"You look better," Francesca states, peering into the hut the next morning. Cahir feels better, too. He is still a little feverish and worn out like after a marathon - no, make that two marathons - but a lot less so than the day before. Fringilla brought him some breakfast earlier and at the moment he is sitting up for the first time, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, eating his porridge with the last blackberries from yesterday's harvest.

"Not that I'd care," Francesca continues, entering the shelter and looking down at Cahir with a sullen expression, Fringilla following right behind her. "But it seems, for whichever unfathomable reason, that Fringilla here does. So, let me see your hand."

Cahir sets the half-empty bowl aside and extends his left arm toward the elf with a grimace. Moving his shoulder still hurts. Francesca hunkers down next to him. Fringilla seats herself on the nearby chest, keeping a close eye on both her friends so she can interfere if necessary. She is aware that Francesca resents Cahir and blames him for her husband's death. Cahir, on the other hand, can be a haughty pain in the arse. Maybe not quite as bad as General Hake but definitely bad enough to be thoroughly annoying.

"Thank you, Francesca, for saving my life," he says, looking not at her but at his arm. Francesca is undressing it with deft fingers. "And I'm sorry for your loss."

"Which loss do you mean?" the elven queen asks bitterly, not stopping with what she is doing. "My baby? My brother? Most of my men? Or my husband?"

"All of them."

"You better be," Francesca spits while removing the piece of fabric Fringilla used to cover the ugly cut in Cahir's palm with. Cahir hisses with agony and clenches his jaw. Maybe not a bad thing, Fringilla suspects, then he cannot say anything to upset Francesca more than he already has by his mere presence.

Turning his hand a little so she can see more in the light shining in through the entrance, Francesca has a closer look at the injury.

"It's healing well enough," she declares after a moment in a cold tone of voice. "Still a little swollen and there'll be scarring, but if you rest your arm for a week or two, it shouldn't give you too much trouble in the future." Francesca then takes a knife from her belt pocket. Cahir tenses. Not knowing what she is to make of this, Fringilla holds her breath. However, Francesca does not point the knife at Cahir's throat to threaten him as Fringilla feared but instead touches the pad of his thumb lightly with its tip.

"Do you feel this?" she asks.

"Yes."

"And here?" Cahir nods. The metal feels cold against the skin of his index finger. Which must be a good sign. As Francesca proceeds one by one, it turns out he is not so lucky with his other fingers. He feels absolutely nothing, not even when Francesca presses the knife point so firmly to his skin that it draws blood. A big drop of scarlet forms on his fingertip. It ought to hurt, at least a little, but it does not. Shit.

"Try to bend your fingers," Francesca then commands. Cahir gives it his best effort, biting his lip against the pain radiating up his arm from the injury. However, only his thumb and index finger obey. The other fingers refuse to move.

"It's as I thought, the tendons and nerves of several of your fingers are affected, probably severed. You might be lucky and it will heal or at least improve to some degree, but don't count on it. Most likely there will be some permanent damage. It could have been worse, though. You could have lost your arm. Or your life."

Cahir does not comment but stares at his hand unhappily while Francesca applies a peculiar smelling ointment to the wound and begins to wrap a fresh bandage around it. She is, of course, right, it could always be worse. He could be dead indeed. But if some of his fingers remain paralysed, he will not be able to shoot a bow anymore. And he is a damn good archer, even by elven standards. Or was. Fuck.

When Francesca is done, she fixes Cahir with a calculating stare.

"There is a cost to everything. I trust you know that, Cahir?" she asks. He nods slowly.

"What do you want, Francesca?"

"The truth!"

Shit. Cahir groans inwardly. There are so many lies. About who killed the elven hope, her new-born baby, about princess Cirilla's identity, his betrayal on Thanedd, and then there is—

"I want you to tell me the truth about Gallatin! What happened to him, Cahir?"

Gallatin, right. Cahir keeps staring at his crippled hand and swallows.

"I - I killed him," he mutters eventually.

"Why?"

"The Emperor feared division among the elves would hurt our cause on both fronts."

"So, you're saying that Gallatin did attempt a coup? Against me?" Francesca asks sharply, raising her eyebrows.

"It was my idea. I proposed it to him. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? For trying to overthrow me? Or for killing an elf? Don't make me laugh, Cahir," Francesca scoffs. "You humans love killing elves!"

"He was my friend."

"Your friend? You don't say? Why did you do it then? Because your White Flame asked you to?" she inquires, cold fury in her voice.

Cahir closes his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy, nauseous. He can almost smell the tang of iron in the air from Gallatin's blood, see his expression of shock and betrayal as his knees buckle and he sinks to the floor in Cahir's arms.

"You know what?" Francesca hisses. "You're pathetic. You'll burn for this, Cahir. One day, you'll pay for this with your blood!"

"I know."

"You can thank Fringilla on your knees that I will be keeping this between us," Francesca goes on as she rises to her feet, her eyes hard with loathing. "I'm sure, if they knew about this, my men would only be too happy to make you pay today!" She leaves without looking back. If there had been a door, she would certainly have slammed it shut with a bang.

Cahir starts to tremble. Yes, he is pathetic. He has done so many things he is now awfully sorry for and dearly regrets. To please the White Flame, for an appreciative nod, a rare word of praise from his saviour's lips, an approving glance. For Emhyr to see him. But nothing was ever quite enough. And nothing will ever be enough to wash away the rivers of blood from his hands. The peasants' blood in the bakery, the refugees' blood, the blood of the slaughtered Cintreans, of Cirilla's family, Gallatin's blood.

He flinches when he suddenly feels someone's hand on his shoulder. Fringilla. He almost forgot she is still here. His only true friend left in this world.

"Don't despair, Cahir. We've both done bad things in his name, terrible things. But this is over." She sits down next to him and gently wraps her arm around his shoulder, careful not to put pressure on his injury. He nods gingerly.

"We've both learned our lesson," Fringilla continues in a confident tone of voice, "and now is the time to make our own decisions. Think! What would you do so your friend's death won't be in vain?"

"I - I would find Princess Cirilla. Keep her safe. Keep her away from him."

"See, that is a good, an honourable plan, something worth fighting for. We'll figure it out. I'll think of something. And you, Cahir, rest some more. Understood?"

Cahir nods once more. He lies down with a grunt and closes his eyes tiredly, the half-eaten porridge thoroughly forgotten. Maybe Fringilla is right. Dwelling on your wrong-doings of the past will change nothing. He knows he should burn for his sins, that he does not deserve to be alive when Gallatin and all the others are not. That is why he asked, no, begged Cirilla to kill him. But did he truly want to die then? Does he desire to die now or anytime soon? If he really wanted his life to end, why did he so readily jump from 'kill me' mode to attacking the Scoia'tael when the Princess hesitated? He could easily have shoved the sword into his throat himself with on quick forward jerk if he had wanted to, and good riddance to the cursed black knight of Nilfgaard. But then, it would be much better to die fighting for a just cause than to commit suicide by begging the people he wronged to kill him, right? Perhaps he should have bled to death on Thanedd. But he did not. Was it fate that, so undeservedly, spared his life? Is he destined for a different death at somebody else's hand in another place, at another time? If so, will his death count for something, will it serve a purpose? Cahir hopes it will. A purpose of his own choosing. A worthy and good one. Absolution, this time his. But how can he achieve it if he has no idea where to start? And is in no shape to start with anything anyway? Cannot un-see the blood on his hands? Un-feel the feeling that it ought to have been him lying lifeless on the cold stone floor of the Cintrean palace in a huge puddle of blood, not Gallatin? Gallatin, who trusted him, who had saved his life only a few days before, who he could joke around with, who would have his back, who seemed to actually like him without any ulterior motive and despite him being a human, not an elf. Who even notice how nervous he was, how something was wrong with him, and tried to make him feel better. Unwittingly making things a lot worse, for how could he have anticipated that Cahir had come to his room to murder him? Maybe he does want to perish after all so he will not see the images of his dying friend replay again and again in his mind in an endless, merciless loop he can only escape from through eternal oblivion? Fringilla has never killed a close friend, has she? She cannot possibly know what it feels like, how difficult it is to not break down in a sobbing heap of self-loathing, how impossible not to despair. Or maybe he is just too weak, too pathetic after all? Perhaps the Usurper was right to discard him and he ought to have died a miserable death in some piss-filled gutter in a shady, run-down part of the City of Golden Towers back when he was a boy, before he ever set eyes on Emhyr var Emreis ...

"Cahir, what's wrong?" Fringilla, her hand on his shoulder once again, her voice soft like dark velvet. And he is curled up and sobbing into his bedroll like a three-year-old. Can this day get any worse?

"Cahir, here, take my handkerchief." She kneels down by his side and tries to put a piece of fabric into his hand but he does not react, only curls up more into himself, sobbing even harder. Shit. If this is not a mental break-down, she has never heard of one before. Even though she knows about things like this happening, Fringilla is pretty sure she has never witnessed one in her unnaturally long life. Neither has she read a manual on what to do in a situation like this. Which is very unfortunate. She would not want to make things worse for Cahir by doing something stupid. But can it even get any worse?

What would help her if she was in a similar situation, Fringilla wonders. The answer is surprisingly simple. She would want to be hugged like her mother hugged her when she was a little girl and she had hurt herself tripping on the long stone stairs that led to the family mansion, or like this once when she found an injured bird and it died in her hands. It might be different for Cahir, but then it might not. Maybe it is essentially the same for everybody? A universal need for comfort and love?

Carefully, Fringilla stretches out next to her distressed friend, puts an arm around his trembling torso and cuddles up against his back. He stiffens, probably mortified that she is witnessing this. But as she runs her hand gently through his tangled hair speaking soft words of comfort, he gradually relaxes. The desperate sobbing continues for a while and Fringilla is glad she had the presence of mind to cast a muffling spell on their hut right at the start as it would not do for any of the elves to hear this. Eventually though, Cahir's sobs grow less frequent. Finally they peter out completely, only his shoulders are still shaking slightly. It does not take long and his breathing evens and he begins to snore softly in her arms, drained from the emotional turmoil. She could get up now, Fringilla figures, but she stays like this for a while longer. It is surprisingly nice. Cahir feels warm and safe and so much in need of a comforting touch. Perhaps it is what she needs, too. What she has been missing for a very long time.

Only when her own back starts to feel chilly and her stomach begins to rumble from hunger, she breathes a light kiss onto the nape of his neck and, very reluctantly, climbs to her feet. It must be time for lunch soon.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Francesca still seems upset when they meet by the camp fire, so Fringilla keeps her distance at first. A thin soup of wild roots and bone marrow is cooking over the fire in a big kettle. Not exactly her favourite food but better than nothing. She fills her bowl and starts to eat. Fringilla has only had a few spoons full when Francesca sits down on the log next to her. She looks up from her soup, frowning.

"Does your friend not want anything to eat?" Francesca asks pointedly.

"He's sleeping. He's not doing so good."

"You don't want me to feel sorry for Cahir? After what he did?" Francesca scoffs.

"No. Of course, not. But he's not as bad a guy as you think he is, Francesca. Trust me. I wouldn't be his friend if he was."

"Then why did you cast a muffling spell on your shelter if not because he's plotting something again?" Francesca asks suspiciously. "That seems to be what he's doing best, and it's always us elves who have to pay the price!"

"Rest assured, Francesca, Cahir's not plotting anything." Fringilla sighs. "That boy's so messed up, he couldn't even lie to you."

"Boy? Seriously? Are we even talking about the same person? As far as I know he was, possibly still is, Emhyr's commander general!"

"He's not even thirty. By elven standards that would barely count as a teenager, right?" Fringilla retorts in defense of her friend. "Yes, Cahir made some bad calls - out of misplaced loyalty, not because he's evil. And so did I. He truly regrets what he did to Gallatin. Hell, he was just having a major break-down over it, that's why I cast the muffling spell if you need to know." Fringilla gives another sigh.

"You made mistakes, too, Francesca," she then goes on, "admit it! Your brother's death is not Cahir's fault, and neither is your baby's. You didn't have to agree to the White Flame's proposal. Had you said no, Filavandrel would still be alive." She pauses, letting her words sink in. Francesca glares at her, but she does not appear as self-assured as before. Fringilla's words have hit a nerve.

"Things are as they are," Fringilla eventually continues in a much softer tone of voice. "We have to make the best out of a bad situation instead of blaming each other. Cahir can be a useful ally now that he's started to doubt, that he's not blindly following the White Flame anymore. If we work together, as friends, we can still get you your Dol Blathanna. For your people. The three of us, together."

"Is that my only choice? Again?" Francesca huffs.

"No, Francesca. You can say no if you wish. It's a proposition, nothing more, nothing less. But it's the sensible thing to do in your situation. Think about it. We have worked as partners before, it wasn't terrible, remember?"

"What do you want me to do Fringilla?" Francesca says with a resigned sigh, her shoulders sagging.

"We need information. First and foremost about the girl, of course. As soon as we find out where she is, if she's alive, we'll make plans. Have your scouts returned with news yet?"

They have, and Francesca tells Fringilla everything they found out, but, although it is interesting to hear that Rience has been found, his head neatly severed from the rest of his body - allegedly the work of one Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer's lover, who then was badly injured by Vilgefortz and is recovering in Brokilon at the moment - it does not help much with finding Princess Cirilla.

"Keep me informed, Francesca, will you? You won't regret it, I promise." The elven queen nods her assent. Fringilla smiles at her. Then she stands up. "Thank you for the soup. And, please, try not to be too hard on Cahir. He's hard enough on himself."

Francesca makes a sound that could be both a yes and a no. Well, it is better than an outright no, Fringilla assumes.

"Why don't we go pick some blackberries together?" she suddenly proposes on the spur of the moment. As spontaneously as the idea occurred to Fringilla, it is a good one nevertheless. It might provide the perfect opportunity to reconnect, to re-built their friendship. And she does love those berries. "There are plenty left where I picked them yesterday, and they were delicious, don't you agree?"