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“I can do it myself,” Yennefer said, already parting her hair with her fingers.
“You can,” Cahir conceded with a nod, though he then gestured with an open palm. “But do you want to?”
That made her pause, the hand with the comb hovering by her head. She realized then that he was not trying to wrest control from her; rather he was trying to offer his aid, his service, like a proper knight to his charge.
So she did relent. “Not particularly, no.”
He gave another nod and reached for the comb, which she handed him readily, following him as far as she could with her eyes as he circled around to kneel behind her. First she felt his hand rake through her wet locks, however gently, as though trying to familiarize himself with it before he began. That, coupled with the warm water, soothed her; it brought her to unsquare her shoulders and release the tension in her jaw. The quiet, thoughtful hum from him saw her cheek twitch with a brief and worn smile.
Soon did the comb’s wooden teeth sink into her hair, starting from the root. He drew it slowly through her thick black tresses, reaching that which had tangled, and it was at that point he paused. His other hand came to rest at the beginning of this particular combing, with a gentle pressure upon her scalp. She did not realize at first what he was doing—however when he worked the comb through such delicate tangles, without much pain or pulling at all, she could not help but release a breath of relief.
“You know what you’re doing,” she noted, letting her eyes fall shut. The water rippled as she lifted the bath-sponge to wet her neck and shoulders, gently scrubbing away the grime of the well-traveled, while Cahir continued his careful ministrations.
“I have hair,” he uttered, and though tired, there was a wryness in it—the dry wit she often hung on her words.
They sat like this for some time. He was still dressed as he knelt behind her, her body shielded by the wall of the tub, his eyes intent on the task at hand. To be served, to have a man servile; it was admittedly a small gesture, perhaps even borne of necessity, and yet it was one she found great revelry in.
There were mats in his hair too, as well as that awful beard. Her shrewd gaze flitted about the room in search of a good razor, maybe a pair of tweezers, thought she doubted this place was at all well-equipped. Truth be told, it was not the nicest lodging; it was tucked a bit too far out of the way, dimly lit save for the flickering candles in opposite corners, some errant shafts of light from the hearth downstairs filtering up through the floorboards. Dust shimmered through stagnant air as cold seeped in through the squat roof, drifting down from the rafters.
The furnishings were sparse and likely not kept as well as they should be. There was the tub, of course, brought out into the middle of the room for ease. In one corner was a wardrobe, faced by a cot on the wall across—Jaskier’s, seeing as it was his rental. A vanity sat against that same wall, closer to the tub. There were a couple of chairs tucked in the corner, upon which the bard seemed to have thrown whatever he could not bother putting away. Yennefer found an odd sense of endearment in that.
Cahir finished his labors eventually, his fingers running smoothly through her dark mane as a final once-over. “How is that?”
She gave a small hum and followed his hand; her hair did not snag nor tug, not even in those difficult places she always seemed to miss. The utmost care from him. Her true enthusiasm yet remained hidden, however she did bequeath unto him an impressed and contented smile, with a faint bow of her head.
“You’ve done well,” she praised, and she swore she saw the barest hint of a prideful smile tug at his cheek. Watching as he stood and moved to the vanity ahead and peered briefly in the mirror. Her eyes did not leave him as she said, “The water will be cold soon.”
He glanced over his shoulder, then to the mirror again with a grimace. “I would not insult your honor.”
Her brow creased with a hint of amusement. “No, you would not,” she retorted quickly. “That's why I mentioned it.”
Cahir took another moment to appraise his state, blinking heavily, perhaps realizing just how far he had fallen. He touched his hand to his face with a certain numbness, as though he did not feel the pads of his fingers in his cheek. Then he blinked again, harder this time, and turned to her; regarding her impassively.
She simply looked back. He furrowed his brow, though he did submit to her word, for truly his only reservation seemed to be on her behalf. His calloused hands made quick work of his tunic, and he paused to tug off his shoes before casting aside his trousers thereafter. Soon did he settle into the somehow still-warm water with her, tense as she had been before; it was his turn now to shed the ills of their journey. So she passed him the bath-sponge and took a nearby pitcher into her hands, sweeping it gently through the water.
He busied himself first with washing the dirt from his body, his gaze averted even as they shared such close, intimate space. Perhaps that was why he had not expected the torrent over his head—she tipped the pitcher so the water would cascade down unto him, wetting his hair and leaving him sputtering. Her nostrils flared with mirth as he groped around outside the tub for a rag to dry his squinched-shut eyes with.
“We need to do something about this,” she remarked of his beard, reaching out to run her slender fingers through it, initiating contact.
He blinked his eyes open then, peering first to her hand. Her wrist. A moment’s pause as he glanced over the scarring there, and she could see the faintest crease in his brow. “Yes,” he murmured distractedly, “we should.”
She withdrew from him quickly, moving to stand and plodding over to the vanity, dripping water through the cracks in the floorboards. A cursory search of the drawers found them a razor and shears, along with shaving soap, which she set out for later use. The water rippled behind her as Cahir shifted, though she did not turn to him right away. Her gaze trailed towards the mirror.
For a moment, an illogical, imperceptible little moment, she expected her glamours to all slip away. For her jaw to slide back out-of-place and her shoulder to wrench the other way again. To hunch over, to become smaller, as small as she used to be. And even though it never came, she turned her face from her reflection with a shudder, for she had glimpsed it in her mind’s eye all the same. It reminded her of the power she had lost—the power she had given up so much to achieve in the first place.
The power he lost, too. The power she now held over him; it was new and potent and it may simply be imagined, yet still it excited her all the same. A glance to the mirror had her discover his stare, and so she turned to him again. Watching the way his eyes snapped quickly to her face, a strange sense of devotion in his gaze burgeoning beneath the respect it already held.
They had shared such a grueling journey for how short it had been. It left them weary, frayed at the edges like an old kerchief. There would be more like this in the future, that they knew, whether they were meant to face it together in Cintra or alone elsewhere. It was akin to staring down fate, and for a moment that frightened Yennefer. But it was not the sort of fate she had come to despise; it was fate she felt she could choose, and in it, power. Not only over him, but over herself, over the cruel twists that saw her thrown from the top of the world all the way down to the bottom.
Perhaps she had always been on the bottom. She was never more than a tool—an instrument of others’ will, admonished for enacting her own, only ever the vessel of her power and not the power itself. Yet… he had seen her that way. He did not tell her it was her Chaos that was incredible at Sodden, but she. For it would not have been, had it not sprung from her fingertips. She.
Cahir rose from the tub then, finally peeling his eyes away from her as he sought a towel to dry with and to keep for decency. She, on the other hand, did not hasten for such a thing, lounging against the vanity as her gaze yet followed each move. A moment was taken to appraise him, for she did not think much about it before; as a man who had seen battle, he was host to a myriad of scars, toughened by war’s many grievances. There was one nearly hidden on his temple, the faintest contour of it glinting in the dim candlelight.
He approached the vanity and took her place, sparing a brief glance over what she had prepared for him. Just as he reached for the shears, she laid a hand upon them instead, combing the other through his wild beard. His permission was given with a wordless cant of his head, though she had truthfully never sought it at all. Whereas his grooming of her was servile, hers was commanding, as though she meant to do only what she thought best. However she did relent, albeit briefly.
“You’ll shed your troubles like an old skin,” she told him, quieter than she intended to be. She saw the shift in his eyes—the flash of pain, the way he cringed. Her fingers brushed his chin and urged him to look at her. “Trust me.”
The battered soldier took a deep breath. He gave a long sigh and nodded. “I will. I do.”
Yennefer took that as her indication to go on. She trimmed his beard closer to his face, first; there would be hair ingrown if they were fool enough to shave it when it was too long or too coarse. Once it was in a more manageable place, she took the shaving soap and lathered it all over the lower half of his face, paying little heed to the way his eyes shone in the low light. Then came the delicate dance of a razor’s edge, hair shorn slowly and carefully from the skin of his face.
It was a quiet moment, so very intimate, that yet held such palpable tension. She could see out of the corner of her eye that he did not once look elsewhere, his focus entirely upon her; not what she was doing, but her. Each gentle swipe of her wrist saw him inching more and more towards what he used to be, like wiping dust off of an old book. Soon did she reach the last bit of stubble, and so she withdrew her hand, regarding him with unabashed appreciation now.
“There,” she said. “That should keep the posters from coming back to you, too.”
Cahir gave a short nod, reaching up to feel the smoothness of his face. He could not help but breathe out in a relieved sigh. “It’s been too long.”
Yennefer only hummed at that. Her hand drifted out to his cheek, snaking beneath his own, a thumb gliding across the fresh skin there. His hand settled over hers.
For a long time, they only looked at each other. Then he turned his head towards her hand, his lips brushing against her wrist, pressing the gentlest and most unexpected little kiss to her scars. It certainly surprised her—she found her breath caught in her chest like she was a girl again, taken at once by a rush of dizzy, divine feeling. Her touch grew softer, fonder, as she looked upon him with a truly endeared stare. His eyes seemed to fall to her lips then, and his cheek twitched with similar affection, as he released her hand to hold the back of her head instead, leaning in to anoint her crown with another firm, tender kiss.
There was a knock on the door before they could go any further. The time to board had come, and the ships waited for nobody. They ached as they parted from one another, so too when they dressed, and even more so when they left that now-dear room behind.
But there was one ache that had yet stalled: in that moment, they no longer ached for purpose.