Cahir sleeps through most of the day. Thanks to the tea he seems not to be in too much pain anymore, and after the second cup the fever starts to drop a little. Fringilla diligently refreshes the cold compresses and even manages to feed him a little porridge. In between her nurse duties there is plenty of time to sleep for her, but although she is dead tired, sleep does not come easily. There are too many thoughts going through her mind, most of them of a rather dark nature. She has to make plans, figure out how to take her revenge. It is not going to be easy, and failure is not an option. She will have to get close to Emhyr again, pretend she is still loyal to him, more devoted than ever. And, like a praying mantis, wait for her chance to grab and kill her unsuspecting victim. There are an annoying amount of variables, though. Princess Cirilla, for one, Emhyr's daughter, wherever she might be, if she is alive - which is more than uncertain. Then there are Rience and Vilgefortz to take into account if they have not kicked the bucket on Thanedd. She will have to find out as soon as possible. Francesca is kind of a wild card, too. And Cahir. He would never betray her but would he help her plot the murder of the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Probably not. Defecting is one thing but actively fighting your former liege, your god, is a very different affair altogether. Fringilla very much doubts that Cahir would go along with it. At least not yet. If she could somehow get her hands on Cirilla to make sure the White Flame will never have her, that would also be quite satisfying. Moreover it might be something Cahir would support. First, they will have to find her, though. And to find her, they will need information ...
These are very much the thoughts that are spinning around and around in Fringilla's head keeping her from her much needed rest. Still, by the end of the day, she is not any closer to a solution than in the morning. And Cahir is worse again, despite the tea and poultice, raving wildly about a monster and a dying unicorn, and about the princess burning the world with her fire. In his delirium, he even tries to tear off his bandages and get up to find his horse and ride after Cirilla. Fringilla has to hold him down with all her strength until he finally goes back to sleep, completely drained from the exertion. No, as much as she can understand that Francesca wants to be alone in her deep mourning, she needs her help, Fringilla decides. Now, or Cahir might not make it through the night. She will not take no for an answer.
Determined, Fringilla gets to her feet and steps out of the hut into the twilight of the evening. And almost collides with Francesca, who flashes a smile at her.
"Did you want to see me?" Francesca asks. "To ask for my assistance with your friend?"
"I did. Please." Fringilla steps aside from the entrance and motions for Francesca to enter.
"It's his hand, it's badly infected," Fringilla says, kneeling down next to Cahir. Caught in yet another fevered dream, his eyes are moving rapidly under his lids while he tosses his head from side to side, muttering something under his breath about the scorching sun and a dark-haired girl by the name of Falka. Very strange. Who on the continent would name their daughter after the infamous instigator of the bloody rebellion that took place more than a hundred years ago? Or is the dream about the real, historical Falka? But why would Cahir dream about her?
Francesca hunkers down beside the other sorceress. "You have applied the poultice I sent you?"
"Yes, but it does not seem to be enough." Fringilla once again wipes Cahir's sweaty brow with the wet cloth while Francesca starts to remove the bandages from his injured hand. He groans with agony at every touch, half opens his eyes and starts to wheeze and tremble.
"It's okay, Cahir," Fringilla tries to reassure him, taking his good hand in hers. "Francesca is having a look at your hand. She'll fix it in a jiffy. You'll be as good as new in a few minutes. Just hang in there for a little longer—"
"I'm sorry, Fringilla, but this does not look good," Francesca interrupts with a frown. "The infection has spread, poisoning his blood. A field surgeon would make short work of it and amputate below the elbow, maybe even above to be on the safe side."
Fringilla goes as pale as is possible for somebody with dark skin. "No, please, you cannot mean to cut off his arm. There must be another way, Francesca, you can surely—"
"I can try, but I can't guarantee anything. Give me your hand and put your other hand above his heart. Yes, like this. Now repeat after me." Francesca recites a complicated incantation in a sing-songy tone of voice while her free hand is hovering above Cahir's injured limb. Fringilla imitates her as good as she can. A bright, golden light starts to emanate from the elf queen's hand and washes over the injury as she moves her hand up and down from Cahir's elbow to the tips of his fingers and back again. Warmth and a strange prickly tingling begin to spread from Fringilla's fingers where they touch Francesca's hand, up her arm and throughout her entire body. A high tinkling like from many invisible minute, beautifully harmonious bells suddenly pervades her hearing, making her feel giddy, elated, like after several glasses of wine. Now it is much easier to speak the words of the incantation, they roll off her tongue and lips as if she had never done anything else. For a moment, Fringilla tilts her head backward with a smile, luxuriating in the unfamiliar sensations. Then she gazes at her other hand, the one that is touching Cahir's bare, sweaty chest right above his heart. The same bright light that glows from Francesca's hand makes her own hand shine like a miniature golden sun. Slowly, Cahir relaxes, the moaning and trembling stops, his eyes close and he starts to breathe deeply and regularly.
Francesca breaks the spell when the first drops of blood trickle down from both her and Fringilla's nose. Fringilla sighs deeply as the golden glow vanishes together with all the other pleasant sensations. She shivers, all of a sudden feeling cold and exhausted, spent. Probably she is. She gazes at Francesca questioningly. Her friend wraps her cloak more tightly around herself. She is trembling visibly, but a satisfied smile graces her perfect lips.
"This should do. He'll probably sleep like a baby all night. So should you," Francesca says, rising to her feet on slightly shaky legs. "See you in the morning, Fringilla."
Still speechless from the beautiful magic, Fringilla simply gazes after her friend for a moment as she leaves the hut. Then she glances at Cahir's arm. The swelling has gone down considerably, the smelly puss has all but vanished and the cut has started to close. She sighs with relief. It looks very much like the field-surgeon method will not be necessary. Fringilla gets to her feet gingerly to fetch a fresh piece of linen from the chest. Cahir is so deeply asleep, he does not seem to notice when she dresses the wound. He still feels hot to the touch, but already less so than before the powerful healing spell. Utterly exhausted but truly happy, Fringilla stretches out on her bedroll and cuddles up to her sleeping friend. It takes less than a minute for her to drop off.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Cahir does not only sleep through the night but also through most of the following day. Fringilla only wakes him up from time to time to give him more tea or when he is having another nightmare. He is still feverish but lucid enough to recognise her, not delirious and raving like before, which is a big improvement. Fringilla feels much better, too, after a good night's sleep. The weather is nice and summerly and invites for a stroll through the forest. Most of the Scoia'tael seem to have left the camp, probably to go hunting for game or to gather information. They dearly need both. Not too far from their hide-out, Fringilla finds a sunlit patch of brambles loaded with big, juicy blackberries. It reminds her of her long, long ago childhood in Toussaint when she spent hours in the old vineyards playing hide and seek with her friends, stuffing herself with delicious dark blue grapes. Her hands are scratched and the dress certainly has a few more stains and tears when, after a while, she returns to the Scoia'tael camp, but she has gathered so many blackberries in her skirt that she can share them not only with Cahir, but also with Francesca and the other elves, a nice treat for everybody when they return from wherever they are. She has stayed away from camp much longer than planned, though, which makes her a bit uneasy. Fringilla rushes toward their hut to check on Cahir. And almost runs into him as he is just about to exit.
"Where do you think you're going, Cahir?" she asks, equally surprised and worried, her tone of voice maybe a bit sharper than intended. Cahir looks like shit, wrapped in his blanket, pale and sweaty and shaky, definitely not like he should be going anywhere yet. "You aren't intending to run off to search for Princess Cirilla, are you?"
"No, I - I—"
"You go straight back to bed, you look like you're going to faint any moment!" He closes his eyes and leans against the wall of the hut with a groggy sigh.
"I - I need to relieve myself," he mumbles. Shit, she should have thought of that. Of course, he would need to do that eventually. It's a good sign, too, isn't it? However, Cahir does not look like he can manage on his own, not at all.
"Wait a second, I'll just get rid of the berries so I can help you. It would be quite embarrassing if you collapsed while doing it, wouldn't it?"
"And how's you helping me piss not embarrassing?"
"It's not, Cahir, not in the slightest. You almost died. You're still sick. There's no shame in needing help. I'll be back in a minute." Passing by her friend, Fringilla hurries to get a piece of cloth from the chest, spreads it out on the floor and pours the berries onto it.
"I won't look, I promise," she says with a reassuring smile when she has rushed back to Cahir's side. "Now lean on me, we don't need to go far, there are some shrubs behind the hut."
Cahir is panting heavily when they reach the bushes and would definitely not be able to stand upright on his shaky legs without Fringilla's support. She grabs him tightly around the waist, looks to the side and closes her eyes while he is doing what he has to do. It cannot be easy with just one hand but, luckily, Cahir seems to manage without further assistance.
"Done? Can I open my eyes?" Fringilla asks after the obvious sounds of somebody passing water have ceased.
"Mmh."
"Then let's get you back to bed. You should rest some more."
"Thank you, Fringilla, for being there for me," he murmurs instead of moving, his voice husky with emotion. Like he did not expect anybody to care.
"You're welcome, Cahir. That's what friends are for." She smiles at him. "You know, a friend in need—"
"Is a friend indeed. Yes, I know." He briefly returns the smile, then becomes serious again. "It's just, I don't have many friends. I'm glad you aren't dead. Truly."
"Me too, you can bet your Nilfgaardian arse on that!" Fringilla's smile deepens so her cute dimples are showing, an all too rare sight. "And I'm really glad you didn't snuff it either. But you probably will if we keep standing here talking. You're shivering!" Resolutely, Fringilla steers the indeed shivering Cahir in the direction of the hut.
"You know, I - I'm not really a Nilfgaardian," he suddenly says.
"What?" Fringilla raises her eyebrows in surprise. "The black knight of Nilfgaard is not a Nilfgaardian? Where're you from, then?"
"Vicovaro."
"Vicovaro? That's where they grow the best mandrakes in the empire, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't know." Cahir shrugs his shoulders, but instantly regrets it as a pang of pain shoots from the wound in his left shoulder down his arm. He sucks in a sharp breath and bites his lip. "I - I haven't been there in ages. Not since I was a kid. But," he looks around the clearing, "I've been here before. It's a forest—"
"Yes, it is, genius, there are trees all around us," Fringilla smirks.
"A forest in Cidaris. King Ethain hasn't stopped trading with Nilfgaard yet. News travels quickly in port towns like Bremervoord or Cidaris. We - We need to find out what Emhyr is planning after the Thanedd disaster."
"Cahir, don't you worry your pretty head about that. You need to sleep. While I do the thinking. I'm not totally hopeless at that, you know."
"I know. And your ideas can hardly land us in worse shit than mine." He sighs. "I'm really sorry about whatever happened to you. I was so stupid."
"We both were. We won't make that mistake again. Ever." Fringilla steers Cahir into their hut. "And now lie down and shut up, or do I need to use a silencing spell on you?"
"Would you?" He flops down on his bedroll with a tired grunt.
"Yes, I would. But I'd prefer it if I didn't have to."
"Hhm."
"Better already," Fringilla grins. "Here, you look like you need another blanket." She takes one of hers and tucks Cahir in. "I'll wake you up for dinner, alright?"
"Hhm." Fringilla smiles again. Cahir seems already half asleep. However, he blinks his eyes open once more.
"You know what, Fringilla?" he asks, speaking in a sleep-slurred voice. "You, you're a ruby."
"A what?" she asks, puzzled.
"Good advice, it's rarer than rubies, and so are good friends."
"Careful, Cahir, or you might turn into a poet yet," Fringilla giggles, then gives him a little peck on the forehead. "Sleep well, good friend."
And he does.