A Hundred Years and One More Day

Ciri stares at the fire, stirring the embers, her face melancholic. The mist still hangs in the air like an icy haze, freezing her to the bone. She wants to put her feet into the fire, just not to feel this damp and omnipresent cold. The witcher reflexively moves closer, her pale nostrils taking in the tart smoke and the aroma of herbs boiling in the pot. She can’t wait to taste the pungent-smelling brew, to feel its burning bitterness on her lips. The former princess shivers, wraps herself tighter in her cloak and involuntarily glances at her companion. He’s close, just on the other side of the nicely crackling fire, stirring the brew with his unfailing impassivity. Ciri wants to poke him with a stick or shake him by the shoulders, only to take this calm expression off his thin, sun-kissed face. Cold and biting, like frost on the grass beneath her cloak. He never speaks to her first. This silence drives her insane, tickling her skull from the inside and making her yammer about all sorts of nonsense. She's already sick of the sound of her own voice. But the Nilfgaardian remaines politely quiet, nodding and humming occasionally when it's impossible not to react. She wants to scream in his face, I’m here! Notice me! Tell me already that you are fed up with blabbering! But Cahir keeps silent, only whistling a sad foreign tune once in a while. He never looks at Ciri. The icy pools of his blue eyes would anxiously watch the thicket that surrounds them, or sadly look up at the sky, or pensively fall on the mane of the horse they stole from peasants. Even when the witcher sits right across from him, like now, the Nilfgaardian always finds a more interesting object to observe. Like the bubbles slowly rising to the surface of the herbal tea. At first, the former princess thought that Cahir despised her. That a proud southerner couldn’t stand the fact that he was saved by a half-wild northern girl. That made her want to spit right in his snotty bandaged face. But days gave way to nights, and still Emhyr’s former captive never once showed her disrespect. Quite the contrary—his manner of address was a vivid reminder of her grandma’s presence chambers and the knights crowding them. They lowered their eyes respectively when the Lioness walked to the throne, accompanied by her Lion Cub. They never spoke first, waiting for the queen to deign to turn her royal eyes on them. They only ever used florid phrases from old novels, so confusing that Ciri had a ding in her ears, trying to decipher this stream of exquisite pleasantries. Cahir was certainly a knight. He held her by the elbow so that the nimble witcher wouldn’t trip over the dangerously protruding roots of ancient fir trees. He opened the door for her and let her in first when, crouched, they entered a tavern that stank of garlic and cheap booze. He even kissed her hand, barely brushing her cold fingers with his bloody lips. He couldn’t speak at the time, with his jaw twisted, so he decided to express his gratitude in the only way available. Ciri still remembered the heat that rolled up to her cheeks like a wave and the feeling of terrible awkwardness. Back then, this simple gesture felt dizzyingly intimate. Now she knew that all the movements of the Nilfgaardian were graceful and honed to automaticity through years of training. And at the thought that he had kissed countless tender girl hands before hers Ciri’s heart sank with offence. Now she knew for certain: he was not a simple soldier. Nor was he born in a village. The former captive didn’t need to talk about his origin for the Swallow to see who was in front of her. And yet, Cahir was different. There was no needless floridness or feigned mystery about him. When the witcher asked something directly, he answered briefly and plainly, as if reporting to a superior. Not a word spoken in a soft southern accent was uttered for no reason. His movements, scarce and precise, betrayed a seasoned warrior, accustomed to the hardships of camp life. He easily split firewood and made a stupendously delicious fish soup. He methodically sharpened his sword, decently patched his torn shirt and polished his old worn-out boots until they shone. At moments like that he seemed so simple, so easy to read that Ciri wanted to get him to talk again. But after several fruitless attempts, she realised: the Nilfgaardian did not want to let her into his world. So open at first glance, he seemed to wear the impenetrable imperial armour right beneath his skin. The Swallow wanted to get under it, but she couldn’t bring herself to trouble the former soldier for fear of stirring up something painful and irreparable. The Swallow stirs the embers with a long stick, lost in thought, and unintentionally looks up at Cahir. Instead of the usual curly crown, however, she meets a searching, studying look. The one that swiftly flashes to the toes of the worn-out boots. Ciri notices the tanned cheeks flush up with dark spots. She feels a hot wave running through her body, twisting her insides into agonisingly tight knots, forcing her thighs to clench and her hands to grab hold of the edge of her cloak, torn since her time in Stygga. Blood rushes to her cheeks in a feverish stream to colour them with ugly reddish spots. The witcher so desperately wants to turn down the collar of her linen shirt to cool her burning chest with the icy breath of the morning. “What are you staring at?” she throws defiantly, as soon as the suffocating heat retreats a little from her parched throat. She feels uneasy and awkward. And so she wants to punish him for it. “I… didn’t mean to,” says Cahir, his eyes still staring hard at the blades of grass crushed by the soles of his boots. “Brew will be ready in a minute,” he obviously and desperately wants to change the subject. Ciri snorts. She wants the former officer of the Blacks to stop looking at her like that. And yet, she longs to feel the burning touch of this look again. The former princess didn’t even think that the quiet Nilfgaardian could look like that. It was nothing like the lustful stares of Kayleigh or Mistle’s tender gaze sliding like silk over her goosebump-covered skin. Ciri shakes her head to drive away this fancy and buries her nose into her folded hands, warming them with ragged breathing. She shouldn’t think like that about a former officer of the Black army. The Swallow doesn’t know who he really is. She doesn’t know if he took part in the sacking of Cintra. He could rob, kill, rape. He could hang the headless corpses of knights on the walls of her castle. He could let prisoners be torn apart by dogs. He could. And he could not. The witcher can’t imagine the gentle, caring Cahir standing amidst the mountains of corpses, all covered in blood. She knows that she may be deluding herself. And she is glad to keep this sweet illusion. “Here.” The Nilfgaardian reaches out to her across the fire, holding a brimming mug of a pungent-smelling brew. Ciri grabs it greedily, her icy hands covering the dusky, fire-warmed ones for a moment. An invisible spark that runs along the very tips of their fingers makes them both shudder. The Swallow pulls the mug closer, breaking the ephemeral thread. “Thank you,” she mumbles, almost dipping the blue tip of her nose into the fragrant tea. “You’re welcome.” His blue eyes smile at her through the flames, glowing with warmth and affection. “I promised Geralt that I would take care of you. Morning tea is the least I can do for it. Ciri falls silent. She listens and cannot believe what she hears: the usually short-spoken Nilfgaardian is keeping up the conversation. On his own volition. Not to warn her about danger, not to ask directions, not to thank her for dinner. But simply because he wants to talk with her. “You never told me how you met Geralt,” the witcher remarks, suddenly timid. She is afraid to breathe, afraid to scare away this unexpected, sweet impulse of his. “He saved me,” Cahir answers simply, taking a sip of tea, his fingers clinging to the mug as he tries to absorb the rapidly slipping warmth. “He recaptured me from the Nilfgaardians. They were taking me to the Empire, to Emhyr. Geralt freed me. Without his intervention, I would have been long executed. I wanted to repay him. I wanted to help.” “Why were they taking you to Emhyr?” the Swallow prods. She wants to make the most of this moment of revelation. “I’m a traitor,” the former officer says this so simply, as if he were talking about what he had for dinner last night. “I betrayed Nilfgaard, disgraced my station and my family. I was to be strung up. Or worse.” “And of course you are innocent,” Ciri teases him deliberately. “Why?” The Nilfgaardian smiles unexpectedly softly. “I am guilty. I didn’t follow an order. Could not follow it. You can’t commit villainy, crime, even if commanded by an emperor.” The witcher nods curtly and looks away to study the dance of the flexible flames. She has nothing to add. Neither does Cahir. They both go quiet, each lost in their own sad thoughts. “Do you think about them often?” Ciri breaks the long silence. Now it strangles her more than it did twenty minutes ago. “About your family,” she clarifies, catching the blank stare of the former captive. “Often,” he doesn’t try to deny it. “Especially about my mother. I loved her a lot. Tried not to upset her. They probably told her that I died in battle. I hope so,” he adds very quietly. “It was she who taught me how to make this tea. I often caught a cold when I was little. She would place me in front of the fire, wrap me up in a blanket, and give me this tea with raspberry jam. And then she would hug me tightly and sing to me. I fell asleep in her arms, and when I woke up, I was healthy. “Sing me your mother's song,” Ciri says, almost in a whisper, as she hides her stinging eyes. “I can't sing.” Cahir shakes his head with regret. “It wouldn't be the same. You wouldn't understand it anyway: she sang it to me in our native dialect. The Swallow sights, but does not argue. She tries and fails to remember her own mother's lullabies. Her childhood memories have been erased, blackened by the smoke of the burning Cintra, washed away with blood of Calanthe, Eist, Mistle. All that remains is the warmth of soft, mint-smelling palms on her cheeks. She wants to feel it again, if only for a moment. But all she has at her disposal is the fire heat. A heavy cloak, lined with fur and stolen from a passing merchant, covers her shoulders, followed by the strong hands that pull her closer and cradle her. Ciri shudders from this unrequested, unexpected caress that she so desperately needs now. The Nilfgaardian smells of steel, leather and something tangy, spicy, exciting. He's warm. He has sharp collarbones and hard, calloused fingers. He runs them through her ashen hair, and the witcher relaxes. “You must be missing your family too,” soothes a quiet voice right above her ear. “I'd like to help with it, but I can't. But know this—you have me.” Ciri wants to sob, but she holds back, and only gives a quick nod, tickling his cheeks with the tips of her tousled hair. She knows—he's telling the truth.