"How are you feeling?" Fringilla asks when Cahir wakes up late the next morning. He sits up with a grunt and gazes around bleary-eyed and disoriented.
"Um - okay, I suppose," he says after a moment of hesitation.
"Cahir, don't try to fool me," Fringilla reprimands. "You look far from okay. Actually, you look awful. It's okay just to say 'I'm not okay', you know."
Cahir sighs. Of course, Fringilla would not simply accept his answer and drop the subject. He feels pretty awful, too, whacked, knackered, and confused. He knows who and where he is and the dull ache in his shoulder and hand vaguely remind him of why, but otherwise his mind seems to have gone blank, like filled with wool instead of conscious thought.
"What - What happened to me?" he asks, hating how embarrassingly shaky and pathetic his voice sounds.
"You don't remember?" Fringilla raises her eyebrows. "You were having a bad migraine, Cahir," she then explains. "Has it passed? Or do you need more of Francesca's potion?"
He shakes his head.
"No, I'm fine." It is true, too. His head does not throb or ache. Perhaps this brain-fog and grogginess are aftereffects of the potion? If it helped with his migraine, it must have been some extremely potent stuff. No wonder he feels like he is only semi-awake and all run down.
"Prove it." With an inviting smile, Fringilla holds a bowl of barley gruel out to him. Instead of taking it, though, Cahir stares at her. 'Prove it', those were Emhyr's words before, before— Suddenly, it is all back again, the Cintrean guest room, his nervousness, the taste of wine on his lips, the expression of disbelief on Gallatin's face after he stabbed him in the throat with his dagger, the horrible, gurgling sounds his dying friend made, trying in vain to breathe while choking on his own blood, the huge puddle of blood on the tiles, the blood on his blade, on his hands. He starts to tremble.
"Shit, Cahir, that's what Emhyr said to you. You told me." Fringilla puts the bowl down and takes her friend's hand in hers. He flinches at the touch.
"It's me, Fringilla, not Emhyr," she says, giving his hand a firm squeeze. "Cahir, look at me!"
He blinks repeatedly. Then he takes a shaky breath an nods.
"I'm so stupid. I didn't want to remind you of him. I'm so sorry, Cahir," Fringilla apologises.
"No, no, it's - it's not your fault." He swallows. "I'm sorry, I'm such a mess. I thought that I was getting better,when we were preparing for the coup." He swallows yet again. "I - I need to do something, Fringilla, or I'll be going crazy."
"You will get better, Cahir, I know it," Fringilla says with conviction. "But before you can do anything, you first have to heal properly and get your strength back." Letting go of his hand, she passes him the bowl with food. This time he takes it. His hand is still trembling slightly as he begins to eat, slowly and rather unenthusiastically, but it is a start. Fringilla flashes her friend an encouraging smile. The gruel is not exactly a delicacy, she has to admit, but it is easy on the stomach and nourishing. She will get him something tastier for lunch. There should be plenty of leftovers from yesterday's missed feast - roasted boar with chicken of the woods and parasol mushrooms. She could conjure up some potatoes to go with the meat and fungi, too. Cahir could use some flesh on his bones before going on another mission, whatever it may be. He has always been on the lean side, and now he must have lost another couple of pounds. Fringilla peers furtively at what she can see of Cahir's torso under the blanket he keeps wrapped around his shoulders. Yes, her friend definitely needs some fattening up. His ribs are almost sticking out. Oh my, there they are yet again, those motherly feelings ...
After he has finished his gruel and drunk some tea with Fringilla keeping a wary eye on him the whole time, Cahir does feel better. Still tired and far from fit and healthy yet, but his head seems to mostly work again. There are some blank spots, however, the migraine is hardly something he would wish to remember clearly, right? He lies back down with a sigh and closes his eyes.
"I'll let you rest some more, you look like you need it," Fringilla says, gathering the dishes and standing up. "Maybe later, you can get up for a while, go outside, have lunch sitting in the sun if you're up to it. It's a fair summer day today."
"Mmh." It sounds nice. He should do that. And wash and shave and stop being such a useless and pathetic wimp.
"Fringilla, is there any news of the princess?" he suddenly asks before his friend leaves the hut.
"Only vague, contradictory rumours, nothing reliable so far, I fear," she says, turning toward him again. "Francesca is expecting her scouts back shortly. I'll let you know as soon as we have something more substantial, don't fret." She gives him another, warm smile. "Sleep now, Cahir. See you later, and sweet dreams!"
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
His dreams are not exactly sweet ones, more bitter-sweet, but not nightmares for once. When Cahir wakes up, he remembers the image of his mother's beautiful, almond shaped eyes, her lovely face framed by long, dark locks, her fond smile as she watches him riding around the lush castle gardens of Darn Dyffra on his stick horse when he was a little boy, her soft voice as she calls his name when dusk is falling and she wants him to come inside to join his older sisters and brothers and his father, Ceallach Dyffryn aep Gruffydd, for dinner. He still carries his mother's and father's names. All gone forever.
Tears start to his eyes. He wipes them away angrily. No, no more sobbing. That was long, long ago. He is not this little boy crying for his family anymore. Fringilla has managed to leave the insecure little girl inside her behind. He can do it, too, close the door behind the lost, orphaned, starving boy for good, own up to the mistakes of his past and find a way to redeem himself as good as he can, whatever the cost.
He takes a deep breath. Then he grabs his black pants that are lying neatly folded next to his bedroll, slips them on and gets up gingerly. His legs feel wobbly and, for a brief moment, Cahir feels faint and has to stay still and close his eyes, but, luckily, the wooziness passes and he is still on his feet. He walks the few steps to the entrance and gazes outside. Judging from the position of the sun, it must be early afternoon. The sky above the tree tops is of a brilliant blue with only the occasional, fluffy white cloud. A nice and warm summer's day indeed. Fringilla is sitting on a log next to the fire pit talking animatedly with Francesca who is standing opposite her. Of course, the sharp eye of the elven queen has already spotted him. She says something to the other sorceress who turns around and looks in his direction, her lips curling into a smile. With a wave of her hand, she beckons him over.
After his confession of having murdered Gallatin, Cahir is not surprised that Francesca leaves when he is approaching. Far more surprising was that she consented to help him with his migraine instead of poisoning him with her potion. It must have cost Fringilla a hell of a lot of begging and pleading. By now, he is so deeply indebted to her, he will never be able to repay Fringilla for it. Well, she will surely discount it as something friends do for each other if he mentions it. A friend in need ...
"Good to see you up and about, Cahir. Sit down and have something to eat," she says with a smile, motioning him to sit next to her. Which he does. From a big cast iron pot, Fringilla heaps meat and mushrooms onto a plate, magically adds some potatoes and heats everything with her chaos. She passes the steaming food to her friend.
"Thank you, Fringilla, for everything," he says. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'd be dead as a doornail without me, you know that, don't you?" Fringilla teases.
"Yes, that, too," Cahir says, blowing on the big piece of boar he has speared with his fork before putting it in his mouth and chewing with an appetite. This is so much better than barley gruel, and he is pretty hungry, almost ravenous.
"Thank you for being my friend, Fringilla," he adds when he has swallowed. "I know, I'll never be able to make it up to you. But if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask."
"Hmm, actually, there is one thing." She smiles mischievously, looking him up and down.
"What?" Cahir asks, confused. She is not thinking of— He flushes. No, Fringilla is a beautiful woman and everything a man could dream of, no doubt about that. But there has never been anything else between them except friendship, has there?
"You could take a bath. So I won't have to sleep next to a smelly Nilfgaar— no, sorry, Vicovarian." Fringilla grins from ear to ear. Cahir breathes a sigh of relief. Of course, she was only kidding him.
"Guess, I can do that if it keeps you from dying of suffocation," he says with a smile. "You don't happen to have any soap?"
"What kind of friend do you take me for, Cahir? I'm a sorceress. Obviously, I have soap for you. You can have lavender-scented, rose-scented, lemon-scented, vanilla-scented, pine needle-scented, sea-salt and cedar scented, —"
"Stop it, Fringilla," Cahir moans, "or do you want to give me another headache? Just give me whatever soap you wish. As long as it makes nice bubbles and doesn't smell like sewer, I really couldn't care less."
"Alright, you philistine, eat up and I'll get you some clean clothes and a towel." Fringilla stands up, grinning still. "And a bar of soap of my choosing, I already have something in mind for you. I fear, we don't have a bathtub though, so you'll have to make do with the little forest stream that's not far from here. I warn you, it's pretty chilly, but, honestly, it's really high time that you clean up a bit."
"I know," Cahir says self-consciously. "So, thank you again - for staying inside the same hut with this reeking Vicovarian for days on end. If I were an Emperor, I'd give you a medal for this masterpiece of bravery and endurance, Fringilla, but alas, I am not."
"Luckily, you're not, Cahir. And know this," she flashes him another smile, "I'd take this Vicovarian over any emperor, king or queen any day, reeking or not." Then she leaves for their hut. Cahir will not only need fresh clothes, a towel and the promised soap, but also his boots. And new dressings for his injuries. And a sharp knife for shaving. Not to forget a comb for his tangled hair. Gods, she will need a big bag for all the stuff ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Some time later, Cahir is sitting against a tree trunk by the brook, tired out from the exertion of washing, shaving and getting dressed, but thoroughly enjoying his new state of cleanliness as well as the sun shining in his face. It is slowly drying his freshly washed and combed hair. Every time he moves his head a little, a faint and very pleasant waft of tobacco is in the air. He has never smoked himself but has always liked the scent of a good - and probably pretty expensive - pipe tobacco. It is what his father's study smelled like on the few occasions he was allowed inside to gaze at one of the precious maps adorning the walls or at the - even more interesting - collection of swords and sabres. Needless to say, he, as the youngest by far, was not to touch any of the weapons no matter how much he begged, and only had this stupid, blunt wooden fake thing to fight imaginary foes with, but still, he loved those rare moments inside the mysterious room. At least up until the day his father thrust this utterly boring tome on ancient politics into his hands that was almost bigger than him and expected his youngest son to read it ...
"Don't fall asleep just yet, Cahir," Fringilla says, flopping down beside him and rousing him from his melancholic memories. "There's something I have to tell you. About your princess."
With a sense of foreboding, he opens his eyes and stares at his friend. Fringilla has not found proof of the girl being dead, has she? His heart misses a beat at the mere thought. No, it cannot be possible, Cirilla must be alive. He would feel it if she died, would he not? But perhaps he is only imagining things? How can he be so sure that his dreams are true, that there is some kind of mysterious connection between her and him? Cirilla would certainly not want any of it, after all, she hates him with all her heart. Nothing he could do will ever change this. Although he wishes so much it could. Damn, he is breaking into a cold sweat again.
"Cahir, don't panic," Fringilla says quickly, seeing her friend going pale. She puts a reassuring hand on his thigh. "Your princess is alive. Francesca's scouts have returned with the news."
Cahir takes a deep, steadying breath. This is good. Fringilla would not tell him this if she was not certain. Still, from the way she knits her brow, he has the feeling that there is more and that he will not like it, not one bit. He is not wrong.
"As we speak," Fringilla goes on, "Cirilla is on her way to Nilfgaard. It seems Vilgefortz got his hands on her before Tor Lara exploded. He made it off the island with her, but badly injured. Rumour is that half his face was destroyed together with—"
"Damn, Fringilla, we cannot let Emhyr have her," Cahir interrupts, not caring at all whatever damage to which parts of his body the sorcerer sustained. If it is true that he saved the princess from the explosion, Vilgefortz did a good deed for once, he must grudgingly admit. But if the sorcerer is taking her to Emhyr, there is no way of knowing what the emperor will do to the girl.
"This - this might be worse than if she had died on Thanedd," he adds, wrinkling his forehead.
"Not might, it will be worse. He intends to marry and impregnate her."
"What?" Cahir stares at Fringilla, aghast. "But - but she's his fucking daughter!"
"It appears, the ambassador of Niedamir, the King of the Hengfors League, and an envoy of King Esterad Thyssen of Kovir have been invited to witness the wedding ceremony. The news will soon be all over the north. And nobody but we know the disgusting truth," Fringilla explains, her voice full of revulsion.
Cahir suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Sick at the thought of the emperor even considering such a vile deed, let alone set things into motion to achieve it. And sick because he was complicit in Emhyr's plan, one of the key players in the emperor's evil scheme. Unwittingly, yes, but still, much of it is his doing, his fault. Princess Cirilla is in this situation because of him, the black knight of Cintra. Or is she? What about his dreams? What if it is not her after all? What if Vilgefortz is taking a fake Cirilla to Nilfgaard? The sorcerer will betray Emhyr sooner or later. Like Fringilla, Cahir is certain of it. Perhaps this is it, his big betrayal? What if this is how he will allegedly fulfil his promises to the emperor while secretly searching for the true princess to have her all to himself? Maybe, as long a Vilgefortz does not find her, Cirilla is better off in the desert with monsters and unicorns than with her father in the City of the Golden Towers?
"It was Emhyr's plan all along. The bastard played us from the very beginning," Fringilla continues darkly. "Vilgefortz was in on the secret from the start, I suspect. It must have been he who informed Emhyr about the prophecy and its meaning, who helped him regain the throne of Nilfgaard."
Cahir swallows down the bile that has risen to his throat. How he wishes he had shoved his sword through Vilgefortz's black heart back then at Sodden instead of kicking him down the ravine. Well, the mage would hardly have let him do so. He wanted to be incapacitated for a while, not killed, so he would not have to fight against Nilfgaard, it is obvious now, in retrospect. He was such a fool. All along. For so many years. For most of his life. What a pathetic failure, a disgrace to his family. If his father could see him like this from the afterlife, he would certainly disavow him and forbid him from ever mentioning his name in one sentence with his own. Shit, he is doing it again, blaming himself for everything when the real villain is the emperor. He has to stop this or he will go mad. He needs to listen to Fringilla, she has it all figured out. Get mad at Emhyr, not at yourself, that's what she said, right? But how can he take revenge on the mighty Emperor of Nilfgaard?
"Fringilla, what can we do? There must be something. Anything," he almost pleads. "Please, tell me you've got a plan."
"Actually, I have." Fringilla smiles, giving Cahir's thigh a gentle squeeze. Only, her friend will probably not like the plan much. "Francesca and I are going to Nilfgaard. We'll portal there tomorrow morning. I've already contacted a friend, a fellow sorceress, Assire var Anahid. She'll announce our arrival and ask for a private audience with the emperor on our behalf. We will take Cirilla from him during the ceremony at the palace. We'll have plenty of time to prepare. Nobody will suspect anything. Then she will lead the elves out of this sphere to Dol Blathanna. I'm going with them, and so should you."
"Dol Blathanna, Francesca mentioned it." Cahir frowns. "Are you sure it's in a different sphere? I could be mistaken, I was only a boy then, but I'm almost certain that I've seen it in one of the old maps of the continent in my father's study. It was in the northern parts of Aedirn, not far from Posada, i think, with the Blue Mountains to the east."
"No, Cahir, Francesca wants Cirilla to open a gateway between the spheres. If Dol Blathanna was on this continent, why would she need the elder blood princess to get there? It doesn't make sense."
"What about me, Fringilla?" Cahir asks after a moment of silence. "What do you want me to do in your plan?"
"You, Cahir, will stay here with the Scoia'tael and take it easy for a while. I know, this will be difficult for you, a lot more difficult than going into battle, but you need to heal first. You won't be of any use to neither me nor Cirilla if you aren't fit to fight. And you are not at the moment. And no, don't protest," she cuts him off before he can even open his mouth to object. "You know, I'm right, Cahir. Do your best to recover quickly and be patient. I'll be back for you, I promise."
Be patient. Fuck. Cahir sighs. Patience has never exactly been his forte, no. But he knows any protest will be futile as Fringilla is not wrong. If he already feels exhausted from just cleaning himself, he will not be able to stay standing in a battle for more than a few minutes tops. He will only get himself killed and endanger others in the process. No, as much as he hates it, staying here and taking it easy for a while, as his friend put it, is his best option. There might be one big possible flaw in Fringilla's plan, though.
"What if the girl they're taking to Nilfgaard isn't Cirilla? What if she's a fraud and the real Cirilla is lost in the desert?" Cahir points out. "You have never seen the princess, have you? And neither has Francesca. How can you be sure you've got the right girl?"
"Don't worry, Francesca knows a fail-safe way. Wherever elder blood seeps into the soil, a rare flower grows, she assured me, Fwainnewedd, the Child of the Sun. It first appeared when Lara Dorren died, it is said. We only need one drop of her blood to ascertain that she is the real deal. And if she's not, we will do everything to find her. I'll let you know somehow, Cahir.
"I'm going to miss you." He tries not to sound as unhappy as he is about the plan, about Fringilla leaving him behind with all those elves who hate his guts, about not being able to do something more meaningful than see to that he eats and rests enough. But fuck, it has been so damnable difficult lately to suppress his emotions and Fringilla has become frighteningly good at reading him. She must easily sense what he feels like.
"I'll be here another night." She smiles at Cahir encouragingly, taking his hand in hers.
"I know. Still, it feels like I miss you already," he says huskily.
"Come here, silly boy, just say that you want a hug," Fringilla suddenly says, tears springing to her eyes. "And swear that you won't upset Faoiltiarna or any of the other elves and get yourself killed. You hear me, Cahir?"
"Mmh," he mumbles, closing his eyes and leaning into Fringilla's embrace. She is even warmer than the sunshine and soft and safe and alive. A pity, time cannot simply stop here and now. Or the moment be saved in a bottle for later, when you feel down and alone. Maybe, if he concentrates hard, he can memorise her pleasant scent, her soft shape, the timbre of her voice, the feel of her fingers brushing through his hair. Perhaps the sensory image will stay with him long enough to get him through the coming days and nights without his friend, through the horrible dreams and visions, the pangs of conscience and desperation. A bastion of calm, an anchor in heavy seas, a solid rock between the deadly surge of waves. So different from and still so much like the faint memory of his long-lost mother. Mawr ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The sun is almost touching the tree tops when Cahir wakes up from his slumber. Fringilla is still there with him, humming a soft melody, her fingers absentmindedly playing with his hair. He could lie like this forever. Unfortunately, his stomach is of a different opinion. It has started to rumble loudly.
"Cahir, you awake?" Fringilla asks. She must have heard the traitorous sound, too.
"Hmm."
"Come, get up, lazybones, it's getting chilly, and I fear, I can't feel either of my legs anymore."
"I - I'm sorry, Fringilla," Cahir stammers. Sluggishly, he rises to his feet. "You should have woken me if this wasn't comfortable for you."
"No worries, I won't die," Fringilla says with a smile. "Just help me up, I'm a bit stiff. Old age, you know. After all, I'm in my late 70s."
"It's your own fault that you sorceresses never look your age," Cahir says in his defense, extending his good hand and pulling his old friend up from the ground with a grunt. Old in every sense of the word apparently. And he does not feel so much younger at the moment either. A nice elderly couple they make.
"True," Fringilla admits with a grimace, holding onto Cahir's arm. She is having difficulty standing on her numb and tingly legs. And she knows it will get worse as blood circulation is restored. She takes a first tentative step. "Ouch, fucking ouch!" Fringilla swears. Her feet start to feel like pins and needles. "You're right, Cahir, I should have woken you up sooner. But it was quite nice, and I'm going to miss you, too, now that you smell so appetisingly." She grins up at her taller friend despite her discomfort.
"You really aim for making me blush today, don't you?" Cahir says, going red again.
"Boy, you obviously have no idea how cute you look like this. If Sabrina Glevissig, Keira Metz or Marti Södergreen could see you right now, I'm sure, they'd instantly forgive you for blowing up their home, try to drag you to their beds and eat you alive. You're lucky, I'm nothing like them."
"Hmm, perhaps it's not the worst way to die?"
"Maybe not. But dying of hunger is, and I'm starving. You must be, too. Let's get ourselves some food," Fringilla proposes, taking a tentative step in the direction of the camp. Her legs and feet are still tingling horribly, but they do not feel like giving out under her anymore. And, taking it slowly and with Cahir supporting her at first, they make it back to the glade all right. The Scoia'tael have already lit the campfire and are roasting meat on sticks over it.
The two old friends eat and sit with the elves late into the night. Cahir is very quiet, probably feeling out of place and not too welcome among the elven fighters but not tired enough to go to bed after the long afternoon nap. It is a beautiful evening, too, balmy and dry, the sky speckled with millions of twinkling stars. The crickets are chirruping in the high grass and between the trees you can hear the occasional owl hoot. From time to time a silent shadow glides across the glade. Noctule bats hunting for moths. Fringilla has a lot to discuss with Francesca and not as much time for her Vicovarian friend as she would like to have. However, he needs to get used to living with the elves, and they to living with him. Fringilla has talked to Isengrim Faoiltiarna and made crystal clear that Cahir is not to be harmed in any way and that he would have to answer to both Francesca and Fringilla if anything happened to him. Hopefully, the arrangement will work.
It is way past midnight when everything is prepared and Fringilla feels ready to hit the proverbial hay.
"A shooting star. Did you see it?" Cahir asks when she approaches.
"No, I was looking for you, not at the stars. Did you make a wish?"
"You aren't superstitious all of a sudden, Fringilla?" he teases. "Have these pointies rubbed off on you already?"
"You never know, Cahir, as we gaze at them, maybe the stars are gazing back at us, directing our fates? You cannot prove that they are not, can you?" Fringilla looks up at the firmament. She is not really serious, of course, but sometimes she does wonder if the elves are not right with their ancient believes in the wheel of fortune, the invisible threads of fate, and the notion that the constellations of the stars determine our destinies. The elves are old and wise, it would be folly to just discard their ancient wisdom.
"No, I can't, and you know it." Cahir rises from the log he has been sitting on and gives a yawn. "And I did make a wish, just in case. But I cannot tell you, or it won't come true."
"I know," Fringilla says, chuckling softly. "One evening with the elves and you, Cahir, already believe in the magic of shooting stars. I wonder, perhaps you'll have grown pointy ears by the time I'll be back?"
"What? How long do you intend to leave me here in this take-it-easy spa? Not longer than a week or two, I hope?" Cahir makes it sound like he is jesting but Fringilla knows him well enough by now to note the subtle undertone of worry in his voice.
"Your injuries are healing well. If you're a good boy and take good care of yourself, I think you'll be fit enough within two weeks. I'll come and get you then, I promise. And now let's get some sleep." She yawns demonstratively. "Not many hours left before dawn."
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The night is short indeed and the time to say good-bye comes awfully quickly. Fringilla gives Cahir a swift farewell hug, then she takes Francesca's hand. Together they conjure up the first portal in a row of portals that will take them all the way to Nilfgaard within a few hours.
Cahir nods at Francesca. She nods back curtly.
"Godspeed!" he mutters as the ring of yellow fire closes behind the two sorceresses, swallowing the only true friend he has in this world.