"Princess Cirilla?" he asks, his eyes growing wide with surprise as she takes off the hood and steps out of the shadow of the boat shed and onto the sunlit jetty.
"Ciri, not Cirilla," she says with a smile. She has been watching him for a while and likes what she sees. "You look good. Much better than when last we met."
This is probably the understatement of the century as he was literally a hair's breadth from death then, covered in blood, white as a sheet and barely breathing. Now he is looking healthy and nicely tanned. His half-open, dark blue shirt sticks to his lean but muscular form in places where it is wet - whether from sweat or water, she does not know, probably from both. The shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong, slightly fuzzy forearms. His brown hair is much shorter and tousled from the work with the fishing net and rowing boat, several unruly curls cascading over his sweat-glistening forehead. Then, of course, there is the scar, from temple to the corner of his mouth. Ugly, some would say - no, most would say so. But scars are not ugly to her. Geralt's are not, nor are Lambert's or Coen's, and neither is her own. Scars tell stories. Stories of bravery and sacrifice and the will to survive. No, they are not ugly. They are interesting, fascinating even. And she knows the one in his face is not his only scar. Her gaze wanders along the partially unbuttoned front of his shirt. There it is, a glimpse of the scar from where Bonhart almost stabbed him in the heart. A chill runs down her spine at the memory. And, at the same time, she suddenly feels the strong urge to unbutton his shirt even more and have a closer look at this scar, touch it, gently trace it with the tip of her finger. What would he say if she did that? He would probably think she has gone crazy in the months since Stygga, since he almost died for her.
"I— I'm sorry, I must look a mess and smell like fish," he apologises, flushing under his tan.
"I like fish," Ciri says and steps a little closer. "So, what did you catch? Anything good for dinner?"
"I'd say so, yes. All kinds of small fry, of course, but also several medium-sized perch," he points at the net laid out on the jetty, "and this is a premium-sized zander, the biggest I've ever seen. They're prized for their excellent taste."
"Guess, I came on the right day then." She flashes Cahir another bright smile. "But it's still a bit early for dinner. Would you walk along the shore with me for a while?"
"You want— I— I don't know, why would you—," he stutters, baffled at her request.
"Cahir," she takes his hand in hers. "Maybe you don't remember - you were fucking dying - but I've forgiven you. For everything. It wasn't your fault, it was my father's. And you saved my life. This is a fresh start, and I'd love to get to know more of you than just your name."
"Ciri—" he looks at her wide-eyed, like he does not believe his own ears, like she must be a hallucination or a dream.
"Just say yes and come with me. I have a surprise for you."
"I— I need to take the fish to the kitchens first. And— And clean up a little and — Are you really sure about this, Ciri?"
"I'll be waiting for you over there, see, where the flat rocks are?" Ciri points at a rock formation further down the beach. "But hurry up or I might change my mind." She lets go of Cahir's hand, flashes him another smile and sprints along the jetty toward the beach. She jumps off of it doing a somersault and lands on both her feet in the grass. Grinning broadly, she waves at Cahir, then runs toward the rocks.
Cahir stares after her, still not quite believing that this is real and not a dream. He pinches himself in the arm. It hurts. So, no matter how mind-boggling, it must be real after all. He better hurry then. He cannot let his princess wait.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
She is sitting on one of the smooth, sun-warmed rocks, leaning back with her eyes closed, the soft evening light illuminating her upturned face, her long open hair a glittering and gleaming waterfall of molten silver. When she hears him approach, she sits up and smiles at him.
"Took you long enough," she teases. "But it was worth it. No fishy smell."
He has changed into a fresh shirt and pants and combed his hair. The latter is a bit of a pity, she liked his hair even better mussed up as it was. Maybe she can do something about this later. She has come here for a reason, after all. And it is not just to laze around in the sun and talk about fish.
"No, don't, not here. Help me up," she says quickly before he can flop down next to her on the warm rock. "Your surprise is over there."
She waves her hand in the direction of the next beach. Cahir has been there before once or twice. It is small and crescent-shaped, covered in white sand, not grass like most of this one here, and surrounded by reeds and colourful wild flowers. A favourite place of the sorceresses once in a while to spend an afternoon of doing nothing. But he has never been good at staying idle, no. He is far too impatient to just lie in the sand for hours and gaze at the clouds slowly drifting along the blue backdrop of the summer sky. Anyway, he was forced to stay in bed and rest for more than two shitty weeks while he was sick and then he was only very gradually allowed to do more than sit around or take annoyingly short and slow walks in the orchard and vegetable garden. Thanks to the gods, that is over and he is almost back to normal - if you do not count the ugly new scars. With Ciri here, he is suddenly painfully aware of their existence, a lot more so than before. She has not said anything and the deep wound in his face has healed better than one could have hoped for, but it surely does not make him prettier, the contrary.
Like requested, Cahir takes Ciris hands and pulls her to his feet. Her hands feel soft and small in his callused ones, and he holds onto them for just a second longer than necessary. But she does not comment. Perhaps she has not noticed it? Or she does not mind.
They jump down from the rocks and take the little path that leads to where Ciri's surprise seems to be waiting for him.
What could this mysterious surprise be? Cahir wonders while they are walking toward the other beach. He has not the slightest of ideas. And why a surprise for him in the first place? It is not his birthday. Not to mention the fact that he hardly deserve any surprises, and most of all not from her, not pleasant ones. Perhaps Geralt has come to visit him together with Ciri? He would like that, a lot. After their nine months of travelling together and fighting side by side, they have become good friends, maybe even something akin to brothers despite the very rocky start.
It is not Geralt who is waiting for him on the romantic little beach, though, nor any other person.
"Voila," Ciri says with a flourish, waving at what she must have prepared for him while he was out fishing. He stares at the items set out on a blanket in the sand. A picnic on the beach. This is a surprise indeed. But why?
"What? Don't you like your surprise?" Ciri adds with a pout when he says nothing.
"No, I— I like it, a lot. I just — I don't know what to say," he stammers.
"It's nothing fancy, just some bread and cheese and grapes. And," she sits down and reaches into the basket, "something nice to drink. If you don't like the vintage, blame Nimue, she picked the wine." Grinning, Ciri hands Cahir a bottle and the bottle opener. "Now, sit down and dig in before the ants come and eat it all up."
So, they sit down together on the beautiful little beach in the soft, white sand, surrounded by colourful wildflowers and with a breathtaking view of the huge, dark blue lake. The princess and the knight. They eat and talk - or mostly she talks and he listens - and empty the bottle of dark red wine, then another one. Slowly the sky turns orange and red as the sun kisses the water of the lake and begins to sink beneath its shimmering surface. They watch in silence, captivated by the colours, the scents, the lushness of the summer evening. And certainly a little tipsy. Or even more than a little.
"May I?" Ciri suddenly asks, moving closer to Cahir.
"What?" he looks at her, bewildered.
"Touch it? Your scar?"
He nods slowly, his heart missing a beat when her finger starts to gently trail along the ugly, thin, red line, down from his temple along the eye, across his cheek and all the way down to the corner of his mouth. It sends shivers down his spine, and heat, and he barely dares to breathe, afraid to disturb the moment.
"Kiss me, Cahir," she says, and it almost sounds like an order. Her beautiful face is so close to his all of a sudden, it makes him giddy.
"Are you sure, princess?" he breathes, looking into her eyes, the dying sun tinting their emerald green with sparks of gold and orange. So beautiful.
"Why do you think I have come, Cahir?" she asks teasingly, curling her arms around his neck. "I can watch sunsets in even more lovely times and places than this one. Sunsets with two or three suns in worlds so wondrous and magical I cannot describe their beauty with words. No, I haven't come for the sunset."
Her smiling lips are so close to his now, he can smell the wine's rich aroma of cherries, blackcurrants and oaky vanilla on her breath.
"I came for you."
She brushes her lips against his. And now he kisses her, first carefully, as if she was a delicate butterfly, then with a passion, long and deep and hungry for more.
"Ciri, this isn't a dream, right?" he asks, breathless when their lips finally come apart.
"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Does it make a difference?" she asks mysteriously. Then she starts to unbutton his shirt.
And as the full moon rises high into the sky above the lake, painting a path of pure silver onto its glassy surface, and more and more stars appear on the velvet firmament, a million glittering diamonds reflecting in the ink-dark water, they make love to each other in the soft sand of the beach. And it is exactly like it has happened before in his dreams and in hers, only much, much better, for it is real.
Afterwards, they lie in each other's arms, spent and happy.
"I love you - I think I've always loved you. Princess Cirilla," he whispers, "she who can move the world."
"You are an idiot, Cahir," she chuckles, "you know that?"
"Mmh."
Then he kisses her again.
And for all the kissing and getting lost in each other, they do not even notice a bright, new comet appearing in the moonlit, nightly sky.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
His arms wrapped tightly around her, they huddle close together in the morning chill, watching the sun come up behind the tower on the cliff above the lake as they slowly walk back along the shore.
"I have to go," Ciri says eventually, "Geralt and Yennefer might be looking for me. And Kelpie's waiting in the stables." She hesitates for a moment. "You could come along," she then adds.
Cahir furrows his brow. "I— I don't know, Ciri. I like it here. It's quiet, peaceful, no wars. Besides Nimue, nobody knows who I am. The Fisher King would not be happy if I left, then he'd have to do the fishing. But, most importantly," he smiles at her ruefully, "if Geralt ever finds out about this, I'm surely done for. He'll kill me without a second thought."
"He might," Ciri chuckles. "He can be a bit overprotective - or more like a hell of a lot."
Probably it is better like this, too. It was an amazing and most satisfying evening and night, but, to be honest, she is not ready for a relationship. Many girls her age are long married, yes, she knows that. However, she prefers to be independent. There are so many worlds still to explore. A family of her own would only be in the way. It was never her intention to start anything serious anyway. She just wanted to have some fun. With somebody who has no ulterior motives and loves her with all his heart no matter what. Someone who would accept whatever she decides to do. Someone who is not as young and foolishly chivalric as Galahad, but chivalric enough to make her feel like a princess again. His princess. Someone who would die for her.
She gazes across the lake, then looks up into Cahir's serious, scarred face. Someone who almost did die for her. Someone with eyes as deeply blue as this lake.
"Will you come back, Ciri?" he asks, his voice husky with emotion. "I know, it's stupid, but I already miss you."
"I might," she says with a tender smile, brushing her fingers through his tousled hair. "I very much enjoyed this night and your company. And," she adds with a grin, "I haven't tried your fish, yet."
Then she leans in for another kiss.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
As every morning since almost forever, Nimue is standing on the balcony overlooking the lake, gazing at the familiar, blue expanse of water. Today, on this first day of August of the year 1258, on the festival of Lammas, half-way between the summer solstice and the autumn equinox, a contented, knowing smile graces her lips. While she was nursing Cahir back to life after Ciri had so unexpectedly returned to Nimue's tower, dropping the dying knight on her doorstep, she conducted a few experiments on his blood - with interesting results. Most people would have been extremely surprised, but not she, for she has had the suspicion for a while. Why else would all the tales about the Princess Cirilla of Cintra and her black knight, the star-crossed lovers, talk so much about this mysterious bond between them, a bond shaped by destiny? Much might be due to romantic exaggeration, but she has known from the start that there must be something between Ciri and Cahir, something more. So, no, she was not surprised when the gene revealed itself in his blood, not at all.
The sorceresses and sorcerers who had extensively studied Lara Dorren's blood line and then tried to control who had children with who had made so many mistakes that, by only focusing on the main Lara gene when there was also a latent gene and an activator gene, they lost track of those genes long ago, right from the start - no, even before they began with their breeding experiments. Cahir must have inherited the silent activator gene from his maternal ancestors, the var Anahids, who were originally from the north and whose lineage seems to have been lost. Nimue tried very hard to find out more about Assire and Eviva var Anahid's northern origins, but in vain. The fact that Assire, Cahir's grandmother's sister, was a sorceress, was interesting, though. Although she did not detect any signs of magical chaos in Cahir, which is normal in male carriers of the activator gene, it is not surprising that he has been prone to visions and prophetic dreams. That the activator would cause a mysterious connection with a person carrying the true Lara gene was to be expected.
There is one more thing that is to be expected now, after tonight's matchmaking. The comet is a clear indication that it did happen. In exactly nine months, on the first day of May, on the magical festival of Beltane, which is also Ciri's birthday. Ithlinne's prophecy will come to fruition then in this very unexpected way, not from a union of the Elder Blood with the seed of a powerful emperor or an ancient elf king, but the one of a wanted traitor and deserter who is currently earning his keep as a fisherman. The most powerful sorceress of all times will be born with even greater powers than her mother's. She will save the world from the White Frost. And she, Nimue Verch Wledyr ap Gwyn, the little squirt from the small village Vyrva right off the Yaruga River, played an important part in it.
Little do they know, the two parents-to-be of the future saviour of the world. But it is nice to see them down by the lake shore so close together, kissing again and again and again, finally happy after all the blood and death and destruction, at least for a little while. Nimue's smile deepens even more. What a beautiful couple. She has been obsessed with Ciri and her story ever since she was a little girl who, together with her sister, listened raptly to the storyteller Stribog recount the legends of the Witcher Geralt of Rivia and his child surprise. Meeting her, being able to help her fulfil her destiny, has been her deepest desire for so long. And now, in the course of the several months since the events at Stygga, she has also become fond of Cahir. In some of the legends he is just a very young officer working for the secret service who happens to find Ciri during the Slaughter of Cintra and saves her from the flames and conflagration, then falls deeply in love with her. Other sources claim he was the commander general of Nilfgaard who orchestrated the attack on Cintra and Sodden Hill and only answered to Emhyr var Emreis, the Emperor, himself. She knows the truth, of course, but whichever of the stories is right or if none of them are, is of no importance in the end. They are together, as destiny demands. And all is well.
But she should not play the Peeping Tom. Ciri will have to leave soon and needs her horse. She will be back, though, Nimue is sure of it, soon.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
"Kelpie, here you are," Ciri greets her beautiful black mare who has found her way from the stables down to the lake easily. She pets the animal's elegant nose and the horse starts nibbling fondly on Ciri's ash-blonde hair which makes the young woman giggle. Then she jumps onto her steed, waves a quick good-bye to her lover and spurs Kelpie into a gallop. Straight into the water of the lake. However, the mare's hooves do not sink but hover above the surface, just so touching it and spraying a billion of the finest droplets of water into the air in their wake. As rays of bright morning sun shine onto them, the light breaks and the droplets start to glitter and shine. A sparkling tail made of all the colours of the rainbow. Cahir stares at the beautiful spectacle like mesmerised. Then, horse and rider vanish.
He stays for a moment longer, gazing after the princess, the Lion Cub of Cintra, the mysterious Mistress of Space and Time. Ciri. His Ciri. Then he turns around with a sigh. Will she come back? When she does, he will be here waiting for her, gazing longingly across the lake into a different time.