For the Whumpril prompts 1 "Limping", 6 "Dizziness", 28 "Fight, Flight,Freeze" and the Angstpril prompts 9 "Trust Issues", 19 "Trembling", 22 "Drained", 27 "Panicked"
When he comes to and blinks his eyes open, he is still lying in the bracken between the bushes, like before. He cannot have been out cold for long. Hissing through clenched teeth from the pain, Cahir tries to sit up to find out what is going on, yet all he manages to do before his vision goes blurry again and the world starts to spin is notice that the Witcher is not with him. He is all alone. Feeling sick and cold and dizzy, he sinks back onto the fern-covered ground with a groan. His head hurts so badly, he is hardly able to think straight and suddenly, he starts to panic. Where the fuck is Geralt? What if he has been captured? Or has the Witcher left him behind after all? Geralt would never abandon Jaskier or Milva and Regis would simply regenerate within a minute or two, but only a few days ago the Witcher accused him of being a traitor, of only having joined his strange company to spy on them and sell them out to Nilfgaard. Cahir's cheek is still black and blue from their vicious fist fight. Geralt has apologised to him for the wrongful accusation but that does not automatically mean he would play nurse for his former enemy or risk his and his friends' lives for the black knight of Cintra who haunted the Witcher's child surprise's worst nightmares for so long, maybe still does. It would be stupid and dangerous, too, to stay here with his injured comrade, and Cahir himself would not want him to. On the other hand, he does not want to be alone again in this wilderness with a prize on his head and too ill to even get up. Damn, he does not want to die all alone, no matter how much he might deserve it. Cahir swallows hard and tries to calm himself, tries to tell himself that the Witcher would be back, but it does not really work. He trusts Geralt, yes, but does the Witcher trust him?
Then, Cahir hears a noise like the faint roll of thunder. It is getting louder, quickly coming closer. The hoofbeat of more than two dozen horses on the highway. Shit, their pursuers, they are almost here. The horses are brought to a halt and commandos are shouted both in the Common speech and Nilfgaardian. Some of the men seem to dismount and soon, there is the rustling of leaves and the crackle of twigs. They are combing the roadside bushes. Cahir freezes with fear and barely dares to breathe. If he is discovered by the Nilfgaardian soldiers or Nightingale's men, he will be very lucky if it is just the noose for him. He killed and wounded at least half a dozen of them during the fight in Belhaven, and they know who he is. They are surely thirsting for revenge, and then there is the bounty. Dead or alive. Cahir shudders at the thought of what they will do to him if they find him here, unable to fight back or flee. Geralt's fate will not be any different if he is still around and not on his way to Toussaint with Angouleme. Against so many, not even an exceptional, superhuman fighter like the White Wolf can win. And he was having trouble with his bad knee again.
After a few terribly tense minutes, the noises made by the search party grow more distant again. They seem to return to the road, probably convinced that, with one of the fugitives' horses lying dead from exhaustion, two of them would be sharing a mount now and would be easy to catch. Some more commandos are bellowed, then the bandits and soldiers resume their hot pursuit, the hoofbeats on the stone street quickly fading away.
Cahir takes a deep, shuddering breath. By the Great Sun, that was close. He almost pissed his pants from fear, and he is not somebody who gets scared easily. But being totally at other people's mercy - people who definitely have none - with nothing at all that you could do, is thoroughly terrifying. Like the coffin. Cahir shudders again at the thought of this horrible experience. Or from the cold, or from feeling so utterly shitty.
Suddenly, a horse whinnies near by and he hears more footsteps. Fuck, have not all of their pursuers left? Cahir blinks his eyes open with effort. Blurrily, he sees a man with white hair leading a horse toward him. Geralt. He is still here. Only that there are two of him.
The Witcher hunkers down next to Cahir, lifts him and holds him up. Cahir moans and groans pitifully from the throbbing pain in his head. But they cannot stay here. More pursuers might be coming and they might search the bushes more thoroughly.
"The horse is too feeble to bear you. Will you be able to walk?" Geralt asks, and this time, although the voice sounds as if the Witcher was far away and not directly beside him, Cahir understands the gist of it. Walk. He has no idea if he will be able to do so, but with a pained grunt, he puts one foot in front of the other. His legs feel as heavy as lead and it is more shuffling than walking and works only because Geralt supports him, yet, together they somehow make it down the ravine and toward the stream running through it.
Close to the stream, the slope is slippery and, terribly thirsty all of a sudden, Cahir half tumbles, half slides down it in a chaotic descent. On all fours, he crawls the last metre down the bank and greedily gulps in the cold water. Then he poured the icy water copiously over the bandage on his head. The almost freezing water helps dull the pain from the bad cut and he feels a little better, refreshed and not quite as dizzy as before. Geralt does not hurry him but uses the time to catch his breath and gather his strength, for he is also panting heavily. As is Cahir's horse. It drinks from the stream as thirstily as the man while huffing and puffing and trembling from their break-neck flight. If they had continued on, it would, no doubt, soon have met the same fate as Geralt's poor mount.
They walk upstream through the water to not leave any visible tracks, nor a scent trail in case their pursuers happened to put hunting dogs on them. It is difficult and their progress is slow with Geralt supporting Cahir while, at the same time, pulling the exhausted horse along after them through the rocky stream bed. For some time, they stumble across slippery pebbles and rocks, fallen, moss-covered tree trunks and branches, and through thick layers of fallen leaves that are slick with algal aufwuchs. Then Cahir slows down, his legs feeling heavier and heavier, and finally so heavy they are impossible to lift. Almost at the end of his rope and close to collapsing, he holds onto Geralt who drags him along for a few metres. However, with the stream bed obstructed by rocks and little waterfalls, it is impossible to continue like this. With a loud grunt, Geralt lifts his wounded and barely conscious companion onto his back. Cahir moans and whimpers and Geralt feels warm, sticky blood seep into his shirt from where the bandage around the younger man's head has bled through. He is shaking violently too, from walking through the icy cold water and the blood loss. They have to find a place to hide and rest soon. The cut needs to be stitched up and somehow he needs to keep Cahir warm. A shed maybe, or a cave. But first they have to get out of the ravine. The Witcher trudges on with his burden, huffing and puffing worse than the horse he is pulling by its rein with his free hand. Which does not make things easier for him, the contrary. Fortunately, Cahir is not too heavily built, yet, when they finally emerge from the ravine, Geralt collapses onto the forest floor next to the groaning Cahir, panting and wheezing and totally drained, cursing his knee under his breath. It has begun to throb with intense pain from the extra weight and strain. For a long time, they lie on the moist, moss-covered soil side by side, both aching badly and weary to the bone. Then, finally, Cahir starts to show signs of life again. He groans loudly, then blinks and struggles into a sitting position, holding his aching head in both hands. Blood is dripping into his eyes again, not gushing like before and, when Cahir wipes the blood away with his sleeve, the bleeding slows to a trickle, yet, it is not a good sign that it has not stopped by now. The wound might be even worse than it looked when he dressed it, and it was a pretty gruesome sight then. With a hoarse grunt, Geralt struggles to his feet. Next to him, much to his surprise, Cahir does the same, still holding his head and swearing colourfully in Nilfgaardian.
They set off, like an invalid, old couple, Geralt limping badly while pulling the similarly invalid and feeble horse. Cahir marches astonishingly bravely at first. Then he slows. Then he slumps down. Fuck! Cursing loudly, Geralt heaves him onto his back again and lugs him through the underbrush, grunting and panting and stumbling and slipping over stones, branches and tree roots. His knee is giving him hell, and he just so manages to not collapse himself as pain shoots through the badly healed leg and fiery, black bees seem to flash in front of his eyes. And it is not only the pain that torments him. It is the memories, too. The recollections of Thanedd, of his vicious fight with Vilgefortz that almost cost him his life and left him with this debilitating injury, the memory of losing Ciri, his daughter, to an unknown fate, of losing Yennefer, the love of his life. And the knowledge of her betrayal. It hurts even more than his knee.
"Just a month ago ...," Cahir moans from his back. "Who'd have thought you'd be lugging me like this ..."
"Quiet, Nilfgaardian ... You're heavier when you talk ..." Geralt grinds through gritted teeth. For once, Cahir does not protest that he is not a Nilfgaardian. Not a good sign. Damn it. Geralt starts to curse again in between his heavy breathing. Cursing and being angry at his fate and the gods, at the fucker Vilgefortz, at Yennefer, at Emhyr var Emreis and the whole continent, helps to stay on his feet and not to sink into despair. Helps him along until, when dusk is approaching, they reach the rock wall and his legs fold up and he falls into the first opening he comes across, socompletely exhausted and dead on his feet that he does not even check the cave for bears or monsters.