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Absolution.
They throw their crimes and their prejudices upon her, then expect Yennefer to beg for their absolution. Her grip on the axe tightens then loosens, then tightens again.
There are a million paths this moment could take, and Yennefer has not the energy to follow a single one of them. The Nilfgaardian commander kneels before her, neck bared. He is, perhaps, the one being in the world right now that she does not resent. It is not his fault that his life has been forced into her hands.
His death will not serve me. Yennefer casts her eyes to the Northern kings, and the way they look upon her like she is nothing more than their pawn, or worse, their object. And I do not exist to serve their purposes.
Even as the axe begins to drop, she’s not sure where it will fall. Yennefer is as surprised as the crowd when the prisoner’s hands are freed. Unlike the crowd, her surprises spurs her into action, and she kicks over the torches with only one thought in her mind – run.
Once more, the Hero of Sodden Hill wins her fight with the power of spark and flame. Not that she realizes it, yet, the ache of her missing chaos still too deep a wound.
She is surprised again when she lets him on the horse. That hadn’t been a part of the plan, either, but does she even have a plan anymore? Yennefer hasn’t felt sure of anything but herself since that night she met Geralt – so, she reasons, this might as well happen.
As they ride the prisoner sits close to her on the horse. It would be easy to lean into his feeble warmth, to turn her cheek ever so slightly into his chest and let his mind do the rest. This is a game Yennefer is used to – it’s a game Yennefer excels at. She has never needed her chaos to worm her way into men’s hearts.
Who is he, again? Yennefer has heard his name before, she just needs to remember it. She casts about in her mind, wracking her memories. Come on, someone must have mentioned it. Ah, that’s right - Cahir.
In the end, she doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t move closer, either.
As the minutes turn to hours turn to days, that becomes the back and forth in Yennefer’s mind. How close does she let him? How close does she need him? So far, she has no answers, and only more questions.
As far as traveling companions go, he is not useless, even without any manipulation to suit her needs. Cahir knows his way around a sword and a village, and he seems to trust her capabilities, too. Quickly, Yennefer begins to see the appeal of keeping him around.
The main appeal of Cahir is that their destiny together only goes as far as the gates of Cintra, if such a small intertangling of webs could be called destiny. It’s a relief, to be free of such a curse. She is too used to being yanked around by destiny, too used to putting her ear to the ground and listening to its siren call simply because she doesn’t know what else to do. Unlike the rest of her life, this moment is small, and unimportant, two words that can only rarely be attributed to Yennger of Vengerberg.
Yennefer’s thoughts, when she looks at Cahir, taste like her own. When they change, it is only through her own power. And change, they do, even over a matter of hours.
Quickly, Cahir traverses the line between “deadweight” and “ally”. He is not completely useless at planning and doesn’t shy away from a fight, despite their lack of weapons. Unlike many she has met he does not reply on her chaos to keep them both alive (which is a good thing, because even if she had it she’s not sure she’d extend the courtesy). When she knocks out the soldier attack him, he seems to hold no resentment for it. An appealing trait, in a man.
Appealing, too, is how quickly he springs to the young elf’s defense. Not many would in this day and age. Yennefer is impressed, until she is pulled under water and has bigger beasts to worry about.
Yen, he calls her, her arm held strongly in his grasp. So like Geralt, and yet so unlike him at the same time. The nickname is childish on his lips, in a way Yennefer has never been. It’s friendly in its presumptuousness, the way a childhood friend doesn’t wait before calling you a pet name. He most definitely hadn’t intended for her to hear it – he might not have even intended to say it. Yennefer slips the thought away to ponder later as she tries her best to scrape sewage out of her hair.
Again, she is given the chance to slip into his affections. Whether he realizes it or not, Cahir has left himself wide open to the attacks Aretuza has taught her. It matters not whether he likes her, only that she could make him want her, if it would so suit her. As Yennefer looks at Cahir, who stands watchful across from her, she is still dangerously unsure of what she needs from him.
Cahir’s attention is… gentle, almost. No, that’s not right. It’s undemanding. When he stands close, it is not so that he can take a step even closer. When his eyes trail her frame, they only go as far as her hands, where they clench at her sides. Cahir spends an inordinate amount of time staring at her wrists. Whenever her cloak sleeves fall down her arms, his gaze is there. Yennefer isn’t sure how she feels about it, the wounds from the Deathless Mother’s hut too fresh in her mind for her to be completely comfortable with it. Cahir’s gaze doesn’t look like it will draw blood, but Yennefer has not made it this far in life by being trusting. Her scars are hers, and hers alone. She wishes, not for the first time, that she had her chaos to redirect his gaze.
To hear Jaskier singing as obnoxiously as ever is a relief so large she can barely put words to it. Yennefer cannot help the smile that crosses her lips. It helps that his song is so full of anger towards Geralt – that she can relate to. He is, as always, a merciful distraction.
As the corners of her lips turn, though, she realizes – she’s yet to see Cahir smile.
“I’m going to speak with him.” She says, as soon as the bar begins to empty.
Cahir’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t voice any disagreement. Smart.
“Why?” He demands instead. “We will meet him soon enough, why risk discovery?”
“I know him.” Is all Yennefer says. It is almost an understatement. Then, she leaves to greet Jaskier, because he doesn’t own Cahir any more than that. She is aware of him eavesdropping on their conversation, but, for some reason, she doesn’t mind.
Jaskier’s comment on their smell, however, she minds a bit. If she’d had any other choice she certainly wouldn’t have chosen the sewers, thanks, so it’s hardly her fault. Though, honestly, she hadn’t really noticed the scent on herself or Cahir, who must be thinking something similar, for he leans in to sniff her hair discretely.
When he leans in, Yennefer cannot help but breath in his scent and he smells… a little gross, frankly. Like sewage and old blood from a battle now months past. Days of torture will do that to a person. But he also smells like grass and sweat, a scent that is undeniably tempting, as much as it is gross.
Yennefer doesn’t think about what she smells like, and she definitely doesn’t hope that he finds her scent as compelling as she does his. She takes her bath alone and doesn’t think about how strange it is to be alone for the first time in days.
Sooner rather than later they are together again, hiding in the shadows as Jaskier does an absolutely horrid job of getting them on board the ship to Cintra. Yennefer can’t help but cringe at the sight, and then at Cahir as the idiot tries to sacrifice himself. As if that will do anyone any good at all. Yennefer isn’t expecting the intensity of her rejection of the idea, but there is nothing to be done at this moment but accept and move on. So, Yennefer accepts it. She doesn’t want Cahir to die, not on her behalf. What does she do now?
Luckily, it isn’t up to her. The cowardly elf from the sewer sacrifices himself, and Yennefer and Cahir are able to sneak on board the ship. For the first time in days, it feels like, Yennefer has a moment to breath. Cintra, and hopefully freedom, lies ahead of her. The thought isn’t as calming as she thought it would be – instead, it is stifling.
Then comes a groan and the sound of an instrument dying from above, and the fantasy of that future, barely imagined, snaps closed again.
When she sneaks back up on deck, the first thing Yennefer sees is Jaskier’s lute, smashed like the bard no doubt must also be for him to leave it behind. The instrument is the bard’s life and his love, the only thing he fights to defend, the only thing he claims as his own. There is something wrong with the universe, for it to be broken so.
Yennefer rises to get a better look when she is stopped by a hand, grasping the back of her cloak. Cahir has come fully out of the hold behind her, eyes narrowed. He seems to sure of her actions, where not even Yennefer has decided what she will do next.
“Yennefer,” he hisses, “what are you doing?”
Flickering light catches on the strings of Jaskier’s lute.
“Yennefer,” more insistent this time, “we have to save ourselves!”
If it were her, Jaskier would save her. Between the two of them, he was always the better of the pair. He was the one with the goodness in his heart, the life in his eyes. Yennefer looks out for herself, she always has.
Maybe Yennefer is tired of being what she always has been.
“I have to go back for him.” She hisses back, mind made up. Cahir isn’t surprised. “If there is anyone who does not deserve torture and death at the hands of the North, it is him.” Cahir’s grip stays strong on her cloak. “He would do the same for me!”
“What would you do?” He demands instead of the same, useless refrain, “the boat leaves in but hours, there is no way for you to save him and still return in time.”
A glance back at the docks. Someone walks a step too close to Jaskier’s lute, kicking dust over it.
“Then I won’t make it back in time.”
This time, when she looks back, his eyes are desperate.
“Where will you go, if not Cintra? Those in the south still hunt us, there are posters on the ground with our faces on them!”
It’s a stupid question, asked by a man who has lived barely a quarter of her years. Cahir is still held captive by the White Flame’s chains, it’s obvious. There has always been more to the world than Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms. An emptier world, perhaps, where you must live with the knowledge that you have turned your back on everyone, but a world, nonetheless.
“There is more to the world than North and South. Grey in between the white and black.” Yennefer laughs bitterly. “I can manage.”
She waits a moment more for Cahir to say something, maybe, but nothing happens, so she turns to leave. Cahir, though, doesn’t seem to get the message, because he still doesn’t let go of her cloak. He stands behind her, looking small and confused.
“We need to get to Cintra.” He finally repeats, and oh how the words chafe on her skin. Yennefer of Vengerberg does not need to do anything she does not wish to. A part of her aches for him to understand that Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach need not follow the whims of anyone else, either, but to teach him that in this moment is an impossible task.
“I don’t need to do anything.” Yennefer hisses, spinning around and grabbing his wrist to remove it from her cloak. “You can either go back below deck or you can come with me, I don’t care. I’m leaving either way, and I don’t need your help.”
She’s not really sure why she leaves the option for him to tag along. Maybe because he’s proven himself to be a good traveling companion, maybe because he treats her like an equal in a way no one has in years, maybe because she likes his scent and the way his breath feels on her lips.
Maybe, because Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach also deserves the chance to be more than he always has been.
“I can come with you?” Cahir asks quietly. She has never heard him sound so meek. The look in his eyes is childish, and lost, like that of a child who has just been left behind by their parents. “What can I offer you but Cintra?”
What can he offer me? Yennefer thinks, and it sounds a lot like the lessons Aretuza had drilled into her. Look for weaknesses and dig your thumb in, use people until they have nothing more to offer and then abandon them.
The scar on Cahir’s temple is shiny enough to reflect just a little of the moonlight. He stands with his spine straight and his knees slightly bent, always ready to obey an order, even now, with his master hundreds of miles away.
The White Flame has used enough of Cahir. Yennefer decides. But I don’t think I know how to treat him better.
“For now,” she finally says, “you can accompany me to save the bard. I don’t need the help,” she glares at him, because she needs him to understand that right now, “but an extra sword wouldn’t be remiss. We can figure the rest out later.”
She’ll figure this all out later, when Jaskier isn’t missing, and she can think a little more clearly. Preferably when Cahir is in another room rather than pressed against her, muddying her thoughts.
It doesn’t occur to Yennefer that Cahir might refuse. Those are not the eyes of the White Flame’s general looking back at her, after all. Besides, she’s seen the way he looks at her, she sees the way he looks at her now. Yennefer knows his answer.
“Alright,” Cahir says, “I’m coming with you.”