall, stretching out his own hand toward his friend who is scrambling to his feet again. But before Cahir is close enough to take it, the ground suddenly gives way under his weight.
Together with the soft soil and rocks, he falls.
For a split second, Jaskier stares, horrified. Then everything happens so quickly and, at the same time, in a weird kind of slow motion. In the blink of an eye and without thinking, he is on top of the wall and on the other side. From where, thanks to Melitele, he can see a mud-covered hand clutching desperately at something sticking out of the soil that has not yet come lose. The metre and a half or so of treacherously muddy earth between the wall and the deadly abyss. So near he can hear his comrade's panicked panting.
"Don't you dare let go or I'll have your hide!" he threatens, almost out of his mind with worry. "I'll be with you in a second. Hold on, you'll be okay, I'll get you out," Jaskier then says in the most reassuring tone of voice he can muster in spite of feeling far from reassured himself. He goes down on his knees and edges toward his friend. Who is hanging by the proverbial thread. Only that it appears to be a root in his case. Presumably from one of the orange or lemon trees from the other side of the wall. The safe side. It is a bloody thin root, too. And he can hear the sound of more rocks and lumps of earth falling down and hitting the road below. Far below. Damn, this does not look good. How Jaskier wishes they were both on that safe side already.
"Jaskier?" Cahir wheezes as he tries frantically to get a foothold in the cliff face and find something to hold onto with his other hand. But as soon as he touches anything, it crumbles beneath his fingers or tumbles down the cliff. He won't be able to hold onto the root for much longer, either. As it is his bad hand, the one with the ugly scar. It is slippery with mud and his fingers are already starting to cramp. But no matter how dire his position, he cannot endanger the poet, too.
"Don't - don't come closer," he warns. "It's too dangerous. I can manage. Stay away!" Knowing the man quite well by now after weeks of travelling together, he ought to have foreseen, though, that the foolhardy bard would not listen.
"Stay away? You wish! I've got you, see?" The poet's face is smiling down at him only a second later and he can feel his friend grabbing his forearm with both his hands. Just in time, too, as this very same moment the root moves with a lurch and Cahir's hand slips. More earth and rocks are falling. A lot more. And it does not stop. Shit, looks like the whole hillside might be coming down any minute.
"Damn it, Jaskier, let go, you fool!" Cahir shouts at his stubborn friend. Who is the one with the death wish now? But Jaskier only tightens his grip around his arm and pulls. The bard is much stronger than many would suspect and, luckily, Cahir is not a heavy man. For a moment it seems to work. As he is pulled closer toward safety by his friend, Cahir is able to swing his other arm up and hold onto a tiny elder bush that is firmly rooted in the ground just at the edge of the cliff. Jaskier shifts one hand so he can grab Cahir by the shoulder.
"Told you I'd get you out. Might even write a ballad about it," Jaskier grins at his comrade when, with combined effort, they manage to haul Cahir's torso onto the top of the rock face. They are both panting heavily by now, covered in mud and drenched to the bone.
"Don't you-" Cahir starts to protest. Then he freezes. As does the grin on Jaskier's face. They both can feel it. The ground is shifting beneath them. Then the whole cliff face starts to move. Downward with the pull of gravity.
"No!" they can hear a voice shout from afar, across the orchard, before they, too, begin to fall.
However, they - unlike the earth and stones and, not to forget, the hundreds or even thousands of woodlice and springtails and all kinds of other tiny creatures living in the top soil and between the rocks - do not hit the cobblestones. They do not even come close to the road that is, by now, covered in mud and rocks of all sizes. As the pull of gravity does, mysteriously, not seem to work on them like it should. After only a few, but horrifying metres of free fall, Jaskier and Cahir suddenly find themselves suspended in the air. Then, slowly, the pull is magically reversed. And magic it is, there is no other explanation for what is happening. Soon the two men tumble into the mud in front of Fringilla Vigo who has been muttering one spell after the other under her breath on the safe side of the wall. Fringilla's nose is gushing blood by now and she seems close to fainting from the excessive use of magic. Before her knees buckle, though, Geralt is by her side and catches her in his arms.
"You two alright?" he then asks with a frown, looking at Jaskier and Cahir who are struggling to their feet. They both look greenishly pale under the dark speckles of mud in their faces and do not seem to be too steady on their legs. But, to his relief, the Witcher does not see any blood or detect any other damage besides the obvious shock.
"Darn," the bard mutters, being the first of the two to recover his ability to speak, "that was definitely not something I would like to do on a regular basis." Not unlike a dog, he then shakes his head, hair and shoulders so the mud flies around him. "I need a drink. Or two. Not beer. Something stronger. Much stronger. And a bath. And you," he turns to the man standing next to him boring his muddy index finger into his chest. "You, Cahir Maw Dufus aep something, swear to never do anything like this ever again or I'll castrate you and feed your balls to the pigs. Understood?"
"I am sorry for what I said, Cahir. I should never have doubted your friendship and loyalty," Fringilla offers, dabbing at her bloody nose with a handkerchief, before Cahir is able to say anything. "Can - can we still be friends?" she then asks. Still a bit dazed, Cahir nods and Fringilla breathes a sigh of relief. Then she snuggles up even closer to the Witcher who lifts her into his arms to carry the exhausted sorceress back to the castle. Fringilla would surely also appreciate a hot bath, Geralt supposes. They could have one together. And then a relaxing afternoon in her very comfortable and very roomy four-poster canopy bed. To recover and forget the drama and angst of the morning. And, perhaps, to have some fun. Of the kind they had in the library just yesterday, when they were there all alone with the hundreds of old tomes to do some research. Well, they ended up doing rather different things, researching different areas than planned. Very interesting areas that smelled intriguingly like violets and roses.
"Cahir, you heard the bard. You stay away from precipices. And axes. And get yourself a bath and dry clothes," Geralt orders before quickly nodding farewell to his companions. They will be fine. And he has a sorceress to see to. With said sorceress in his arms, he strides briskly toward the castle and, hopefully, a quiet, drama-less afternoon, evening and night. Well, even the weather seems to have had enough drama for one day as it has stopped raining and the first patches of blue sky start showing between the receding clouds.
Jaskier gazes after Geralt for a moment. It is good to see him happy for once. Even his knee does not seem to bother him that much anymore. Maybe they could all stay in Toussaint for the winter? It will already now be quite difficult to cross the mountain passes anyway. Plus they have not the faintest idea where to go. There could be worse places to winter than Beauclair Castle. Geralt could do worse than with Fringilla, too. And he himself does not intend to leave, not even in spring. Preferably not ever. As he has found true love here in this fairytale duchy. With his little weasel. However, at this very moment, he needs to find something else. A drink. Or a hot bath first? No, definitely a drink, and he knows exactly where. Not a moment to be lost. Having made up his mind, Jaskier starts to walk toward the orchard's exit gate no less briskly than the Witcher.
"Are you coming, Cahir?" he asks, briefly glancing back at his friend who is still standing there, apparently at a loss what to do or where to go. As he has only arrived in Beauclair this very morning and has probably no clue yet where exactly he is supposed to stay. It ought to be self-evident that he would go with Jaskier. However, after what has just happened - not to forget the bard's colourful threats - Cahir is perhaps not sure if he is welcome anymore? Which, of course, he is, even though, by a hair's breadth, he almost got them both killed.
"I believe you owe me a drink, Nilfgaardian. Or two. For saving your sorry arse," Jaskier says jovially while waiting for his friend to catch up. And to protest that he is not a Nilfgaardian. However, this once, he lets Jaskier get away with it. The poet gives Cahir a good-natured grin, puts his arm around the other man's soggy shoulders and prattles on. "There is this little tavern just outside the castle walls, you know, with a huge fireplace and the most delicious double plum schnaps. Burns down your gullet and warms you from the inside out better than anything else on the continent. And their pumpkin pie is absolutely gorgeous. You'll love it, you'll see. And the waitresses, they are a sight to behold, with tits no less big and round than their pumpkins. Maybe you can even get one to share that bath with you ..."
The end
