Cahir rests all day and drinks copious amounts of willow bark tea. Fringilla checks on him regularly and keeps him company for long stretches of time. Nevertheless, his migraine does not show the slightest inclination to get better, the contrary. By evening his head pounds and throbs like it is going to burst any second, every movement, every sound hurts like hell and even the dim light in the shelter feels as if it wanted to burn holes into his retina whenever Cahir as much as opens his eyes just a tiny crack. The pain is so bad that he moans and whimpers almost incessantly although he tries not to. To Fringilla's chagrin she cannot even hold his hand or pat his shoulder as the lightest of touches seems to cause him more pain.

"I'm getting Francesca, maybe she can help," Fringilla finally decides, genuinely worried about her friend. Cahir wants to object but the only sound that passes his lips is another groan. He wishes it were otherwise, but he knows from experience that there is nothing the elven sorceress could possibly do. In Cintra several healers tried their skills and their luck but to no avail. No potion, amulet, incense, massage or whatever else they prescribed and administered made any difference. Staying in bed and enduring the pain until it passes by itself after a few hours - or an entire day when it is an especially vicious migraine - is the single one thing he can do. Only as of late the migraines seem to be getting worse and more frequent. Like his visions and dreams of the princess.

Moaning once again, Cahir puts his arm across his face to shut out as much light as possible. The prying eyes of yet another sorceress, too. Francesca seeing him weak like this because of his injuries was bad enough, but her knowing that he was tortured and still suffers from the aftereffects is not something he wished to happen, definitely not. If he is lucky, she will not deign to come. However, Fringilla can be very persistent and convincing, plus Francesca might be curious or enjoy seeing him suffer. So, chances are she will show up shortly. He cannot even blame her.

Cahir is not wrong. Francesca is curious indeed. Before their joint attack on Thanedd when they were coordinating their strategy, she was a bit baffled about why the Nilfgaardian general spoke with so much loathing about Tissaia de Vries in particular. For some reason or other he seemed to harbour a strangely personal grudge against the erstwhile rectoress of Aretuza. Back in Xin'trea when Cahir so suddenly and unexpectedly arrived with one of the last refugee ships from Oxenfurt - and not exactly in a state you would expect from a high-ranking officer - she never thought to ask Fringilla what had happened to her former superior. But now, after what Fringilla told her, everything makes sense, even his migraine. Magical torture can be terrible, devastating, and that without leaving a single visible scar.

Her curiosity outweighing her dislike of the Nilfgaardian, Francesca follows Fringilla into the hut. Not to gloat over his suffering, of course, but because Fringilla literally begged her to help. She kneels down by the groaning man's side.

"Cahir, look at me!" she commands, but not too loudly so. Despite what he admitted to having done to Gallatin, she almost feels a tad sorry for him. With yet another groan he opens his eyes a crack and moves his arm a little.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Francesca inquires.

Cahir blinks and tries to focus, ignoring the onslaught of light. Everything is blurry and painfully bright and it is impossible for him to see any details, but with the long blonde, braided hair there is no doubt that the woman talking to him must be Francesca. Her voice sounds jarring, strangely distorted and far too loud. What is even more disturbing, there are two of her. He blinks again and moans. Still two Francescas. The double image of the elven queen is holding several fingers up into the air. How many? Cahir tries to concentrate, to count, but his vision starts to swim, the two Francescas merging into one, then separating again, the number of fingers decreasing and increasing, flickering in and out in a nauseatingly confusing way. Bile rises to his mouth and he feels dizzier and dizzier with every second. He swallows hard, just so able to suppress the strong urge to vomit.

"Cahir, how many fingers?" Francesca repeats. He groans once more as her sharp voice reverberates inside his skull. Even if he could count the elven queen's fingers - which seems a task far beyond his momentary capabilities - he would not be able to answer her question. His pain-addled brain stubbornly refuses to recall the correct words for the most basic numbers. Panting, he gives up the futile attempt and closes his eyes, heaving another loud groan, wishing with all his heart to be left alone in his misery but not able to voice it, nor any other coherent thought.

Suddenly Cahir feels a hand on his shoulder, fingers boring into his skin.

"No!" he gasps, his eyes flying wide open as pain shoots through his body like a shock wave. For a moment, every single fibre of his being is aflame with unbearable agony. Like in the interrogation room when Tissaia touched him.

I need to know what Nilfgaard wants. Resist or submit. It makes no difference. Her voice in his head, both soft as silk and keen as a knife. It's not in my nature to be cruel. But you have taken someone from me. Someone I care about deeply ...

Cahir begins to shake violently as the terrifying memories resurface with a vengeance, the image of Tissaia de Vries, her cold eyes fixated on him, her thin lips curled into a cruel smile, eternally etched into his brain. Now she is leaning over him, saying something he cannot hear for the deafening thumping of his panicked heart. He stares at her in horror, gasping and panting for air. And she has not even started yet. When she touches his temples, he freezes with terror. A split second - or is it an eternity? - later, his mind explodes into a thousand tiny shards of glass. He screams. Then everything goes dark.

"Shit, Francesca, what did you do?" Fringilla almost screeches, rushing to Cahir's side. He is out cold, ghastly pale and clammy with sweat, but breathing.

"Nothing, just a simple diagnostic spell. I swear!" Francesca looks genuinely shocked. This is not what she expected to happen. All of a sudden strangely worried for the Nilfgaardian, she feels his pulse. It is far too fast but gradually slowing down. She breathes a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry, Fringilla. I suppose, I triggered a flashback of the torture by accident. It must have been a highly traumatising experience," she explains. "I admit, I was tempted to read Cahir's mind. He lied to me once. How else would I know there aren't more lies? But," Francesca goes on, "even if I had wanted to, it wouldn't have worked. There's a magical barrier in his head, I could sense it clearly. Did you place it there?"

"A magical barrier?" Fringilla's eyes grow wide with surprise. "No, I definitely didn't—" Suddenly, realisation hits. And not only her.

"Vilgefortz!" both sorceresses exclaim in unison. Without Cahir being aware of it, the mage must have tempered with his mind when he was taken prisoner, before Tissaia ever started her inquisition. To make sure the Nilfgaardian commander would not expose any information that could prove vital for the north's war efforts and disastrous for Nilfgaard, no matter how bad the torture, how hard Tissaia would try to pierce his mind. Apparently it had worked but it came at a high price for Cahir. Well, the plan was not for him to get away with his life, so why would Vilgefortz worry about possible aftereffects of his spell, ally or not?

"Is there anything you can do, Francesca?" Fringilla almost pleads. "This barrier, it cannot be a good thing, not in the long run. Maybe it's what causes the migraine attacks?"

"Possible. It's hard to tell. And even harder to remove. Risky, too, extremely risky." Francesca furrows her brow. "I believe, although it's certainly not healthy, the barrier could be what kept your friend from going insane during the torture. If I tried to break it, this could cause irreparable damage."

Fringilla heaves a deep sigh. "Then there is nothing that would make him better?"

"Nothing that would cure the cause, I fear," Francesca confirms. "And spells might further worsen his condition. Hmm, I'll think of something. Let him sleep for now. And I truly am sorry for what happened."

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

"Can you hear me?"

A voice like from afar through the terrifying, thick fog that is his brain. He knows the voice, however, like the words, the name of the person eludes him. Shit, as hard as he tries, he cannot even recall his own name. Every time he almost does, the syllables seem to silently float away in the white vastness. Or sink deep down into the mist. Is he sinking, too? It feels like it. Like he is on a wavering ship that is swallowed in this suffocating whiteness, going down, down, down, straight to the middle of the earth. Or to hell? But it is cold, not hot like hellfire. Maybe he is the ship? No, no, he is a person, not a ship. And he needs to wake up, to get free of the fog that grabs at him with icy tentacles, threatening to make his heart freeze. He trembles in the cold, shivers, shakes. Perhaps it is snow and he is buried in an avalanche? But snow is more solid. What if it is clouds not fog? They are white and cold. But clouds are in the sky, right? Birds are, too, but he is not a bird, is he? Perhaps it is not there at all? Is it just a delusion? A hallucination of his broken brain? One cannot drown in a delusion, though, can one? Or suffocate in one's own imagination? At least there is no pain here, only fear. A fear so bottomless, it is hard not to choke on it. Perhaps, if he was braver, it would not be so bad. It is quiet, tranquil, nobody there who wants or expects anything of him. Almost peaceful. If the whiteness only was not so cold, so heavy, so oppressive it is near impossible to breathe, so paralysingly frightening although he has no idea why.

"Cahir? Can you hear me?"

The voice again, closer, filled with worry and so very familiar. Soft and safe. Blindly, he wants to grope around in the fog to find her, but his arm is too heavy to move. Maybe it is frozen stiff already, or has turned into stone? A white marble statue in a landscape of white mist. How ironic. He was called the black knight, was he not? Perhaps he has finally lost his marbles?

Suddenly, he feels something touching his hand. It is warm and firm, not cold and elusive like the white nothing that is everywhere, filling his entire universe. Desperate, he clutches at it. A lifeline in this blinding sea of whiteness.

"Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach! Wake up! Now!"

Is that his name? It is far too long to remember, but it must be. She is calling him. He cannot give in to the mist. He has to fight, snap out of it, wake up from this strange, deadly dream. Cahir heaves a loud groan and, with tremendous effort, forces his eyes open. He gasps. The fog or whatever it was is gone and it is nicely dark, only a few candles bathing the surroundings in a pleasantly warm, dim light. But the pain in his skull is back with a vengeance. A hammer hitting his every though in a staccato of spraying sparks that flare up across his retina.

"Cahir, here, you need to drink this." Supporting his head, Fringilla holds a vial to his lips. He groans and turns his head to the side.

"I - I don't feel so g-good," he just so manages to stammer before a wave of nausea overcomes him and he starts to retch violently. As he has not eaten anything all day, it is mostly gastric juice and bile, nothing substantial, but it leaves Cahir gasping for breath and trembling all over in Fringilla's arms when the worst is over and his stomach finally settles.

Fringilla takes a deep breath. Cahir is still looking horribly sick and, judging by his whimpering, the migraine has not passed. But, at least, he is responsive, not locked inside a paralysing nightmare like before. He does not seem to be over-sensitive and averse to touch anymore, either, she notes with relief. A welcome improvement. Hopefully, with the potent sleeping potion Francesca gave her for him, he will fall into a dreamless, deep sleep until the migraine has come to an end.

Once again, she holds the vial to Cahir's lips. This time, he swallows obediently.

Thanks to the Great Sun, the gods, Francesca or whoever, the potion is very potent and effective indeed. It hardly takes more than a minute until the trembling becomes less intense and Cahir falls fast asleep, his head resting in Fringilla's lap. He is breathing deeply and regularly, finally looking peaceful and relaxed like one should in one's sleep. The whimpering has ceased.

Sighing, she absentmindedly strokes his hair. So many horrors in Cahir's life, horrors he had to endure and horrors he inflicted on others. And what for? For greedy men to sit on thrones and reign the world for a few years so they can amass riches and be buried in stately mausoleums with pomp and circumstance instead of in a simple village cemetery or an unmarked grave in the woods. Oh, and not to forget, to have their names mentioned once or twice in a history book. And the mages with their plotting and political scheming are no better. Are the elves? From outside Fringilla can hear the sound of them chatting with each other while sitting around the campfire enjoying their feast. Gazing at the stars, perhaps, or having sex between the trees. However, nothing will become of it. There are so few of them left, a dying race, and, although they live a lot longer than humans and appear wise and sophisticated, if the history books are telling the truth, their lives before humans set foot on the shores of this continent were not so very different. History has been repeating itself over and over, the legendary ouroboros, the mythical snake eternally biting its own tail, races coming and going, kings and queens and their empires rising and, a few years or decades later, falling to ruin again. And what are humans, elves and sorcerers but tiny little, insignificant specks in an endless universe? Perhaps it is time to retire? Maybe she should go back to Toussaint, the land where wine flows in abundance and life is like a fairytale. She could take Cahir with her. But he would not want to go, not until he has found his princess. And would she herself be ready to abandon her revenge? Hell, no! Toussaint will have to wait. However, maybe one day, when their quests are done and they are still alive, they can meet again between the high mountains and vineyards and picturesque little castles.

Who knows?