Chapter Text
The wind outside howls like a wounded animal. It feels like an omen, a sign of things to come. Cahir wraps his cloak tighter around himself and pokes the embers in a fire pit with an iron rod in a futile attempt to get the fire going. It’s the middle of the night, the main hall is silent and cold, and the flames have long since died out. The only sign of life are a dozen or so candles that still burn around the main table, half-buried under a map of the keep.
He sits on the wooden bench and studies the map again, trying to memorise as many details, passages and points of advantage as possible in those final moments of breath before the battle. He’s been assigned to engage the Hunt in the forest alongside the Temerians, but if all else fails, if their defense is breached, every smallest bit of knowledge may prove crucial.
The Wild Hunt. All his life, he thought them to be a legend, a folk tale to frighten disobedient children. After meeting Ciri, after traveling with Geralt, he really should have known better.
Ciri.
It’s been three weeks since the chance meeting with Geralt in one of the utterly unremarkable, grim villages scattered across Velen; a meeting that turned Cahir’s world upside down, again.
After Stygga, after the heartbreaking news of the pogrom, he was sure their shared story was over. He mourned the loss of Geralt, and Ciri’s disappearance; with the people she loved gone, there was no reason for her to ever come back, he thought.
Yet, it turned out she’s done the impossible. Again.
Upon hearing of her return, and Geralt’s desperate need for allies, Cahir didn’t hesitate even for a moment before offering to travel to Kaer Morhen to aid them in the upcoming battle. Legends can be killed too, after all.
He rode like mad, changing horses often, driven by the fear of arriving too late, although there was a hefty dose of apprehension, too. After all this time, he had little idea what kind of a welcome to expect, especially since he never had a chance to talk to Ciri, to beg for forgiveness for the role he played in her anguish.
He was barely alive when he saw her last, delirious from the blood loss after the fight with Bonhart—and she was a traumatised girl who had just gone through hell and emerged victorious.
But when the green light exploded in Kaer Morhen's courtyard, drawing everyone's attention, it was not the girl he remembered that appeared. A confident, daring, beautiful woman stood there with Geralt, and Cahir could not stop staring. Everything about her changed—everything but her eyes, blazing emeralds, that bore into his and widened in recognition a moment before she dragged him into a fierce hug.
He held her for a heartbeat longer than was strictly proper, relishing in the feel of her, so brilliantly alive against him—
Like in his dreams.
With effort, Cahir drags his focus back to the present. The stillness before the storm is not the time, nor the place for indulging in fantasies. He needs to keep his focus on the impending fight.
As if on cue, the wind picks up and Cahir shivers as the chill cuts through him. He’d kill for a roaring fire, to chase away the cold and the darkness, even just for a moment—
“Final preparations?”
Ciri’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts; lost in the gloom, he didn’t hear her coming. She smiles a little at his expression—it’s a small, sad smile, but a smile nonetheless—and slips onto the bench beside him, a well-worn gray cloak wrapped around her shoulders for warmth.
"As much as possible, in such a short time," Cahir says, keeping his voice even. "We need every bit of advantage we can get."
"That we do." Ciri shakes her head with an irritated huff. "I hate Geralt's plan to lure them here so much."
"What better place to face specters than a witchers' fortress?" Cahir points out with a smile.
"They're not specters. And this—" Ciri looks around the dark hall with a pensive expression. "It may be a fortress to you, but to me, it's always been the safest place I know. A home."
The affection in her voice is unmistakable and Cahir marvels at that soft, contemplative facet of her he never had a chance to see.
"How long did you spend here?"
Ciri sighs, wraps the cloak tighter around herself.
"A bit over a year. Geralt found me in Lower Sodden after—after I escaped you."
Cahir winces involuntarily; he hates those memories with burning passion. But Ciri ignores his reaction and continues.
"He didn't know what to do with a girl, so he brought me here and trained me. But when my magic manifested itself, he had no choice but to take me to Ellander, to Yennefer. And she in turn brought me to Thanedd."
Ciri breaks off, studies him, her head tilted, and his unease grows, the memories like a knife twisting in an old wound.
Her next words do nothing to ease his discomfort.
"Honestly, I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"Why is that?" Cahir manages in a meek voice.
Ciri shrugs. "After everything that happened… I thought you'd want to put all this mess behind you. Start anew."
Cahir shuffles a little, a sliver of relief cutting through the decade-old shame. She seems to be treating him with the same warmth as her friends and allies gathered here, but he can't quite bring himself to accept he deserves such kindness.
She's waiting for his answer, and he attempts to give her one that's truthful, if vague.
"I tried. It didn't work. And when I met Geralt and heard about the Hunt, I had to help." He breaks off, hesitates. "Although I wasn't sure that I'd be welcome."
Ciri frowns. "Why wouldn't you be?"
His throat tightens. He has been bracing for this moment for weeks, but now that he faces Ciri and their twisted, painful past, he finds himself wishing for anything, anyone to interrupt them, to spare him this conversation. But there's only her and him in the empty, cold hall, with dead fire pits and wind ravaging the forest outside the keep's walls.
The emerald of her eyes is almost golden in the flickering light of the candles, her gaze full of sympathy that Cahir struggles to acknowledge. He takes a breath and braces himself for her judgement.
"After...after all the fear and hurt I've caused you… The Black Knight—",
But Ciri is shaking her head before he even finishes. "The Black Knight died on Thanedd," she says resolutely. "And you—you almost gave your life for me in Stygga. Not sure about your standards, but that redeems a person pretty well in my eyes."
The relief punches the air out of his lungs. "I didn't think you would ever forgive me..."
"I've forgiven you a long time ago," Ciri says. “We were all Emhyr’s tools, after all. Some more than others.”
There’s a bitter note in her voice that Cahir doesn’t understand, but it is not his place to ask–especially since Ciri seems keen to change the subject; she grins at him and nudges his shoulder.
"Here's an idea: after this is over, we start meeting in better circumstances, you and I."
Surprised, Cahir lets out a weak laugh. "Your wish is my command."
"You may yet regret that." Her grin softens to a warm smile. "Seriously though, thank you for coming."
“I couldn’t not come,” Cahir says simply. “Not if you need help. Besides, every sword counts.”
"You're right about that.” Ciri angrily pokes the pile of soft wax on the table. “Especially since I'm not allowed to join the battle."
“Geralt said the Hunt is after you,” Cahir points out, as gently as he can. She made it obvious during the earlier meeting how much she hated the arrangements made; the last thing he wants is to fuel her simmering rage. “You are the most important–"
“I am the reason you’re all in danger,” Ciri cuts in bitterly. “I am the reason you all may die—”
Her voice falters, she looks away, fingers grabbing the edge of the table, knuckles white. Cahir hesitates, then touches her hand in a fleeting gesture.
“We’re all aware of the risks. But we also know what’s at stake. And if any of us dies tonight—”
Her head snaps back; she squeezes his hand, hard.
“Don’t you dare. You hear me?” Her hiss cuts through the chilly air, sharp as a blade. “Stygga was enough. Don’t you dare.”
Her eyes are blazing, emerald fire and tempest, and he's drowning in them, and if these impassible mountains truly mark the end of his path, he'll take this image with him—
It takes some effort for him to speak. "Can—Can I ask you something?"
Ciri frowns, and nods.
"Why—" His voice fails him; he clears his throat and tries again. This may be his last chance, after all. "On Thanedd… Why did you spare me? What stilled your hand?"
Ciri studies him for a moment in silence, her anger fading away. His hand still in hers, she turns it over, palm facing up. Her finger gently traces the old scar her sword left, and a breath catches in his lungs.
"Memory is such a fickle thing. I don't remember much from that day; all chaos and danger—"
"Of course," Cahir interrupts her, chagrined.
"I remember Yennefer telling me to run, Geralt giving me the sword," Ciri continues as if he hadn't spoken. "I remember Tor Lara. And I remember your eyes, blue like the summer sky. Terrified."
Cahir simply stares at her, bewildered. Ciri shrugs.
"The monster from my nightmares died under my sword; the fear and hatred died with him. You—I didn't know you. I had no reason to kill you." She gives him a sheepish smile. "And I liked your eyes."
Speechless, he lifts her hand and presses his lips against her knuckles. Ciri’s gaze softens, emerald and gold cutting right to his soul, to the very core of his being, all the emotions, the guilt, the feeble hope for redemption bare for her to see. Her eyes widen; he holds their entwined hands against his chest, and there are thousand things he wants to say, thousand things he wants to ask her–
“Yo, Nilfgaardian!” Lambert’s voice booms in the silence of the hall, and they both jerk up. “Party time!”
Ciri blinks as if woken from a dream. Cahir takes a shaky breath to clear his head, but it dies in his throat when she leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek.
"Come back," she whispers, and she's gone, only his heart thrashing in his chest a proof she was here at all.
Time and again he was ready to lay down his life for Ciri—now she wishes him to live.
Dizzy with adrenaline, he goes into the night to fight. To win.
Her wish is his command, after all.