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Everybody is clapping when he enters the hall. What the fuck is going on? They aren't applauding him, are they? Why on earth would they do that? Most of them hardly know him, let alone want to know him, he assumes. He being the only non-magical mere human at Kaer Morhen, and a southerner from an enemy empire to boot. Not to forget the black knight of Ciri's nightmares. It is a frigging miracle that they are letting him stay at their Witcher keep at all ...
"Kiss her, kiss her!"
What???
Distracted and not a little irritated by the totally unexpected clapping, Cahir only now realises that there is a person standing almost next to him in the doorframe who obviously wanted to exit the hall just when he was entering. A person with long, ashen-blond hair. Ciri. She is looking up at him from these incredibly green eyes of hers, green like fresh meadows in the bright Vicovaro morning sun.
"Kiss her, kiss her!"
Cahir blushes crimson. Ciri does not really expect him to kiss her, does she? Why would she? Not that he wouldn't want to. He has dreamt of it a thousand times. However, it has always been clear to him that it was nothing but wishful thinking, that it would never happen in real life even though she has forgiven him. Which she might have done only because he was dying and begging her with his very last breath, or so he was told. And who would not forgive a dying man? They could not possibly have anticipated that he would survive in spite of the dreadful wounds from his fight with Leo Bonhart. Till today nobody seems quite sure how it came to pass. Obviously, the statue of the unknown marble goddess had something to do with it, a strange golden light emanating from her and a soft humming filling the room where he was lying in a pool of blood at her feet. At least that is what they told him when he woke up from his coma. Here at Kaer Morhen. Where Ciri had taken him through space with her incredible powers and where Triss Merigold had fixed him up again. At least his body. His memory is a different story. With the exception of his dreams, he hardly remembers anything from the last couple of years, just hazy, unconnected snippets that make little sense. And give him a headache more often than not. Jaskier, who stayed here for a while during the summer, filled him in on the most important things that happened with the help of his half a century of poetry, although Cahir strongly doubts that it is truly an accurate rendition of the events. He hopes that Geralt will give him a more reliable account soon, he promised to, but there has not been any time to do so yet since the three arrived here two days ago. Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri. To stay for the winter and for this soon-to-come festivity. Jaskier is to join them, too. What is it called again? Yule? He remembers his grandmother telling him about the strange custom, but they, of course, never observed it in Darn Dyffra. Even if they had wanted to, it would have been quite impossible. There are no fir or spruce trees in Vicovaro, nor holly or ivy or, what was the last thing on the list of plants that are absolutely necessary to celebrate this Yule? Thistletoe? Mistlehoe? None of these plants native to more northern regions grow in his home country. Well, he has learned how to know a spruce from a fir by now - the hard way, as Lambert watched him cut down a pretty nice and tall one for their hall in the sweat of his brow only to tell him when he was done, that, sorry, wrong tree, Yennefer ordered a fir, not a spruce this year because they do not shed their needles as easily. Cursing under his breath he had to do it all over again.
Darn, Ciri is still looking up at him. Looking not only breathtakingly beautiful but also a little - impatient? She rolls her eyes at him, her gaze wandering higher up toward something hanging from the high doorframe. A big bouquet of some plant with small, oval leaves and white berries. The mistle-something. Slowly it dawns on Cahir. Didn't his grandmother say something about a tradition of kissing under this holy plant? It is considered bad luck if you do not. He cannot possibly be responsible for bringing Ciri ill luck, can he? He has brought her plenty of horrible nightmares already.
The witchers and sorceresses are still clapping and cheering. Even Yennefer and Geralt, not quite as enthusiastically as the others, but nonetheless, they are. Alright, if tradition demands it and they insist. And, a lot more importantly, if Ciri is okay with it ...
Cahir leans down toward the former princess slowly to give her the chance to back out in case she has a last minute change of heart, but she has not. On the contrary, she looks up at him with anticipation - and a mischievous glint in her eyes? Almost chastely Cahir plants a light kiss on her perfectly pink and soft lips with the intention of withdrawing quickly. However, Ciri seems to have different plans. She puts her arms around him, pulls him closer and presses her lips firmly on his. Gods, this feels amazing. Cahir closes his eyes and draws a shuddering breath. Her scent so close is intoxicating, sweet like a violet and, at the same time, wild. A young lioness, strong and fierce and free. To his utter surprise, Ciri's lips part under his tender kiss. Just a tiny little bit, but enough for him to taste her. Totally lost in the sensation, he deepens the kiss. Which elicits a small moan from the beautiful young woman. Encouraged by the sound, he kisses her harder, with a passion. Like in his dreams. More moans of pleasure as Ciri is responding eagerly. Maybe he is dreaming?
"Hey, kid," a booming voice from across the hall. Startled, Cahir lets go of Ciri. "You're supposed to kiss the girl under the mistletoe, not eat her."
Lambert. Shit. He completely forgot that everybody is watching. Going as red as a beet root, Cahir steps away from the doorframe and the equally flushed Witcher girl. Geralt will definitely kill him this time. Worriedly, he looks around. Into the grinning faces of the people gathered around the festively decorated tables laden with all kinds of cookies and other Yule delicacies. Even Yennefer and Geralt are smiling. Not as broadly as everybody else, but nonetheless, they are.
Looks like he will live another day after all. Here at Kaer Morhen with his new found family.
And what if he can catch Ciri under this magic mistletoe again? Maybe with less spectators? This strange Yule with its weird traditions might turn out to be a lot more enjoyable than Cahir anticipated ...
