A Hundred Years and One More Day

Cahir lies, stretched out, and looks up at the leaves of a young oak tree swaying steadily above his head. A sharp stone presses painfully into his back between his shoulder blades through a thin blanket. The root under his head is slightly damp and rough and scratchy against the raw skin. There is a nasty whining of a mosquito just above his ear. But it’s better this way. He turns his gaze to the ashen-haired crown resting on his chest. It snores peacefully and moans in its sleep. Cahir doesn’t see what could be the cause of these noises. His imagination does it for him, though. One that is too vivid for a former soldier. His body, rested and recovered from captivity and beatings, reacts in an instant. The Vikovarian curses through gritted teeth and carefully fidgets, trying to scratch his back hard against the stone. It doesn’t help much. Ciri, sensing his movement, tosses and turns in her sleep, moves closer, takes hold of the collar of his jacket, and throws her thigh over his leg. Spring nights are cold, and every time she falls asleep on a mat next to his own, she instinctively rolls closer, pressing her whole body to his. Cahir holds his breath to try and stop the tremor in his body as it gets out of control. He looks away, focusing again on the oak branches and the whining mosquito. Clenches his teeth, and bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. He knows: she did not do this on purpose. She is still hardly more than a child. A child with a rose tattooed on her inner thigh… The long-time dream that haunted him every night on the journey to Stygga is not of any help. Then, exhausted by endless marching and fighting, he would oft fall into blissful nothingness even before the black swirls of his hair touched the backpack that served him as a pillow. He could dream of his headstrong princess. And do so without compunction or any hope of saying a word to her. Now, though, his vision is snoring contentedly, drooling on the crook of his elbow, her mouth a lovely half-opened sight. She smells of dust and horse and sweat. Her hair has formed a tangled mess and darkened with dirt. She roars with laughter and curses like a squad of dwarves. There is absolutely nothing of a princess or a mage about her… A big green eye has opened slightly and looked up at him questioningly. Cahir freezes as he feels the searching gaze sweep over his long-unshaven chin. Ciri yawns sweetly, stretches out and curls up again, snuggling against her companion. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asks, melancholic, as she buries her nose in the crook of his arm. “Nightmares,” the Vikovarian answers, laconic. “Sleep. I’ll keep watch.” Ciri shrugs, makes herself comfortable, and goes back to snoring. She is quite satisfied with his answer. She doesn’t care much who the prisoner she saved is, what he has on his mind, what he wants, or why he has been following her so obediently through the impenetrable thicket for almost a week now. For her, he’s just Cahir. Just a soldier. Just an enemy of her enemy. It’s been more than enough to dress his busted head, eat with him from the same pot and talk about anything and everything. The Vikovarian finds himself thinking that she did not utter a word to him before they escaped from the Nilfgaardian camp. She was frightenedly silent in the ravine by the burning Cintra. Seductively silent in his dreams as she spread her bare thighs. Intently silent in Stygga as she parried the blows of Bonhart. He didn’t know what it was like, her voice. High and ringing. Nor did he know that Ciri loved to talk. Gone wild from her endless lonely wanderings, she’s been babbling about everything that they encounter on their way, just like a child. The former princess could spend hours, discussing the range of elven bows and the tactics of hunting nekkers, navigation by the stars and the taste of cloudberries. She’s only been silent about one thing. Herself. He wants to hear about how she fled from him across the burning land of her occupied homeland. How she cried from pain and fear in the refugee camp, curled up under the blanket. How she fell asleep in the cold tiny room in Kaer Morhen, a bruised arm resting under her head. He wants to hear about her escape from Thanedd and her leaps between worlds. He imagines how she would stop acting stoic and burst into tears, smearing them across her grimy cheeks as she spoke about the horrors of Stygga. How he would press her to his chest, his lips barely brushing the silvery crown of her head. How she would warm up in his arms, look up at him with cleared eyes and... Cahir grits his teeth as he catches himself overstepping the mark again. He shouldn’t think about her this way. Geralt explained it to him rather clearly through a pair of black eyes and a knocked-out tooth. Besides, he promised to protect Ciri, to take care of her, not to… The Vikovarian knows that he has no claim to her. All he can do is atone for Cintra. The sense of guilt for what he was to this frightened little girl burns him from the inside out every time he dares to look up at her. And the worst thing is that she doesn’t even know with whom she shared the shot rabbit they last had for supper. Cahir has never found it in himself to confess to her that it was his face hidden beneath the helmet framed by a bird of prey’s wings. At first, he was afraid that she would leave him in the forest, beaten and weakened, only to perish without his protection. Later on, he did not open his mouth and just stared at Ciri with his big blue eyes while she gutted a fat wood pigeon, lamenting that there was no cream for gravy to be found in the forest. Now, such revelations would simply be hypocrisy. The Vikovarian can’t disappoint her, doesn’t dare to push her away. Not when the vanguard of the Nilfgaardian army is close on their heels. Cahir sighs heavily and presses the thin shoulders of the Cintrian princess closer to himself. So fragile yet strong. So brave yet vulnerable. He admires her and fears for her so much that his insides curl into knots. And so he will remain silent. It’s not so hard to erase the past when there’s no going back to it. His family has long disowned him, his friends have blended in with the faceless machine of the imperial army. He only has her—his princess, his saviour, his curse. His destiny. Ciri purrs sweetly in her sleep and clings to him trustingly. And the former Nilfgaardian knight cannot fail to justify the trust of his lady.