Except for a quick run to one of your neighbours to buy fodder for the horse and listen for news on missing villagers, you spend all day tending to the sick Witcher, administering willow bark essence and tea, changing bandages and refreshing the cold compresses. Cahir is badly delirious and raving with harrowing fever dreams. By late afternoon, his temperature finally, finally seems to go down a little and he sleeps more easily. Perhaps you can take a quick nap, too? Gods, you cannot remember ever having been so tired in your life. You add another log to the fire in the fireplace, then flop down in your chair, yawning heartily and rubbing your eyes. You let them fall shut with a sigh.
It must be the middle of the night when you wake up from your exhausted slumber. Cahir is tossing and turning in his sleep again, mumbling something about a fire in his fevered dreams. Not exactly feeling well rested but definitely better, you get up from the armchair with a sigh and, for the umpteenth time since you have brought him to your house, kneel down next to Cahir. Shit, his brow feels hotter than ever. You know that the fever helps fight the infection, however, if it does not break soon, it might have dangerous side effects that could kill the patient. Unless Witchers with their mutations are more tolerant to high temperatures than normal people? But Cahir looks so ill, it does not seem very likely.
Quickly and with yet another sigh, you put on your cloak and shoes to get a bucket of fresh, cold water from the little brook behind your house. The advantages of living on the outskirts of the village ...
When you return, Cahir is still raving about a fire. Not surprising as he is burning up with fever. Yet, somehow you get the impression that it is not only a hallucination born from delirium but that he is talking about a real fire, one that actually happened in the past. Perhaps you can ask him about it when he wakes up. When, not if. Determined, you get to your knees and begin wetting the compresses and washing away the copious amounts of sweat Cahir is literally bathed in. You are aware, of course, that sweating is the body's reaction to excessive heat and has a cooling effect, however, you are pretty sure that the icy water will be more effective. Cahir moans in response, his eyelids starting to flutter.
"'m sorry, Ciri," he mutters in his uneasy sleep, "so sorry. Please, forgive me. Forgive me."
Another moan. Then he lies still. You wipe his sweaty brow. Ciri. Was she not the girl who killed this Leo Bonhart? Strange. They were fighting on the same side, Cahir and her, were they not? Why then does he ask for her forgiveness? There seems to be a lot more to this story than Cahir has told her ...
It is a long night full of worrying and work for you to do. Eventually, though, your many silent prayers to the gods do not go unanswered. Or, perhaps, it is simply a combination of the Witcher's sturdy constitution and your dedication to saving him that do the trick? Well, it does not matter. What matters is that by late morning, the medicaments and cold compresses have succeeded in bringing the fever down to a level that is not life-threatening, and judging by Cahir's less frequent moans and groans and whimpers, your patient seems not to be in as much pain as before. Gently, you shake him by the shoulder to wake him up so you can give him more tea and change the dressings.
Cahir looks up at you, confused.
"You — You're not Yennefer," he says, his voice husky with sleep.
"No, sorry. Not Regis, either, nor Ciri," you say with a smile. "Do you remember me? And what happened? The werewolves?"
He frowns, then nods. "Where's my horse?" he then asks and tries to sit up.
"Wait." Quickly you grab a big pillow from the armchair to support him into a half-sitting position. Leaning into the cushion, he lets his gaze wander about the room groggily, but fully conscious.
"Thunder's inside the house. Nobody knows you're here. I've just fed and watered him. " You grab the mug that is sitting next to his bed and fill it with tea. "Now it's your turn," you say, holding the cup out to him. Weakened and shaky from the high fever, Cahir needs your help to hold it, but he does look like he is better. When he has drunk up, you give him a spoon full of willow bark essence. He grimaces from the bitter taste.
"Sorry, I'll add a little honey next time," you say apologetically. "Think you can manage a little soup?" you then ask, quite hungry yourself. "I've just put the pot on the stove. It won't take long." You are not exactly a master cook, however, you can put together a quite decent pumpkin soup, and it is just the right time of the year for it.
Cahir nods. "Smells like nutmeg," he says with a faint smile.
"Yes, and clove and onions and ginger. But I need to check on your leg first."
You push the blanket to the side. When you start removing the bandages, he grimaces again, this time from agony. You note with satisfaction that the scratches, or rather deep gashes, in Cahir's thigh look - and smell - considerably better. Still puffy and red and weeping, but not oozing with puss anymore. He hisses with pain when you dab at the sutures with a wet cloth.
"Sorry, I'll be quick," you say. And you are. You apply the tinctures and ointment with practised fingers. Swiftly and efficiently. It hardly takes more than a few minutes. Cahir relaxes visibly when you have finished and put the blankets back in place.
"How long have I been out?" he then asks.
"Half the night, all of yesterday, and another night.
"I need to go," Cahir says abruptly and tries to rise.
"Absolutely not!" you exclaim, worried that he will hurt himself if he moves. The wounds could reopen or he might pass out from the sudden change of position. "I won't let you leave for at least another couple of days. You're still feverish and in no shape to ride a horse!" you chide. "I haven't told anybody that you're here if that's what you're concerned about."
"No, it's— My friends, they'll be worried."
"They would be a lot more worried if they knew you were travelling on horseback, sick as you are! Your Yennefer will understand. Now rest some more while I'll look after the soup. You wouldn't want it to acquire a charred flavour besides the nutmeg and all the other spices."
He does not protest this time, but closes his eyes. As much as Cahir might not like the prospect of having to stay, he must be reasonable enough to see that it is unavoidable. He would not even be able to make it out of the door on his own feet.
Soon, the mouthwatering smell of pumpkin soup permeates your home. You help Cahir eat, but he merely manages half a bowl before he sinks back into the pillows, drained from the effort. It is a start though. He can have more in the evening.
Cahir is soon sleeping soundly. You first enjoy a good helping of your appetisingly orange, favourite comfort food. Then, humming a soft melody, you start mending Cahir's cut up and torn clothes.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
He sleeps for most of the following two days and nights. With the help of the medicaments and your dedicated ministrations, the infection goes down nicely, as does the fever. You catch up on some missed sleep as well. And try your luck at baking. Your mother's pumpkin pie recipe is perfect for the season. Another one of your preferred comfort foods. The scent is so yummy, you can hardly wait for it to cool down so you can share it with the Witcher when he wakes up.
"Want a second piece?" you ask when Cahir has finished his first helping of the pie. It has come out quite well, exactly like you remembered it from your childhood, and Cahir obviously likes it, too. You do not wait for your guest to make up his mind but put another big piece on his plate.
"This is delicious. You could earn a living by baking this stuff instead of making stupid bets." He winks at you, then attacks his pie with an appetite.
"I might consider it," you mumble, your mouth full with pie. "And I will definitely not place any more bets ever in my life. At least not if they involve a nighttime stroll through the woods. At full moon! But perhaps you should try to find a less dangerous job, too?"
"Killing monsters is a lot better than what I did before," he says with a shrug.
"How that? I thought Witchers were snatched away from their homes and mutated when they were children."
"I'm not really a Witcher. Just doing a Witcher's job."
This is interesting. It explains why you did not find any Witcher elixirs in Cahir's saddle bags. And why his eyes are of a soft shade of grey-blue, not yellow.
"And what were you doing before you decided to save people from monsters?" you ask, curious what could possibly be a worse job. A job in pest control? A gravedigger? Or executioner?
"I killed people. Burnt down cities. I was a soldier."
"That's why you're so good with a sword," you say. And why he was dreaming of the fire. But, was it not only the Nilfgaardians that burnt down villages, towns and cities? Strange. He cannot possibly be from Nilfgaard, can he? You could ask, of course, but his words sounded so bleak, so dark, you instinctively know not to. It is obvious that Cahir does not want to talk about it. It sounded like he has a few skeletons in the closet that he wants to keep closely locked in there. Many skeletons, maybe, who knows? Wars are brutal, and so are soldiers.
You finish your cake in silence.
"I'll leave tomorrow before dawn," he announces when his plate is empty and he puts it on the floor. You nod. He is still a little feverish, but after the many hours of sleep, Cahir should be recovered enough to go back home, you suppose, wherever that is. He sounds so determined, you would not stand a raindrop's chance in hell to convince him otherwise anyway. And, of course, he will have to depart while it is still dark. You do not like the idea of Cahir leaving one bit. It was nice to have company, somebody to take care of, even though it was tough work. The house will feel empty without him.
"There's no chance that you'll come back to visit? Get another piece of pumpkin pie one day?"
"Sorry, that's not how my job works."
"You know what? Your job sucks," you say with a sigh. Then you pull yourself together. It would not do for you to spend your last evening with your saviour in gloomy silence.
"Tell me about your first monster hunt, will you? What was it?" you ask out of curiosity. You have always loved adventure stories with mythical creatures and fights and all kinds of scary stuff. At least when you were safe at home sitting by a cosy fireside with a nice cup of ginger tea. "Another werewolf, per chance? Or a vampire? A giant insectoid perhaps?"
"Trolls," he says, "pretty ugly ones to boot, and stinking of booze like an entire distillery..."
So, stuffed to the gills with pumpkin pie and sipping at yet another cup of hot tea, you sit together in the comfortable warmth of the fireside while the late October rain is pelting against the windowpanes and Cahir is telling you about his Witcher adventures, although he is not really a Witcher. He is a surprisingly good story teller, too, and his tales are amazing. If you could, you would write a ballad about them. Or two. Three. Unfortunately, unlike Jaskier, the famous bard with his white-haired monster-killer friend, you lack the talent. Perhaps you can draw something instead? Or write down the tale? Or both? An illustrated book of Cahir's collected monster hunts? You can already see the cover in your mind's eye. A black, furry, scary silhouette with pointy claws and glowing red eyes, behind it the pale orb of the full moon. Shadows in the Dark. There might be people interested in reading the stories. So, why not? Perhaps a more promising business idea even than the bakery, and definitely safer than stupid bets ...
Time flies. It must be way past midnight, when Cahir finishes his last tale.
"And that was the end of the wily Nosferat that had haunted the area for years. After that came the werewolves, but you know everything about them already."
"More than I've ever wanted to know about those beasts, yes," you say, shuddering at the memory. "I really don't want to imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn't come by just in the nick of time."
"I'd never have had the chance to taste your pumpkin pie, I suppose," he says with a grin. Then he yawns.
"You better get some sleep, or you'll fall off your horse on your way back home," you say half-jokingly.
"I don't fall off horses," he says with conviction. And closes his eyes. It does not take long and he is fast asleep. You put the cups and plates away, then you flop down in the armchair that has become your bed for the last couple of nights. There is this one thing you are looking forward to when Cahir is gone - you will have your bed back.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The heavy rain has turned into a slight drizzle when it is time for Cahir to leave. It is just shortly before the first rays of morning light will brighten the night sky. He and Thunder look like shadows in the dark themselves as Cahir mounts his horse. If you did not know better, you might be terrified of them. Thunder snorts softly when you pet his silky, slightly rain-wet fur.
"Good-bye, my boy, and take good care of your Witcher," you tell him. "Swear you'll take him home safely."
Thunder snorts again. You take it for a yes.
"Here, I've packed some things for you so you won't starve on the way," you then say, looking up at Cahir. Bread and cheese and several pieces of pumpkin pie. "And don't forget to change those dressings and put more of the ointment on the sutures. And the stitches need to be removed in a week or two, and there's willow bark for tea and—"
"Don't worry. I know what to do. And Regis is a very skilled barber-surgeon. And a higher vampire, but a very friendly one."
"Now you're pulling my leg," you say, disbelievingly. You give Thunder one last pat.
"No, I'm not. But this is another, very long story. Too long for now, I fear." He looks up at the sky. The sun is about to rise in the east. The stars are fading already.
"Those stories about Witchers, that they have no feelings, they aren't true, are they?" you ask.
"No, they're not." He shakes his head, then clicks his tongue. "I have to go. Farewell. And thank you for everything."
"Farewell, Cahir," you say. It is you who should thank him again, but he has already gallopped off, the black of his clothes and of his horse melting into the darkness. Then he is gone.
You sigh. You know you will never see him again, although you would very much like to. At least you have his stories. You sigh again.
Your house does feel empty when you sit down in your armchair, the makeshift bed in front of the fireplace deserted. Maybe you should get yourself a pet? A black one to remind you of Cahir, the brave Witcher who is not really one but still saved your life. A cat would be nice, or a little black puppy. But not now. Now your are going back to sleep for a few more minutes. Or hours. You yawn extensively, then close your eyes.
This Yennefer is a very, very lucky woman.
It is the last conscious thought that crosses your mind before you drift off.