Red Tide
She is incredibly gorgeous as she stands there in her black lacy silken underwear. He is rooted to the spot, the door handle in one hand but utterly unable to push it down, to open the door, to tear his gaze away from the beautiful sorceress. The mage that was his enemy, his nemesis, his executioner. Who, just over the course of a few days, has mysteriously transformed into his saviour, travel companion, ally, partner in crime, maybe even into - a friend? He knows he should not stare like that, it is against every knightly code. However, he cannot help it, cannot bring himself to follow through with his initial intention to leave the room and wait until Yennefer has finished her bath.
When she starts unclasping her bra, someone nudges him in the ribs, shoving him away from the door, breaking the spell. The Sandpiper. Before the other man exits hastily, he, wide-eyed, whispers something into Cahir's ear. Some quick piece of advice about the witch being dangerous, probably mental. Of course, Cahir is well aware of that. He knows first hand how dangerous Yennefer of Vengerberg can be, with or without magic. He equally knows that it would probably be the wise choice to quickly follow the Bard and forget about a hot bath. He could easily make do with a bucket of cold water. However, like a moth drawn to a flame, he stays. And, with shaky fingers, starts to undress. Cahir concentrates on his boot buckles and avoids looking in the direction of the sorceress until he hears the splashing of water. He takes off his boots, then his filthy, ragged shirt and pants. The same ones he wore during the battle of Sodden Hill. And the months in the Aretuza dungeon. No, don't think of that now, it's over, way in the past. He takes a deep, steadying breath. What did the Sandpiper say about his stinking stuff? Leave it by the door, right. Cahir does just that. And even has the presence of mind to collect Yennefer's elegant but similarly smelly undergarments and add them to the reeking pile before he joins her in the tub - on her invitation.
The tub is big, but not big enough to not touch. At first, Cahir avoids it as best he can, sitting stiffly and tense opposite the sorceress, eyes shut tightly. However, when Yennefer playfully splashes water into his face and firmly orders him to relax, he gives up and lets himself glide deeper into the deliciously warm water with a sigh, breathing in the scent of the lavender soap bubbles and feeling her smooth, soft skin against his sprawled out legs. Which gives him goosebumps all over in spite of the pleasant water temperature. He watches as Yennefer washes her long, bountiful black hair and rubs the grime and dirt off her olive skin with the one sponge that has come with the bath. Then it's his turn. Obviously, the sorceress does not trust him to do a thorough job by himself as she insists on rubbing the lavender soap into his overlong hair with deft, delicate fingers. While she is doing so, her bare, firm breasts are precariously close and it is probably a very good thing that he has to squinch his eyes tightly shut to not get soap sud into them. Then she takes the sponge and, with abandon, rubs away at his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Now she is kissing him. His breath comes in ragged gasps as she kisses his eyelids, the ugly scar on his right temple, his half-open mouth. Breathlessly, he returns the kiss, going deeper, deeper ...
Suddenly, there is a change in the air. A strange chill. A breath of death. The taste of blood in his mouth. Cahir shudders and forces his eyes open. Yennefer is still leaning over him but her face is contorted in pain, not ecstasy. Thick droplets of dark red blood are dripping from her nose, her ears, her mouth, gushing from her wrists which have been sliced open to the bone, ugly, gaping, accusatory. He freezes at the horrendous sight, too shocked to cry out, to do anything. The tub is filling up with Yennefer's blood, turning the water scarlet, viscous, a terrifying tinge of iron in the air. The red water spills over, flooding the floor. A red tide rising higher and higher. Cahir finally snaps out of his torpor, struggles to his feet in a panic and tries to grab the injured sorceress to flee from the room with her before they are drowned in the torrent. However, his hands grab at nothing but thin air. Frantic, he gropes around in the appalling, ever rising scarlet fluid, desperately calling Yennefer's name. Again and again, but to no avail.
Suddenly, the whole room starts to rock ...
"Stop it, man!" A voice cuts through the haze of his nightmare. Somebody has grabbed him by the shoulder, shaking him. "You are waking everybody up - again!" Cahir sits up with a start, blushing crimson. "If you love that Yennefer so much, you should have gone with her. Now it's too late for remorse, we're half way to Cintra already!"
"Don't you lecture me," Cahir hisses at the young elf who still has one hand on his shoulder. "And keep your hands off of me!" Dara backs away from the foul-tempered man with the bushy beard.
"Sorry, Sir," the dark-skinned elf spits, looking deeply offended. "I let a girl go once and still don't know what happened to her. But, of course, who am I to lecture you? Who the fuck are you, anyways, mister high and mighty human, that you think you are so much better than I?"
"You'll find out who I am soon enough, elf. As soon as we are in Cintra!" Cahir gets up from his makeshift bed bristling with annoyance, shooting the young elf a death glare while hurrying up the ladder onto the lonely deck. He needs fresh air to clear his head. Lots of fresh air.
The salty breeze somewhat helps to calm his nerves after the horrible dream. However, it is much harder to quell the doubt that is constantly nagging at the back of Cahir's mind. Staying on the ship was the right decision. How could it not be? He needs to get to Cintra without distractions and delay. So he can finally resume his service to the White Flame, continue the search for Princess Cirilla, the endeavour that has the highest priority - for the sake of the Empire and the greater good of the continent. This is his purpose, his life. Has been for years. What is the life and safety of a single sorceress who has even lost her magic in comparison? An enemy sorceress who is responsible for their - his - utter defeat at Sodden, to boot? He cannot afford to let his judgement be clouded by emotions, feelings, something as ridiculous as - love. He loves the White Flame, is deeply devoted to the cause. This will have to be enough. It ought to be enough, more than enough. Damn that fucking elf! What does the whelp possibly know of the hard decisions that have to be made in a war? The hard decisions that have to be made to prevent the White Chill from devouring the entire continent?
And still, somehow, everything feels wrong without her - Yennefer of Vengerberg.