"Shit! This— this waiting, it's worse than an execution," he groans, nervously walking up and down the room for the umpteenth time within the last dozen minutes.
"You should have thought about that before you got her pregnant!" Geralt scoffs. "Now sit the fuck down again or you're going to ruin that carpet. It's a good carpet, too."
"Sorry," Cahir says, not specifying whether he is sorry about Ciri's pregnancy, or the carpet, or both. He flops down into the chair opposite the proud, pretty recent owner of the mansion and vineyard by the well-sounding name of Corvo Bianco and starts to absentmindedly gnaw his nails instead.
"Here, catch, before you chew your fingers off," Geralt says after a while, rolling his eyes, and throws a wood billet at the younger man. They have not had a fire going in the fireplace for several weeks as it has already been almost summerly warm in Toussaint during most of April, but nobody has yet thought of removing the basket with the wood. "I trust you've got a knife?"
Cahir nods and produces a dagger from his bootleg. This is not a bad idea. He can as well carve another wooden figurine while they are waiting for news from upstairs. It is not fair that the bard is allowed to stay while Yennefer has thrown both him and Geralt out. Well, she was not wrong about him making everybody nervous and about Geralt glowering and brooding too much at even the softest moan coming from his child surprise, and about them both being totally useless while Jaskier's singing and lute playing had a relaxing effect on Ciri. Moreover, the bard claimed to know all about how to deliver and care for a baby, and, strangely enough, Yennefer seems to believe him. Of course, he trusts Yennefer. She is an incredibly powerful sorceress and delivering babies at a royal court is presumably a task a mage has to be able to perform. It would make sense for it to be an integral part of the Aretuzean syllabus. Still, he would much prefer it if there were a trained midwife here. Maybe he would not be so damn nervous then. Or maybe it would make no difference after all. This is definitely worse than an execution, and he remembers very well how that felt. It is not something you would ever forget. Or stop having nightmares about. On the other hand, he understands that as few people as possible are to know about the baby. Their baby. If Emhyr got wind of the existence of this grandchild, there is no knowing what he might do. He would likely unleash another war on the continent and, for the very first time, forget that Toussaint is not to be attacked. No, Yennefer is clearly right to do it on her own. But this is fucking taking too long.
"This your new hobby, boy, cutting sawdust?" Geralt asks with an exasperated huff.
The young knight looks at what was supposed to become a wolf figurine. There is hardly any wood left in his hand and the floor is covered in wood shavings. Damn, he totally sucks at this waiting thing. He would much rather fight a dozen enemy soldiers or a pack of real wolves than this. And it has been going on all night already. Geralt is handling this so much better. He looks grumpier than ever and not a little mad at him for getting his adopted daughter into this pickle in the first place, but he seems not to be nervous at all. Cahir stands up with a sigh and gets another piece of wood. This time he is determined to concentrate on nothing but the carving, no matter how impossible it is.
"Fuck, I need a monster to slay!" Geralt suddenly explodes, jumping up from his chair. He strides through the room and storms out of the door and down the corridor. It does not take a minute and Cahir hears the front door being slammed shut. Then there is a regular thudding sound coming from the yard. Geralt chopping wood. Lots of wood. Seems like he was wrong. The Witcher must be a lot more nervous than he let on.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
He has never felt anything so, so — downy before in his life. This is amazing. She is so beautiful with her fluffy, ash-blonde little curls, rosy skin and big eyes. The most beautiful baby on the continent. And she is his. His little girl. Is it even possible? Although he has had weeks to get used to it, the thought of actually becoming a father has felt surreal. Being the father of Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra's baby all the more. He still does not fully comprehend how this happened, why she chose him of all people despite everything that had occurred in the past, everything he had done. He almost paid for it with his life, yes. Maybe Ciri's forgiveness is not totally unwarranted. However, there are worlds between forgiving somebody and having sex on a beach with them. He knows she had not planned to become a mother, the contrary, and he was mortally afraid she would hate him for getting her with child. But now, with her newborn baby-girl cradled in her arms, she looks so happy, radiant, despite the long, long hours of labour. No, not her new-born baby, their new-born baby. Tentatively, he strokes the girl's downy hair again, smiling down at mother and child.
"She looks just like you, Ciri. Beautiful," he whispers, his voice husky with emotion. Never in his life has he seen anything so adorable and peaceful.
"She has your eyes," Ciri says, beaming up at him.
"All babies have blue eyes," Yennefer says matter-of-factly. "And now, you need to sleep, my ugly one. Cahir must be either deluded or blind to say you look beautiful. Actually, you look like shit, and no wonder. We all look like shit. This little pixie took her time." Yennefer bends toward Ciri, plants a tender kiss on her forehead and cautiously takes the baby from her arms.
"Come to granny, my ugly little duckling," she coos, cradling the newborn girl against her bosom.
"Can— Can I hold her?" Cahir asks almost shyly. He has not the slightest idea how he fits into this little family yet. If he is wanted here. If Ciri wants him here. Geralt has not killed him, that is a plus, and he has even given him a room at Corvo Bianco. The smallest, ugliest, most uncomfortable and remote one, but still, a room is a room and he has had to live in far worse accommodations. He has tried to make himself useful as much as he could and otherwise kept to himself, whittling wooden animals and other toys for the baby, acutely aware of the mansion's other residents' resentment toward him. A resentment that reminded him strongly of the beginnings of their joint travels. Only Jaskier was as chatty and understanding as ever and told him not to worry and that once the baby arrived, everybody would be so excited and happy that they would immediately forget about hating him. Hopefully, the bard is right. They all look more than happy enough.
Instead of answering Cahir's question, Yennefer sniffs at the blankets the baby is swaddled in and crinkles her nose at the scent.
"Here, she's all yours," she says, pressing the bundle into the surprised man's arms. "You didn't think you're here just to goggle at your daughter, did you? There's work to do. This lady needs a bath and new nappies. Ciri's not going to be a stay-at-home-mum and you can't show your mug outside of Toussaint anyway, so you better learn how to take care of a baby quickly. Bard," Yennefer turns toward Jaskier who is watching them from his place on the chaise-longue. "You show him. I need my beauty sleep." She yawns heartily. Except for Jaskier, who seems to be able to nap anywhere and everywhere and under any circumstances, none of them has slept for even a minute since Ciri went into labour the evening before and now a new dusk is already falling. Yennefer feels like she could sleep for twenty-four hours straight. But definitely not alone, today is her birthday after all. Cahir must be tired, too, but as a soldier, he is surely used to not getting much rest. The baby has had plenty of milk and will probably fall asleep right after her bath anyway. How very lucky that Jaskier knows how to take care of a baby. In contrast to Geralt and Cahir, he was really helpful during the birth, and not only because of his music. He even did not need any instructions on how to cut the umbilical cord and held the freshly born baby so perfectly you could think he has never done anything else in his life. The bard is a natural at teaching, too. Under his tutelage and watchful eye, Cahir will be able to handle things for a while and without accidentally drowning or dropping the girl.
"Good night, Ciri, love, rest now," Yennefer adds, smiling warmly at her exhausted daughter and blowing her a kiss.
"Geralt, come with me!" she then orders, grabbing his hand. "And you two," she fixates Jaskier and Cahir with a commanding gaze from her purple eyes, "that girl needs a name. Think of something! But not a stupid Nilfgaardian one that is so long and complicated nobody can remember it anyway." Briskly she strides toward the door, not waiting for Cahir to protest that he is not a Nilfgaardian. Feeling Geralt's strong hand in hers has made Yennefer think of a few nice things she might want to do with him before hitting the pillows ...
"Come along, then, you heard the boss," Jaskier says with a grin when Yennefer and Geralt have exited the room. "And no need to look like a scared rabbit, babies don't break that easily. Just make sure you always support her head, yes, like this. And don't worry, I'll show you everything you need to know for now. If you want to, I can even teach you a lullaby or two. And don't ask how I know all this stuff. It's a longstory."
Humming softly, the bard opens the door to the nursery. Cahir follows on his heels, holding his daughter tightly against his shoulder. A baby bathtub filled with water of the perfect temperature is already waiting there courtesy of Yennefer and her magic. The fluffy foam on its surface emanates the pleasant, appetising smell of golden honey and vanilla. Jaskier shows the new dad how best to hold and wash the baby so that she would not get any of the scented suds into her eyes. The little girl gazes at the two of them from big, blue eyes and seems to thoroughly enjoy her first ever bath. Then the bard teaches his eager but still a little awkward and unusually tense friend how to dry, swaddle and dress a baby. Once Cahir has mostly overcome his fear of accidentally squashing the tiny little girl, he is not half-bad at it and, very obviously, is already deeply in love with her. As he should.
"Now you put her in the cradle and pray to all the gods that she will be a good girl and drop off without making a fuss so that we can catch some beauty sleep, too," Jaskier explains, flopping down into one of the two armchairs that are standing next to the baby's bed. "Not that it would help much with your mug and nobody would care anyway, but my little Weasel might become suspicious if I return to her looking like a zombie. And you know how she is when she gets jealous."
Cahir has no idea what Anna Henrietta, the Duchess of Toussaint, is like in this state but knowing that she is related to Emhyr var Emreis is enough to make it sound fairly ominous. Almost as if she has understood every word Jaskier said and instantly decided not to get her uncle into trouble with his Duchess, the freshly bathed and sweet-smelling baby in his arms gives a cute little yawn, closes her eyes and looks at least half asleep within the second. Carefully, Cahir lowers her down into the cradle. She does not stir or make a sound. A very good girl. He breathes a tender kiss onto her downy hair. His arms feel empty already without her and he almost has to tear his gaze away from his sleeping miniature princess with force. If not for Jaskier being here, he would sink to his knees right now and pledge his undying love to her. As he is not alone though, Cahir lets himself sink into the second armchair instead with a stifled yawn, only now realising how dead tired he is. But so much has happened, everything has changed, is new and exciting and, at the same time, feels uncertain, intimidating, it is hard to quieten the turmoil of thoughts and emotions.
"So, Cahir, what would you want to call your daughter? Any ideas?" Jaskier suddenly asks. "I, as a poet and her very soon dearly beloved uncle, could come up with a plethora of ingenious, most beautifully poetic and meaningful names. However, you go first. You're her dad."
As he has never for a single second suspected that he would be asked for his opinion on a name for the baby and even less so for ideas of his own, Cahir has not given the naming a single thought so far. No, not entirely true, there was one thing, right from the beginning when an irate Yennefer told him about the pregnancy. He had hoped with all his heart that the angry sorceress would not want to name the baby - if it was a girl - after her dead mentor. Tissaia. The name carries too many painful memories for him. However, come to think of it, there are several names that he would wish to remember, always.
With a smile, Cahir rises again and gazes at the girl's dreamy little face. Yes, the name is perfect.
"What do you think of Regina Maria Angoulême?" he asks softly.
Perhaps he is only imagining it, yet it looks like, in her sleep, the baby is smiling back at him contentedly.