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In the endless hours trapped in the darkest bowels of the beast that Aretuza appears for him to be, Cahirs thoughs wander. His body hurts, his head aches so much, he‘s not sure all the pain can still fit within his skull. Unsure what Tissaia had found in his head, if she had even searched for anything or just cruelly burrowed her magic fingers where it hurt most. If maybe she was the one that had started this voyage through time.
In a haze he watches himself through the years, like a show of theatre.
He sees himself at home, transfixed by his father telling him about humans or any other creatures really, being born in a different body than the one they should have. Listening to him explaining how most went to join the army because they had specialized mages there that could glamour and change and fix their bodies. A bit like the Sorceresses at Aretuza did with their magic.
He sees himself as a child and young adut drinking a blue glowing, burning potion, every week, and not hating it despite it‘s taste. He sees how the blue burns itself painlessly and unseen through all the cells in his body, helping them to grow into his actual body, like it always should have been.
He sees himself in training, a frantic flame of devotion burning then already in his eyes. That want to do the right thing and the willingness to work himself to the bone for it. The Nilfgardian banner thrashing in strong winds, his new obsession, his new everything.
He sees himself, just a boy back then, in a mirror, feeling right about there growing no breasts. His thin, wiry body, his towering height all feeling like himself.
He sees himself training with the men, no one giving him a second look. This strenght, this community, that he will have such a hard time letting go.
He sees himself climbing the ranks, not due to his fathers position, but because he puts his everything in it. He is good, talented and invested, enjoys the adrenaline of a training fight, of the responsability that comes with power.
He dreams himself meeting a golden man, golden and black and vibrantly beautiful. He dreams himself trusting this man with all his life, following him. He dreams himself rising up, gathering all the men, focusing all their brutality just so that the golden man, burning white with heat and belief, can step up and reshape the world how it always should have been.
He dreams the golden man becoming a White Flame. The Flame trusting him in return with his plans, his beliefs, his story, his orders.
He sees himself riding into battle, yelling the White Flames orders, face hard and stern, his mind hyperfocused on the art of war. The battlefields a home, the chaos calmed by a well-working army system, a fiery belief in everyones hearts. He sees the Cintran Banner fall, burn, dissolve in mud and blood.
He sees himself chasing and chasing and chasing after a little girl, too quick, too powerful for anyones good. It‘s like chasing a ghost, like fate doesn‘t want him to catch up, like fate wants him to fail and fall, his ears ringing with the remnants of a monolith-toppeling scream.
He sees himself and Fringilla, his best friend, his trusted ally, both chasing after the girl, coming closer, lagging behind again. Frustration over all the wasted violence growing in his insides. Always being guided by the man that became Flame.
He feels time and space itself grind to a halt that one fateful day at Sodden. Still feels the heat radiating off of that monstrosity of flame, of spark, of red-hot death. Remembers all those screams and pleads and prayers, washed away within the blink of an eye. The only scream, the one that truly burns itself into his soul, forever echoing in his once again ringing, bloody ears, being Yennefers. He didn‘t know her name then, just her silhuoette, just her unrivaled power, just her wrath.
He sees himself captured, overpowered, broken, he sees himself end up here, trapped in the darkest bowels of the beast Aretuza.
But it doesn‘t stop there. He dreams himself again, moving forwards through time that hasn‘t passed yet.
He dreams himself calling and calling out to the White Flame, unanswered, forgotten, lying to rot in darkness and pain.
He dreams himself meeting the wrath from Sodden, meeting Yennefer of Vengerberg. Not as the deadly, overwhelming entity that rained death onto his family in arms, but a whisper, a shadow, speaking to him about death serving a purpose.
He dreams himself finally released from his prison just to be bound again in a different way. Still a prisoner, even if not festering in the beasts bowels anymore. He dreams himself about to die, about to be executed for his crimes. Dreams himself cut free, rescued, saved.
He dreams himself running, beside Yennefer, dreams himself being chased by everyone, everything, everywhere. Dreams himself fleeing underground and over sea, running towards the White Flame.
He dreams himself fighting for the golden man, beneath his golden and black banner. He dreams himself pushing and pulling with Fringilla, with the Elves, with Generals, with his own exhaustion. He dreams himself fighting with words instead of swords and of the burning, lingering dissatisfaction that brings.
He dreams himself working with Fringilla, his best Friend, his superior, dreams himself betrayed, endangered, motionless.
He dreams himself reuniting with his White Flame only to be captured again, this time by his own men, his own colours, by his own lies.
He dreams himself not at the side of the golden man, but at the mercy of the White Flame. He dreams himself submitting, Dissatisfaction growing into anger, into uncertainty. Dreams himself doubting, looking back at all the blood, all the misery he brought in the name of something great.
He dreams himself bloody and afraid again, but not on a battlefield, in golden opulent palace halls, he dreams himself as a betrayer, a murderer, dreams himself as someone he doesn‘t recognize.
He dreams himself, a grown man now, looking into a mirror, feeling wrong about what he sees there. Not feeling like himself anymore.
He dreams himself chasing and chasing and finally catching up with the ghost-girl, dreams himself kneeling, giving away his life, what for he doesn‘t yet understand.
He wakes up to agony, to pain, to maddening imprisonment, to a promise „Every death serves a purpose“