Unfortunately, it is not the time to fall asleep yet. The few survivors of the bloody battle, no more than half a dozen Scoia'tael, have readied a boat that will take them to the bigger ship waiting in a bay out of sight of Aretuza. Now two of them are coming toward Fringilla and her sick friend.
"Careful!" Fringilla barks at them when one of the two grabs Cahir roughly by the shoulders, making him cry out in agony. The elves do not seem to be impressed. They grunt morosely as they, not careful at all, lift the injured knight by his arms and feet and carry him to the boat, closely followed by Fringilla. Inwardly she is seething with anger seeing how carelessly the elves manhandle her friend, however, she is the one who needs their help. If she starts shouting at them, they might refuse to cooperate and let go of Cahir. She cannot risk it. It does not really matter anyway. Cahir does not stir or make a sound. He must have passed out from the pain.
The elves drop him onto the wooden planks at the stern of the boat like a sack of potatoes. Cahir groans with agony but does not wake up. Fringilla quickly climbs into the boat after them. Sitting down next to her unconscious friend, she gently places his head in her lap, trying to make him more comfortable. Out cold as he is, he might not notice it, but who knows?
It does not take the Scoia'tael long to row them to the other bay. The bigger ship still looks awfully empty when they have all climbed in. So few have made it back. Fringilla does not know exactly how many elves fought on Thanedd, but from what she has seen, it must have been ten times the number, plus a small contingent of Nilfgaardian soldiers. Besides Cahir, not a single one of the latter made it out of Aretuza alive. In addition, there were several horses on the boat during the journey to the island, including Cahir's. Her friend will not be happy when he wakes up and learns that they had to leave his stallion behind. However, there was no way they could have heaved the animal on board with little time and only a handful of men, most of them wounded. With the heavy waves from the approaching storm it was difficult enough to get him safely transferred onto the ship while unconscious. At least there is plenty of room now and Fringilla finds a big coil of rope to lean against which is more comfortable than sitting with her back against the ship's rail. Cahir is whimpering softly in his sleep, his head cradled in her lap once more. Fringilla looks down at him as he sleeps. And there they are again, those funny feelings. How she would love to be safely back in the Cintran palace and her spacious room with the huge, soft four-poster bed instead of on a wavering ship. Then she could properly take care of him, wash and dress his wounds, gently wipe the dirt and sweat from his sleeping face with a clean cloth dipped in warm water, tuck him in with fluffy blankets, hold his hand when he is in pain or having a bad dream, maybe even sing him a lullaby. A lullaby, of course, for the black knight of Nilfgaard! Fringilla shakes her head at herself and her silly thoughts. What utterly ridiculous fantasies! She better not tell him, ever. Or anybody else. Nobody must know about her crazy daydreams. But he is kind of cute as he is fitfully sleeping in her lap. So vulnerable. So confused and lost. So broken. So in need of a little affection. Maybe. Or probably not. He would surely laugh his head off if she told him, or berate her for her foolishness, or both. Still, when, after a while, Cahir comes to, opens his eyes for a moment and whispers her name before he falls asleep again, he seems so relieved that she is there with him, it almost hurts.
It is nearly dark when they reach the small, hidden bay in Cidaris, their destination. Cahir is feverish by now, mumbling in his sleep about a desert, scorching heat and mountains of red sand as far as the eye can reach. And about Cirilla, again and again begging for her forgiveness. Luckily, being far too busy keeping the ship from capsizing or running aground in the heavy weather, the elves do not pay attention. It might sound a bit suspicious coming from the Nilfgaardian general who was tasked with capturing the elder blood princess.
Disembarking is not easy but they all manage to get ashore without mishap. Hastily the small group of survivors cross the beach and the narrow strip of dunes and disappear in the forest that spreads far south, almost connecting with Brokilon, the mythical realm of the dryads. The Scoia'tael have camped here before. It is a good place to hide, to rest and recover, to re-group, to make plans. A tall elf with a fresh, jagged scar all across his face lugs Cahir slung over his shoulder. It does not look very comfortable but it is certainly less painful than being carried by his arms and legs. The considerable extra weight does not seem to impair the elf's ability to keep up with the group. What an extraordinarily strong and enduring character, not somebody Fringilla would wish to have as her enemy, that is for sure. She trudges on behind him, keeping a close eye on her friend. Besides whimpering softly from time to time, he does not make a sound or stir.
Of course, it has started to rain.
When darkness falls, the elves light torches. They sizzle in the drizzling rain that pitter-patters onto the dark green canopy above their heads and slowly seeps into every fibre of their clothes. Fringilla could cast a spell protecting her from it, however, she feels too tired to try. Anyway, it seems unfair for the sorceresses to be the only ones to stay dry while everybody else gets soaking wet. And extending the spell so it would keep the entire company from becoming drenched through and through is out of the question today. It will be less energy consuming to magically dry her clothes when the rain has stopped.
The group walk further and further, deeper into the forest in the flickering shine of the torches. An owl hoots and all kinds of animals scamper away as they proceed through the trees. It is a bit eerie, reminds Fringilla of the tough time she had when fleeing from the stinking dumpster in Cintra where they had disposed of her in a body bag taking her for the corpse of somebody else. That is definitely not a memory she enjoys dwelling on, no. Just thinking of the disgusting stench of rotting corpses makes her feel sick to her stomach. Maybe she will tell Cahir about it one day. He might not be aware of what the Emperor did to her at all, besides that she - allegedly - died. He must have had a rough time, too. Otherwise, why would he all of a sudden decide to betray the White Flame? At first, when thrown into prison, she was so mad at Cahir, she could have strangled him with her own hands. After all, it was his idea that had landed her there. However, the longer she thought about it, the clearer it became to her that it was not Cahir who was to blame but Emhyr, and Emhyr alone. Cahir had genuinely wanted to help her, and that after she had paralysed him, made him watch her slaughter all the generals, had put a knife to his throat and threatened to kill him. But instead of betraying her to the Emperor for his own gain, he covered for her murder spree and came up with an, admittedly bold, but clever plan to get her out of this pickle. Who could have anticipated that Emhyr himself had the baby assassinated? Definitely not her, or him. No, it was not Cahir's fault.
After what feels like ages of stumbling over roots and fallen tree trunks, through brambles and underbrush in the little light the torches provide, Francesca finally signals to halt. Almost dead on her feet by now and soaked to the bone, Fringilla heaves a sigh of relief. There must be several cuts in her dress, too, and her shoes are definitely ruined. Well, there are worse things, having your husband explode in your face, for example, or almost bleeding to death. She was lucky. She has not lost anybody she truly cares about and neither has she sustained any injuries worth the mention. A few little bruises maybe, but that is pretty much it, besides being tired, wet and hungry. And longing for a pint of cool, stout ale at a tavern, a tavern with a cosy bedroom and a bathtub filled to the brim with hot water.
Fringilla gazes around. Of course, there is no tavern anywhere in the vicinity, and neither a bathtub - another more than silly daydream. They are in hiding, after all, and if anybody as much as saw just the tip of a pointy ear, they would be dead, dangling from the trees within mere hours. At least the rain passed off a while ago. From the little she can see, this here is a small clearing with several hut-like structures built from twigs and branches. The glade must have served the Scoia'tael as hide-out before. Hopefully, they left some supplies behind when they set out on their mission.
"Here," Francesca says, stepping up to her fellow sorceress, "you and Cahir can have this one." She motions to the smallest hut furthest away from the others. "It should be mostly dry. You'll find bedrolls and blankets in the chest. There'll also be something to eat soon. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you, Francesca. And thank you, too," she addresses the tall, ugly elf who has been lugging Cahir through the forest on his back. Fringilla cannot even spot a single drop of sweat on his forehead despite the heavy burden, what a remarkably tough individual. The elf gives a curt nod, then follows her into the hut. While Fringilla opens the wooden chest standing in one corner of the make-shift shelter, the Scoia'tael lowers the groaning Cahir down onto the bare ground.
"Wait. Can you help me lift him onto the bedroll? Please?" Fringilla asks the elf before he can leave. He grunts, but stays until she has spread out the cow's hide or whatever animal it was from on the floor and a thick woollen blanket on top of it.
"Thank you again, I really appreciate it," Fringilla says with a smile when, in a combined effort, they have placed Cahir on top of the blanket. "May I ask your name?"
"Faoiltiarna, Isengrim Faoiltiarna. Humans call me the Iron Wolf." His voice is gruff and he leaves without another word. Well, never mind. It looks like neither she nor Cahir are particularly popular with these elves. It was so different in Xin'trea, at least for her. There she was hailed as the saviour of elvenkind.
Funny how quickly people forget about you when you are no longer of use to them, isn't it?