While Regis and Yennefer are working hard to save Cahir's life and fix as much of the damage the collapsed tower has caused, Vesemir steps away from the laboratory table to give them space. Sitting on one of the stone steps encircling the central table, he waits. What for, he is not sure. He is too old, has seen too much to believe in miracles. And Cahir would not wake up any time soon, that much he knows of medicine, not with a serious head trauma like this. It might take days, weeks even - if he wakes up at all. At the moment it is probably for the best that he is out cold and insensible. All those broken bones, bruises and contusions must be causing a tremendous amount of pain. If Cahir were conscious, he would be screaming with agony. No, he is not waiting for his boy to wake up, and, with Regis and Yennefer taking good care of him, Vesemir is hopeful that he is not waiting here to be with him when he breathes his last, either. Maybe there is no purpose at all, just the need to be close at hand whatever happens, even though he cannot do a thing to help. So, he just sits there, useless and mostly forgotten, his face cupped in his hands, his eyes closed for long stretches of time, praying to heaven and hell that Cahir will be alright, eventually.

After what feels like hours, Regis tells Yennefer that she has done enough and accompanies her to the adjoining room, the one where the boys used to sleep tied to their beds during the trial of the grasses. Vesemir takes it as a cue that it is his turn now to look after Cahir together with the vampire - no, higher vampire. Cursing his leg that is still giving him trouble from time to time, he gets to his feet and walks over to the table. Cahir looks marginally better than before Yennefer's arrival. Well, he is not all covered in blood anymore and his head injury is neatly bandaged. This certainly makes a difference. His pulse is still weak but his heart rate is slightly steadier, as is his breathing, and the gaping wound in his thigh is partly healed. This is progress, although the boy is far from out of the woods yet, Vesemir is painfully aware of it.

"It is good to see that Cahir has found a new family here," Regis says, appearing next to the old Witcher like out of nowhere, smiling through pursed lips. After Vesemir's - understandable - reluctance to let the higher vampire inside his home, he has warmed up toward the elderly herbalist astoundingly quickly. Maybe Regis can call what has developed over the weeks a tentative friendship even? Yes, he can, he decides, and much of it is born from the fact that they both care about the same people. There are differences, of course. Regis, for example, has never thought of Geralt as his boy, like Vesemir does, and it makes sense, too, as Vesemir has known Geralt ever since he was a young child while Regis has met the very adult, white-haired Witcher less than a year and a half ago. No, Geralt is not his boy, but his very best friend and his equal. With Cahir, it is different. Although he is, of course, no less an adult than Geralt, he has always felt like a boy to him, and Regis knows it is the same for Vesemir. In addition, they both know what it means to lose a loved one. Vesemir has seen plenty of his Witcher trainees die in agony during the trial of the grasses and too many of those who survived never returned from the path. For a brief moment, Regis's thoughts wander to Milva and Angoulême. Their deaths hit him hard, a lot harder than he ever thought possible. How relieved he was when he found out just a few weeks ago that, of the humans in their Hansa, at least Cahir survived Stygga. And has found a home.

"I suppose it's just the two of us now," Regis adds thoughtfully. "Would you perhaps be so kind and assist me with the tourniquet, Vesemir?"

"Sure," the old Witcher says. Then he looks Regis in the eye. "Friend," he adds almost solemnly and with a smile, the very first one directed at the higher vampire. Regis smiles back at him, showing his full set of vampire teeth. Vesemir does not flinch or recoil or even bat an eyelid. Then the two set to work, silently and efficiently, as if they had never done anything else. With her magic, Yennefer has already healed the worst damage, but the wound has to be disinfected and stitched up before they can remove the tourniquet, apply a healing poultice and dress it properly. Between the two, it does not take long, though. Then Regis gathers his softly whimpering young friend into his arms and carefully carries him to one of the beds in the adjacent room. Vesemir follows him on his heels. The old Witcher knows that vampires are incredibly strong but seeing the elderly gentleman lift and carry a grown man as easily as if he were a mere kitten is still astounding. When Regis has gently placed Cahir on the bed, Vesemir covers him with several warming blankets almost up to the nose. After losing so much blood, the boy must feel awfully cold even though he cannot tell them.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Vesemir then asks quietly so he would not wake Yennefer.

"If you could stay with him for a while? I'm going to check on Ciri. And Geralt will want to know how Cahir is doing."

Vesemir nods. Checking on Ciri is probably not really necessary and he could tell Gerat, too, but there is no place he would rather be at the moment than by Cahir's bedside, holding his boy's hand. Regis must know it, too. Somehow it is a bit eery that the higher vampire seems to be able to read him so well. On the other hand, it feels good to, for the first time in many, many years, have somebody around who is even older and wiser than he is. Who knows and understands everything and has their backs. Now, finally, he fully grasps why Geralt trusts Regis so much despite him being a so-called monster.

No, he is not a monster. And he is not just a friend. He is family.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Although Ciri is so tired she can hardly keep her eyes open, she has difficulty finding sleep. Too much has happened. What if Cahir dies? She hates what he told her, what he did, but he did it on her father's orders. He was just a soldier with a good bow and a good aim. Eist would have died that day anyway, like Calanthe did, if not by Cahir's hand, then by someone else's. Or by his own. Still, if Cahir survives, will she be able not only to forgive him but live with him under the same roof without having to think of her dead grandfather every time she sees him? And how will he feel about it? The guilt must be like a festering wound for him, too. A wound that reopens every time they meet. Can wounds like this one ever heal? Maybe not. It would have been so much better if he had never remembered this. What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over. Now they both know. And it is not something you can simply forget.

Sighing deeply, Ciri sits up.

"What is it, daughter?" Geralt asks immediately. "You aren't in pain, are you?"

"No, it's just— I have to tell you something. Why I screamed."

"Don't you want to wait until tomorrow, honey?" Jaskier suggests. "Honestly, Ciri, you look like death warmed over and should sleep. I can sing you a lullaby, if you'd like. The one about the siren and the prince, maybe?" He reaches for his lute, but Ciri shakes her head determinedly. Although, perhaps, she is a bit old for it by now, she loves to fall asleep to one of the bard's tunes, and especially to this one. Yet, Ciri knows in her heart that this time it would not work. Nothing beside a very strong sleeping potion would. Or getting off her chest what troubles her.

"Alright, my pocket-sized princess, then why did you scream?" Jaskier asks, sitting down beside her on her bed and wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "You didn't see a big, fat, hairy spider, did you? I'd scream like crazy then."

Ciri has to giggle despite herself, but only for a short moment. Then, with sudden tears in her eyes and in her voice, she tells them.

"Fuck," Geralt says after a moment of silence.

"Fuckety fuck, that is bad indeed," Jaskier adds with a deep sigh. "Come here, darling, let me dry those tears." He fishes a frilly, pink handkerchief from his vest pocket and, hugging her even closer, gently dabs at Ciri's eyes. Yet, now the tears begin to flow for real and Ciri starts to sob uncontrollably in Jaskier's arms. Tears of grief for her dead grandfather and grandmother, for the loss of her childhood, her home, for all the death and destruction and pain that followed, but also for the evil things she has done and is ashamed of. And for Cahir who might be dying because of her.

"Here, my daughter, drink this. It will make you feel better." Geralt holds a mug in front of her tear-streaked face when the sobs finally cease. She looks up into his concerned face. In her grief she did not even notice that he had left the room.

Ciri takes a sip. Warm milk with honey. It does make her feel better. And very sleepy. As soon as the mug is empty, Geralt and Jaskier tuck her in. Then Jaskier starts to sing a lullaby for her. It is not the one she expected but one she has never heard before. A fairytale song about a little tin soldier with only one leg and his tiny ballerina, and their eternal love. It is beautiful and sad and exactly what she needs to finally fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that her family is always there for her. Never lost, always found, like in the fairytale.