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It was never boring or exhausting with her.
How could it be?
Despite how all of it was etched into even the darkened corners of his memories, he never wanted anything else. There was never an urge to wake up beside someone who was not her.
He wouldn’t change any of their life or her.
The way the thin rays of sunlight caught the wisps of her ashen hair as it soaked through tavern windows and thin curtains, illuminating her like she belonged to shine in the sky, not lay beside him in a threadbare bed. When they slept beneath the moon, bones travel-worn and aching, she shone even more.
It was always a sight to behold.
Her legs would always use his own to stretch out the dull aches of her slumber and she didn’t care if such an act woke him. On the occasions it did wake him, she would smile proudly—like a cat that had gotten some cream—despite the bags beneath her eyes.
“You’re a menace.” He would declare, a laugh hiding in the lilt of his words.
“Would you have me any other way?” She often replied, knowing full well what his answer would be to such an easy question.
“Never, Ciri.” He often promised, hoping she would always believe him. Deft fingers moved the soft wisps of hair from her eyes and she smiled sleepily as she always did before they both reached out to claim one another’s lips.
Cahir would never take another morning for granted again. The last time he was in Toussaint, many years ago, he had grown accustomed to slow mornings but now, not even a luxury breakfast in Beauclair could compare to Ciri perfectly fitting in his arms.
On rare occasions, he would wake up in her embrace instead—that was if an embrace could be defined as her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of his neck, calloused fingers tracing his jawline and tempting desire to fill up his veins.
She was a wicked thing who answered to his every whim.
Even in those kinds of dreams, he had never quite imagined it to be like this.
Never did he imagine her lips everywhere, finding places he had never thought or dreamed of and bringing a rise to pleasure that he didn’t know was possible.
And when she smirked up at him afterwards, he felt like he could die a happy man.
It was worse when they visited Corvo Biano, more often than not at Yuletide. Ciri was rather good at ignoring Geralt’s displeasure as she led him up to the spare room each night with a half-wild grin. It had a bed just big enough for them to both fit into if they got the angle right. It wasn’t a particularly private room—Corvo Bianco had thin walls—but it was something they had made their own.
Ciri never allowed the matter of Geralt and Yennefer sleeping in the room below to stop her.
“Their room has a perfectly good door.” She argued, that playful smile he loved present on her lips.
“Ciri,” he chuckled, throwing an arm across his eyes and most of his face so she wouldn’t see him laugh, “what of Geralt’s impeccable hearing?”
He felt her shrug beside him before she turned on her side, propped up on her elbow. “He’s getting old.” Ciri reasoned, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear so gently it made his foolish heart squeeze.
“So am I.”
“Oh, I did notice those few strands of grey hair at your temple but I didn’t wish to be the first to say…” Ciri teased, a wide grin then spreading out on her lips as he moved his arm to squint at her.
“Tormenting me now, are you?” He quipped in return, almost as if his slightly older age wasn’t the source of most of their gentle banter. Cahir believed she got her teasing from Yennefer—he had heard her and Geralt with their silly but endearing word game.
“And you never do that to me, do you?” Ciri laughed, carefree and no doubt in an attempt to test Geralt’s hearing. “Such a grumpy Nilfgaardian.”
“Hey, you know I don’t—“
His defence came too late; her hands found their way to his ribs and dug in, tickling him so mercilessly he could do nothing but squirm.
“I yield!” Ciri spluttered out after a short while, once he had gotten the upper hand and almost thrown them out of the small bed twice.
Cahir chuckled to himself as he watched her shuffle her way up, resting her head back against the pillows. One of his hands rested against her hip whilst the other ran gently up and down her thigh, beneath the thin fabric she wore.
Marlene had gifted her a linen dress, embroidered with simple yet colourful flowers that Ciri had refused to take off since she had received it.
Her hand found its way to his face and gently cupped his cheek, her thumb drawing the same lines and curves there as he did on her thigh. “What are you thinking?” Her voice was quiet as she asked.
“Everything, all at once.” Cahir pressed a fleeting kiss to her forehead. “Most of all, I’m thinking of how much I love you.”
The look that crossed her features made his chest hurt.
“I adore you.” Ciri replied and then quickly added, “I know I’m not particularly the best at—”
Cahir gently hushed her with a kiss which she willingly accepted. “I know,” he whispered as they parted. He could spend hours like this; above her, taking in every freckle, every laughter line and each mischievous glint that sparkled in her eyes.
Great Sun, he adored her.
“So,” Ciri said in that tone which meant she was changing the subject, “you’re fine with Geralt hearing us laugh like madmen but not hearing—”
“Stop, just stop.” Cahir laughed before he pressed a kiss to her neck, admiring how he could feel the steady rhythm of her heart as his lips lingered.
“Truth be told,” Ciri began, her signature cheekiness present in every firm pronunciation of her words, “I’ve never met a man that is as loud as you are when—”
“Ciri, by all the Gods…”
Ciri laughed, loud, carefree and every bit endearing as herself.
He worked his kisses further down her frame, silently thanking whichever Gods who may have been listening for allowing him her trust and her affection.
Cahir never got tired of listening to her come undone first, with his head between her thighs, her fingers threaded through his hair and her back arched toward the heavens. Often, he would trail his hand up and lightly clamp it over her mouth, Geralt’s wrath always playing at the corner of his mind. He’d been rewarded with the light scrape of her teeth against his skin, or on some rare occasions, a fleeting kiss against the scar of her creation that still laid rough on his palm.
His resolve usually crumbled after that, Geralt forgotten and their adoration allowed to exist freely in the air.
They fit together perfectly and he never wanted it to end, never wanted to leave her arms and could never imagine himself with anyone else.
How could he? After all those years of devotion?
She laid deep in his veins, in the very essence of his being.
The love he cherished so deeply only grew when he saw her with children. It made him warm but sometimes it left a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Gretka, however, was a lovely girl and he adored her almost as much as Ciri did.
Toussaint was warm enough to sit outside with a decently tailored cloak, even in the middle of its winter. He and Ciri always sat atop the hill overlooking Corvo Bianco with Gretka to keep her out of Yennefer and Geralt’s hair for a few hours, homemade pastries and jams from Marlene, a blanket on the grass whilst the sun was still high in the sky.
Ciri and Gretka would play their silly card game for hours on end—he still didn’t understand it despite Ciri’s attempts to teach him—whilst he would lay with his head in Ciri’s lap, who would occasionally run her fingers through his hair as he looked up at the blue skies, imagining what could and could never be.
The Dyffryn family was quite large; he had two brothers and three sisters that he fondly remembered running wild with, youthful and full of chaos. Children had always been something of an end goal for him. Cahir had always imagined returning home from the Northern War, taking a beautiful wife and healing his wounds—both the mental and physical—with children he could picture so clearly in his mind, running under his feet.
They would have his dark hair and blue eyes. A mother for them he never could conjure up—until now. Those children he imagined in his foolish dreams before the horrors of war had gripped him now took a different form. Dark hair was still present but now their eyes were emerald green, eyes he would recognise in death or whatever else may lie in the beyond.
“Cahir?” Gretka inquired softly, pulling him from his thoughts as she always did.
“What is it?”
“Think you could play hopscotch with me?”
“Of course!” Cahir quickly answered with a smile before he took a quick look up at Ciri who was looking off to the horizon. “Did you make it already?”
Gretka quickly polished off the pastry she had been picking at for some time. “Yes, yesterday!”
Ciri snorted quietly to herself.
“Go on then, I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Gretka needed no further instruction as she jumped up, happier than ever and waved at Ciri before she disappeared down the hill.
Gently, Cahir took Ciri’s hand in his and interlaced their fingers as he always did before pressing a fleeting kiss to her knuckles.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Everything,” Ciri murmured, eyes still focused on a particular spot in the sky.
“Do you wish to talk?” He offered after what felt like hours.
Still, after all the time they had spent together, in their never-ending circle of this, he always feared what came next.
“Later,” her vague reassurance never worked anymore. “Gretka is waiting for you now.”
Later.
How he always dreaded later.
That never changed either.
Ciri made her presence scarce for the remainder of the day. Cahir assumed she would be with Geralt—usually, when it was like this, they would take out a contract together, much to Yennefer’s annoyance.
“They will be back soon.” He would sometimes say in an attempt to comfort the sorceress as if she needed comforting, as if she did not know they would return safely.
“I know.” Yennefer’s fingers twisted the obsidian star that hung from her neck, a trait he had become more familiar with as of late. Cahir had always been under the impression sorceresses did not fret or did not care for anyone but themselves—Yennefer soon showed him that was not the case. “It is the state they will return in that I worry about.”
“As do I,” Cahir replied, still somewhat hesitant to address her just as he had been the moment they first met, after Stygga.
How he wished he could forget that castle. How they all did.
Ciri didn’t return until later. Much later.
The stupid, small bed creaked as she clambered in and he felt her breath, warm and rapid at the base of his neck. Ciri’s hand found the curve of his shoulder and gripped gently, beckoning him to face her. Cahir obliged her, as he always did; a follower to her every order, whim and desire.
“All done with the contract?”
“Yes,” Ciri answered curtly, brushing wisps of hair from his forehead as he turned to face her, bedsheets drawn up to his chin. A regretful sigh passed her lips before she spoke again, “It was quite simple.”
“Tell me.”
Ciri snorted lightly, “If I tell you every small detail, you’ll just fall asleep.”
“Your line of work does interest me, Ciri.”
“I know.” Unexpectedly, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I want to speak of something else.”
The moment he always dreaded the most. The one where she would leave.
“What is it?” He managed to blurt out despite the dryness of his lips and the taste of copper on his tongue.
“A contract in Kovir. For what sounds something like a Hym.” He noticed how her eyes appeared brighter from talking about something she loved.
“And how long will you go for?” Cahir asked quietly, daring not to speak in anything but hushed tones. If he spoke louder, fear would grab him. Fear and loneliness.
“A few months, give or take.”
“On your own?”
“Cahir…”
“I meant, is Geralt going with you? I know you won’t want me to follow.”
“I’ll go it alone,” Ciri mentioned defiantly, in that tone he usually adored her for. “Cahir, I can’t be what you want me to be.”
His throat tightened, restricting what he wanted to say. He should be used to this by now.
“I want you.” Cahir managed to choke out, desperation already clinging to his every word. “All I have ever wanted is you.”
Her palm rested against his cheek, barely-there like she would be once morning light rose.
“And what about children? A family?”
“I know the risks involved.” He protested.
“And I know you,” Ciri said calmly. “I see the way you are with Gretka, how you were with your sister’s children when we visited Darn Dyffra.”
There was no way of denying her words. Just as he knew her to her very bones, she knew him and in ways no one else did—not Geralt, not Milva.
“If it’s not what you want then it’s not what I want either. I want you to be happy. Above everything, Ciri. That’s all I have ever wanted.” A sigh left his lips, now considerably drier than earlier, “How many times must we repeat this?”
“You’re right.” She admitted after some silent moments of thought, “Still, I must go.”
Cahir edged closer to her as she opened her arms, allowing him to rest his head on her chest. Her hand ran up and down his back, soothing and beckoning him into a slumber. He wouldn’t fall prey to it.
“I’m suffocating,” Ciri said after some time spent in silent thought.
“I know.”
“And you won’t stop me? Force me to stay here, in your arms?” Her breath was hot against his forehead, his eyes fluttering shut as he stayed in her warmth for as long as she would let him.
“I would never force anything on you.” Cahir declared with a sense of hope as he felt her shoulders relax, “None of us would.”
The next silence seemed to last a lifetime.
“Ask me to stay.” Her voice was soft-spoken, containing no hint of the Ciri he loved dearly. None of her sharp words or quick-wit.
“Stay.” He tilted his head up and peppered a kiss beneath her chin, “Stay,” a kiss to her jaw, “Stay with me.”
The spot next to him was always cold in the morning. No matter how many times it happened, how often they would have the same conversation or how many times she would yearn for a break, he always knew she would return to him when she was ready. Those little embers of hope kept him warm during the cold and lonely nights.
Cahir left for Novigrad only a few days after Ciri left. Geralt often made it clear he was always welcome at the Vineyard but it wasn’t the same. Corvo Bianco was empty without the echo of her laughter and her effortless way of bringing life into each room.
“How will she find you?” Geralt would always ask even though he knew the answer.
“We have our spots,” Cahir reassured him as Geralt grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in for a fierce hug. He had grown to love them over the years. Neither of them would admit that though.
The hustle and bustle of Novigrad? That was boring.
But the best room in The Chameleon? Not boring in the slightest.
The bed was too large without Ciri curled around him, too empty.
Most of his days were spent with Zoltan, who picked up where Ciri and Gretka left off in trying to teach him how to play cards. Dandelion often piped in unnecessarily. Cahir didn’t mind so much. Priscilla, however, was a delight; he had found that out early into his relationship with Ciri. Though, he didn’t like how she often said she would compose a ballad about his and Ciri’s entwined destinies.
Most nights, he crashed into the bed.
This night was no different to the others, the soft sheets welcoming him home. He had been thinking of moving on to a different location lately, perhaps heading over to Dilligen.
“I’ll sleep on it,” he said to himself mid-yawn, settling his head on the pillows and allowing sleep to consume him.
Cahir wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep or whether he had truly been asleep at all when he noticed the room had gotten a little colder. He had no magical bone in his body but he knew enough to recognise her signature, her trace, her essence.
The covers drew back as the bed dipped and her cold arm draped around his waist, as it always did when she returned home. Home to him.
Ciri’s lips pressed against his shoulder, wisps of her hair tickling behind his ear as he continued to drift between the waking world and the one in which he dreamed. Her lips moved against his thin shirt, so thin that he could feel the sweet nothings she whispered into his skin beneath the moonlight which shone through the windows.
She whispered promises and declarations she was too afraid to utter aloud.
He knew them by heart. They kept him going. Even the very thought of them, the possibility of them kept his heart beating foolishly after Stygga.
And despite this routine, they shared of being with one another and parting, they only came back together more fiercely devoted to one another. Never did he become tired of having those sweet nothings and love she was too afraid to voice whispered against his skin in the dark.
“One day, I’ll give you the world,” Ciri whispered near to his ear before she pressed a light kiss against his cheek. “We’ll figure it out together and then, I’ll tell the entire Continent, from humans to drowners, how much you mean to me.”
Until then, Cahir was happy loving her enough for the both of them.