Something Ends...

The Nilfgaardian camp was asleep. At least that’s how it was meant to look. In fact, the sentries were well hidden around the entire perimeter. And not only on the border of the camp but also in its depths. Ciri cursed, strongly, as Lambert taught her. Of course the guards were all around the place: they were transporting the princess of Cintra… As to where and why, the Swallow did not yet know: the great Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, who had so thoroughly trampled the fate of her family with his fiery heels, didn’t honour the captive princess with an audience. They placed her in a sumptuous tent worthy of her station, dressed her in new clothes (after prudently taking away her swords), and fed her (like a pig to be slaughtered). For the first two days, she even liked it. She slept on a feather bed (the last time Ciri touched one of those was in Cintra), ate so much chocolate she loved it hurt her stomach, and had a good laugh over the governess assigned to her, making her turn red and white and yellow (as well as try on more exotic colours of the rainbow) with her taunts and expressions. The whole camp wouldn’t stop complaining about the obnoxiousness of the Lion Cub of Cintra. Meanwhile, the Lion Cub kept a close eye on every step they took. And waited… The moment presented itself on the fifth day. The governess, utterly exhausted by Ciri’s antics, had blessedly dropped off on a couch. After waiting for the steady snoring to last at least half an hour, the young witcher slipped out of the tent, a silvery shadow. The timing of her escape was not haphazard: Cirilla had learnt the guards’ shift schedule, as well as the habits of each patrol (down to the time they went to relieve themselves). Taking advantage of this same intimate moment, the princess of Cintra crawled on her stomach to a nearby tent. Then on to the next… Moving between the ever-wakeful Nilfgaardian patrols was easier than she thought. They were trained to deal with diversionists, spies, and assassins. But not witchers. Listening to every rustling noise, Ciri stubbornly made her way to the edge of the camp. There, beyond the guard lights, stood a saving oak grove, its branches swaying sleepily. The princess sniffed, happy: the trees smelled of dampness and coolness. Of Freedom… She could almost make out the uneven silhouettes of the sentries against the glowing fire when she heard a prolonged moan coming from her right. Ciri jerked, stretched out like a string, and melted into the fabric of the tent that was keeping her out of sight. She listened closely. There was the wind blowing through the meadow, swirling the intoxicating scent of wildflowers. A cicada singing in the distance. A sentry whistling on the border of the camp. All was quiet. As she took the first step in the direction of the woods, another moan, muffled by the fabric of the tent, made her press back in. It came again, this time duller. And more piteous. Whoever it was, it was clearly a captive. Injured, most likely. Ciri bit her lip. She didn’t want to waste time. The freedom she so longed for was some twenty yards away. She could not lose such a chance, there might never be another. There was not a second to lose: she could be sported by a chance sentry, or the governess could wake up at any moment and raise a fuss… The princess shook her head, and crawled on towards the woods, and… heard a sob. Quiet, strangled, desperate. Her heart clenched despite itself. As did her fists. The tent smelled strongly of blood and herbs. Like an infirmary. Only it wasn’t one. For the wounded didn’t wear shackles. The prisoner lay on the mat spread right on the ground. His body froze in an uncomfortable, unnatural pose, forced on him by the chains. His broad back, covered with a dirt-and-blood-stained shirt, shook a little. Ciri crawled closer, the muffled sobs growing more and more distinct. She couldn’t help it and gently put her hand on his shoulder. The wounded man flinched, as if struck by a whip, and sharply turned his pale, beaten face to meet hers. His nose was broken in two places, his jaw slanted a bit to the right, and his left eye completely swollen. The right one stared at her with a mixture of astonishment and fear. Azure, like a spring sky, Ciri thought out of turn. She had no more doubts. She placed a slender finger to her lips and, wheezing as she did so, began to tamper with the lock… …Cahir still thought he was delusional. Or that he died and went to heaven. Or hell. He wasn’t sure yet. He was only sure about one thing: the chase was somewhere close. But Ciri didn’t seem to care. Confident, she continued to lead him along seemingly impassable paths. Continued to wash and dress his wounds. Continued to smile at him cheekily and lively. To shiver from the chill and huddle to him at night, so that his palms turned cold and his heart jumped out of his chest. She didn’t ask him anything except his name. It didn’t matter to her who he was or why he was mutilated and shackled. For her, he was just Cahir, a former Nilfgaardian captive. He didn’t know where or why they were going. Nor did he want to. He just wanted to walk these woods like this forever, her hand tight in his.