Fringilla sighs. Then she kneels down by Cahir's side. He is still sleeping, but very uneasily. The whimpering has become a lot more frequent. Is it from pain or a bad dream? Difficult to tell. Probably from both, Fringilla decides. He is shivering badly, too, and his brow is glistening with sweat. His black clothes are thoroughly drenched. Mostly from the rain, of course, but then it might be sweat, too. She gently feels his temperature. His skin feels much hotter than before. She is not an expert and perhaps her hands are colder than usual, but this fever is quite alarming. Can one die from a high fever? On the other hand, a fever helps the body fight infections, does it not? Darn, she should have taken advanced healing classes at Aretuza, like Triss Merigold. There is so much she does not have the slightest idea about but that would come in handy now. Like, for example, a spell to bring the fever down. Fringilla racks her brain, however, there is nothing. Botany would do the trick, of course, but she can hardly stumble around the nightly forest in search of willow bark right now. Tomorrow morning, yes, but can she wait that long? Fuck, how is she supposed to know? Well, there are things she does know for certain, though. That it cannot be good for Cahir to be lying here in those rain- and sweat- and blood-soaked clothes, for example. That his wounds need to be dressed properly and that it is important to get some liquid into him. Dehydration is a life-threatening condition and can be caused by blood loss as well as by fever, right? It must be so much worse when someone suffers from both at the same time.
"Cahir?" she asks, trying to wake him up. However, he does not react to her repeated calls of his name. Shit. How does one make somebody drink while they are not responsive? Is it possible? Fringilla sits down on the hut's leaf-covered floor. She is so not good at this, and stupid to boot. She, of course, needs to find something to drink for Cahir first. It is not like there is a well-stocked bar in this hut with a wide variety of herbal teas for him and something stronger for her. Something much stronger. Fuck, thinking of a bottle of rum or whiskey again, are you not, Fringilla berates herself. While your best friend might be dying of thirst. No, no, he will not die of anything, no dying on her watch, not tonight or any time soon. Do not even think of it, Fringilla! she tells herself. First his clothes, and then she will swallow her pride and ask the elves for assistance again, no matter how unfriendly, recalcitrant, and reluctant to help they might be. Her mind made up, she glances down at her hands. Her fingers feel stiff from the cold and her hands are shaking so much that she will hardly be able to undo a single button on Cahir's clothes. She will have to dry herself first. Fortunately, this is a spell she is pretty good at. She closes her eyes, concentrates and whispers the incantation. Soon, a cosy warmth spreads all across her body, both from the inside and the outside. Fringilla sighs and flexes her fingers. Much better. Cahir's turn now.
Frowning deeply, she looks at her sleeping and shivering friend. To be honest, not even once had Fringilla imagined that the day would come when she would have to undress him. Where to begin? Maybe the easiest for her to start and the least painful for him are his pants? She just needs to get rid of the pieces of armour protecting his shins and of his black boots first. The armour is not a big problem, but taking off the boots is a lot more difficult than expected. Fringilla pulls, however, with little success. Well, she is a sorceress, and if those boots refuse to come off by non-magical means, a spell will certainly do the trick. Which it does. Now the pants. They are a lot easier and do not need to be forced down with magic once Fringilla has opened the belt buckle. Half expecting that the black knight would be wearing black underwear, Fringilla is surprised at the sight of Cahir's rather shabby, off-white braies for a moment. She quickly spell-dries them before she covers him with another woollen blanket from the chest. Part one done.
Now to the upper garments. Fringilla takes a deep breath. First she loosens the straps of the pieces of armour that are still in place. Cahir gives a low moan when she carefully moves his left arm to do so and for a brief moment it looks like he would wake up from the pain, but he stills again. Next goes the right glove. Then she unties the blood-stained handkerchief around his injured hand. He moans again, this time more loudly. His eyelids starting to flicker.
"I'm sorry, Cahir, but I have to get this glove off your hand. I'll try to be careful, I promise," Fringilla soothes. It seems to work, at least at first. Cautiously, she cuts the glove open with her knife. The leather is plastered to the wound with dried blood and when she starts to remove it, Cahir cries out with agony. His eyes fly open and he tries to sit up in a panic.
"Ssh, it's just me, Fringilla, your friend," she coos, pressing him gently back onto the bedroll. "I need to dress your hand properly. This will hurt, I'm so sorry. I'll be quick, I promise. Just try to stay still, can you do that for me?" Cahir does not answer, just stares at her, panting and wide-eyed. Does he even recognise her? Or is he seeing somebody else entirely? A fevered hallucination? The princess?
"G-Galla-t-tin?" he stammers hoarsely, trembling worse than ever. "I - I'm sorry. Don't hate me. Please. I'm sorry, so sorry—" He heaves a quivering sob. And another one. Then he cries out again from pain when Fringilla pulls his glove off completely. She swallows. His hand looks awful. Bloody and badly swollen with a deep, gaping cut all across the palm and straight into the bone. It is oozing fresh blood. No wonder Cahir is delirious with fever, the wound must be infected. Francesca, she needs Francesca to heal this bloody mess.
"I'll be back in a minute," Fringilla assures the loudly groaning Cahir although, delirious as he is, he probably does not understand a word of what she is saying.
She is just about to get to her feet when, suddenly, somebody enters the hut. Fringilla looks up, bloodied glove still in her hand.
"Something to eat for you. And water." The tall, ugly elf again, Isengrim Faoiltiarna. He puts a bowl filled with a steaming stew and a bucket of water onto the ground next to Fringilla. "And see to that he," he scowls at Cahir, "stops making such a racket. Francesca needs to rest. Nobody is to disturb her, not for any reason, understood?"
Fringilla nods despondently. No help to expect tonight, then. Well, she will have to make do with what she has got until morning. Hopefully, it will be enough.
"Thank you," she says as an afterthought, but Faoiltiarna has already left.
The stew smells alluringly delicious and Fringilla is tempted to at once satisfy her gnawing hunger. However, there is more work to be done first, urgent work. She gets to her feet. Besides cow skins and blankets, she remembers there were some pieces of cloth in the chest, and cups, maybe some other useful things. She rummages through it. A bedroll and blankets for herself are set aside on the floor, on top of them a jug, two tin cups and some clean linen that she can use for bandages. Not much, but much more than she could have expected to find in the middle of a forest, right?
She fills the jug and the cups with water, then takes one of the pieces of linen, dips it into the bucket and gently wipes Cahir's sweat-covered brow with it. He moans and slowly blinks his eyes open.
"M-Mother?" he breathes shakily. Fringilla very much doubts that there is any resemblance between her and Cahir's mother - even much less so between her and this mysterious Gallatin - but somehow this is quite touching. Nobody has ever called her mother before in her life.
"Here, drink, you must be thirsty," Fringilla says, taking one of the cups in her hand and sneaking her free arm under his neck to support him. Cahir groans with pain when she carefully lifts his head and holds the cup to his lips, but he takes several greedy sips of the liquid before he closes his eyes again, exhausted from the effort.
"Come, Cahir, just a little more, do it for me," Fringilla coaxes with the most motherly voice she can muster. He moans, but takes another few sips until the cup is almost empty.
"Good boy, now I'll take care of your injuries and then you can go back to sleep. I promise." She dips the wet cloth in the bucket again and places it on Cahir's brow, then she picks up another piece of linen to wrap around his sluggishly bleeding hand. Luckily, he does not cry out this time but only heaves a loud groan from the pain.
The fabric of the black uniform gambeson - or aketon or whatever the padded jacket he is wearing is called - is stiff and it is not easy to remove, or more like impossible without Cahir cooperating. Which he obviously is too sick to do. Fringilla decides that it will be easiest on her friend if she simply cuts it open with magic and discards the pieces. Considering his recent betrayal of the White Flame, Cahir might not mind having to find something else to wear. Anyway, she can always magically fix it again if he should need or want it after all.
The shirt Cahir is wearing beneath the gambeson looks well-worn and is, surprisingly, of a green-grey bluish colour, not black. Or was it black once and the colour has faded from washing it far too many times? Well, surely nothing to be too upset about if she gives it the same treatment as the padded jacket. Fringilla repeats the spell and then removes the pieces of sticky-wet fabric from around Cahir's arms and chest. Now comes the more tricky part. She has to turn him onto his side so she can properly dress the stab-wound in his shoulder. Cahir moans with agony when she pulls him toward her by his hip and arm and carefully peels off the remnants of his cut up clothes that stick to his sweat- and blood covered back.
Luckily, his shoulder does not look half as bad as his hand. No fresh blood and no signs of infection. There will remain a scar but the injury should heal nicely and without complications - thanks to Francesca. Another scar in Cahir's collection. Fringilla remembers clearly where the one on his left side stems from - the cut he sustained in the fight with the doppler after they took Cintra four years ago. It feels like so much longer and, at the same time, like only yesterday. He was desperate then because of his repeated failure to fulfil his mission, almost freaked out of his mind. It was not really fair of Emhyr to put so much responsibility on someone still so young. Instead of feeding him more White Flame prophecy nonsense then, she should have grabbed him and whisked him away from Emhyr's grasp to a place far away from missions and war, from the sword and the axe, from the approaching time of contempt. But she did not. They were both so stupid back then, brainwashed into blindly believing every word their god-like saviour said. Mere mindless minions of an egomaniacal emperor who wants to rule the world. Fringilla sighs. She dunks the wet cloth in the bucket again and gently wipes it across Cahir's shoulders and back to clean away the blood and sweat. There are several other, newer scars, too. Looks like her friend has seen quite a bit of close combat recently. The scar by his eye, on the other hand, must be a souvenir from Sodden Hill or his captivity at Aretuza. He has never told her anything about this time except for that it was Yennefer of all people who freed him. But, to her shame, Fringilla must admit that she has never asked him about it. So, why would Cahir confide in her if she never showed any particular interest in what happened to him? In retrospect, he did often look kind of drawn, pale and tired after his unexpected return to Xin'trea. Perhaps he was having nightmares about Aretuza? She should have been there for him to talk about those months as a prisoner of war, which could not possibly have been pleasant ones, the contrary. She will have to do better in the future to be a true friend to Cahir. Well, this here today is perhaps not a bad start to make up for her shortcomings. Fringilla whispers a quickly spell to dry Cahir off. Then she dresses the wound. Maybe not very expertly so, but she makes sure it is neither too tight so it will not hinder the flow of blood to his arm, nor too loose and prone to coming off if he moves in his sleep. She gently lowers him back onto the bedroll, eliciting another groan, but he does not wake up from the movement or the pain it must have caused. Done. Finally. Fringilla sighs once more, then yawns heartily. She is almost too tired by now to be interested in the stew. Better she eats it anyway, though, she needs her strength - for Cahir. Until he is okay again.
The stew is nearly cold. She could warm it up easily with another spell, but Fringilla is far too drained to use any more magic. Quickly, she empties both her bowl and her cup of water. Then she spreads her bedroll out next to Cahir's and covers herself with several blankets. He is fast asleep, utterly spent from the loss of blood, the pain and the fever. One more time, Fringilla wets the piece of cloth and places it on his forehead. The water has a red tinge to it from blood, but it cannot be helped. She will get fresh water in the morning. And willow bark for tea. Francesca will agree to help with a healing spell against the infection and fever. She is a friend, too, and she owes her.
Yes, everything will be better in the morning. This is Fringilla's last thought before she drops off.