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After it all, Ciri was meant to be free. She’d escaped the plans others had forced upon her, no longer an unwilling character in a story written by someone else. It should have meant that she could be whomever she wanted, do whatever she wanted. Instead, life was a snarled mess of paranoia and distrust, forcing her to always be on the move. Others seemed able to put the past behind them, but for her, the past was yet another cage, trapping her in her head. It felt like a gaping wound inside her, raw, too big to scar. She tried to ignore it, to move on, to have a life-but while the pain subsided over the years, the numbness that replaced it was worse.
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During her last visit to Corvo Bianco, Geralt had invited her back to Toussaint later that year for the semi-annual gatherings of the Hansa.
“You need to come. After all, we only met and became a Hansa for you.” Ciri fidgeted at that, uncomfortable still at the thought of the danger they had risked to help her.
“Besides, Yenn misses you and wants to see you more." He had poked and prodded until she eventually gave in, the guilt of her absence eating at her.
She slowly makes her way back to Toussaint, picking up contracts. Despite wearing the amulet Yennefer made to obscure her appearance, paranoia makes her teleport to odd places, take nonsensical routes, and circle back to cover her tracks. Vigilance must always remain.
When Ciri arrives at Corvo Bianco, merriment has already begun. After stabling her horse, she enters the courtyard and is surprised to see that she’s the last to arrive.
She smiles when she sees the colorful gathering sitting around a long table: Yennefer and Geralt, Zoltan Chivay, Angoulême, Milva, Regis and a dark-haired man she doesn’t know, Dandelion and Priscilla, and Cahir.
There’s a great commotion when they notice her. After she makes her rounds of greetings, she settles next to Yennefer, who smiles and embraces her tightly, the scent of lilacs and gooseberries enveloping her. “Welcome home, Ciri.”
More than anything, she wishes that were true–but this is not her home. Nowhere is.
There’s much eating and drinking, Marlene bringing out platter after platter of ever more delicious fare, loud conversation, and music, as Dandelion and Priscilla take it upon themselves to perform. Ciri finds she can relax despite herself, able to fade into the backdrop of the scene as an observer, her most comfortable role. She looks around the room and ponders all that has changed since her first encounter with them all.
Angoulême is now the proprietor of a high-class bordello in Toussaint and offers to host later in the week, clearly proud of her efforts.
“I wanted to name it 'the Come Right Inn',” she states, and Dandelion jumps in, “other options were equally as subtle, the runner-up being, 'The Thirsty Clam'.”
Angouleme scowls, “Shut it. It was a good name.”
Ciri can’t help but laugh, “Why didn’t you?”
“Regis happened,” Angouleme snarks, and Regis interjects, “We’ve talked about this before. As your business partner, I felt we needed a more understated approach to attract a more sophisticated clientele.”
Angouleme rolls her eyes. “Fine. Sheath and Dagger is a good name.”
“Plus, it pays homage to your weapon of choice,” Regis encourages, and meeting Ciri’s eyes, winks, making her smile into her drink as she studies him.
The vampire remains the same as ever but now has a partner, Detlaff, the man she hadn’t recognized earlier. He’s very quiet, but she catches him smiling faintly at some of the jokes Dandelion and Angouleme are cracking. He’s nearly as old as Regis, and she has to pinch herself to check that she’s not dreaming at the thought of Geralt having two higher vampires at his table.
“Speaking of fancy, how’s being the lady of the estate, Milva?” Angouleme snarks, referring to the archer's infamous relationship with the local Baron, smitten as he was by her hunting and tracking skills.
Milva flushes red, glaring and reaching across the table to smack Angouleme upside the head.
Dandelion averts further acts of violence by interrupting, “ladies, please, no fighting, it's bad for digestion,” and continues to proudly brag to Ciri about the cabaret he and Priscilla run in Novigrad.
“The cabaret has been absolutely splendid, Ciri dearest. Finally, I’m receiving the appreciation I’m due: every night, packed crowds.”
Ciri nods attentively, trying to muster enthusiasm and desperate to dodge Dandelion's attention. She studies their little group, looking for a change of subject, for a distraction—
Her gaze falls upon Cahir, sitting beside Detlaff, a little removed from the table. He’s been noticeably absent from these conversations, a withdrawn observer, just like Ciri. He speaks little, only responding when spoken to.
He had been healing from a near-fatal wound the last time she saw him, and they’d hardly conversed, only so she could thank him for his help and assure him she had forgiven him before she returned to the path to escape the Lodge’s plans for her.
She sneaks glances at him when no one’s looking.
This man is much changed from the gallant knight errant who had saved her life at Stygga.
When he had rejected her plea as she had begged him to leave, she had thought he looked like a hero from a tale.
His curls are cropped close to his head, revealing a deep scar close to his hairline, matching a gash nearly identical to her own, spanning from forehead to jaw, bisecting his brow. Another brutal scar peeks out of his collar, and she realizes that it’s a permanent souvenir from the sacrifice he made for her.
He’s dressed in dark leathers, with at least a week’s beard on his face, and she can easily spot three weapons on his person. She learns he’s a sellsword now, part of the famed Adieu Free Company.
Ciri recalls his eyes; they had stayed her hand at Thanedd. They’re still that beautiful, depthless blue, but there’s very little of the softness she remembers, mostly an edge that speaks of pain and frustration.
Changed as he is, he’s still as handsome as ever. But, she puzzles, there’s something…dangerous about him.
She’s appraising him again during another of Dandelion’s drawn-out stories when Cahir suddenly turns away from the group to meet her eyes. Raising a brow, he stares at her. Her cheeks heat, and she knows she’s flushed pink in embarassment. He gives her one last glance before turning back to the group.
.
.
.
The visit continues much like the first day, and at the end of the week, they make a trip to “Sheath and Dagger.” Angouleme had taken great pains to make her dream a reality. She treats her girls well, pays more than anywhere else, and doesn’t let anyone disrespect her employees, surely remembering her own abuse at the hands of people in power.
Ciri can see Regis’s influence in the decor selected to make the establishment appealing. The only things that Angouleme could get away with were a few phallically shaped vases. As they stay up late into the night, drinking and laughing, Angouleme exchanges a smirk with Milva when Cahir leaves the room first.
Oh.
Ciri supposes it makes sense; they are in a brothel, after all, albeit a very nice one.
Ciri stands, the evening suddenly dull, and belatedly realizes she’s drunk too much when she sways upon standing.
Damn, I guess that rules out teleportation.
Angouleme waves a hand towards a hallway when Ciri inquires about staying, not wanting to have to stumble back to Geralt's in the dark, pointing her to an empty room.
Ciri is too drunk to do anything but fall face-first into the bed–but not drunk enough to tune out the sounds of pleasure echoing through the building. Regretting that she hadn’t stopped drinking three hours ago; she puts a pillow over her head and sighs, melancholy.
She hasn’t shared a bed with anyone in ages. Something was missing; every encounter was lackluster, unable to get her out of her head. Too cagey for affection and bored to tears by sweet nothings, she seemed to always need something different than what was being offered. Man or woman, old or young, it just wasn’t enough. She felt nothing, so she had just given up entirely.
A sound cuts through her drunken musings and makes her sit straight up, a sharp crack of a hand striking firm flesh, and then silence. Straining to hear more, she wonders if it was a figment of her sex-deprived imagination. She waits and then settles back down, slightly disappointed.
Until it happens again.
Her eyes fly open, and she listens carefully. Distant gasps and moans follow the smacks. Arousal starts to pool in her belly. She tries to block it out and go to sleep but eventually gives in, pulling down her pants to seek out the wetness between her legs.
Ciri lays there and, while listening to the sound of someone else getting brutally fucked, has her first orgasm in over a year.
The following day when everyone emerges (some a little green around the gills), she’s surprised to see that Cahir is already gone.
When Ciri inquires about this, Angouleme shrugs and says, “That’s just what he does. He can’t go home to Vicovaro because he’s still a fugitive. He works for that mercenary company and will disappear for a while, only to turn up a few months from now.”
Ciri feels oddly disappointed and tries not to let it show, but unfortunately for her, Angouleme catches on immediately.
“Why? Interested?”
“Just wondering,” she insists, but she can feel her cheeks burn.
Angouleme grins and leans across the table, “You may be interested to know that he has a type." She wiggles her eyebrows at her.
Ciri is confused for a moment. Is Angouleme saying what she thinks she is?
"Part elven girls with flaxen hair."
Ciri's face is surely moments from catching fire it feels so warm, but she refuses to engage, as Angouleme is likely never to let it go, and forcefully turns to brightly chat with Regis to cut off any additional discussion.
Later, as she’s taking advantage of the women’s bathhouse, she overhears a few Sheath and Dagger employees talking with one another.
“Usually, the mercenary types are looking for soft and sweet. They want to be taken care of, you know? Not this one. He was rough, Anna, more than the usual kind. You know that’s not my thing.”
Ciri peers over as inconspicuously as she can through the steam. As Angouleme implied, the speaker is a woman with platinum white hair and slightly elven features that make her look uncomfortably similar to Ciri. Scanning her body, Ciri observes what appear to be finger marks around her neck, and her body is littered with matching bruises, indicating an encounter of a specific type.
“Madame Angouleme said he was her friend, looking for a specific experience–and was willing to pay extra. She told me she’d give me all the easy ones for the rest of the week if I did it. He gave me an out at the beginning, but I knew the payout would be good if I kept going. He did have a nice cock, even if I didn’t like the rest of it.” The woman shrugs, "I'm glad it's over"
The women continue to chatter about clients, but Ciri no longer listens, tuning them out as her mind runs away from her.
She stays a few more days with Geralt and Yennefer before setting off on the path again, trying to forget she ever learned this tidbit of information, and failing miserably. It becomes an obsession. She’s listless, daydreaming, and distracted. The woman’s words and the images they evoke are all Ciri can think of, repeatedly cycling through her brain. She’s lucky she doesn’t get herself killed.
By chance, a few months later while on a contract in Oxenfurt, the stars align and she hears that the Adieu Free Company is currently providing personal security services throughout the city.
Ciri does some inconspicuous poking around and learns that they frequent a particular neighborhood, not far from where she herself boards. She hangs around, listening and watching, and one day it finally pays off.
When he enters a tavern with a few other company members, she follows quietly, stationing herself, hood up and amulet on, at the table next to theirs.
From his compatriots, she learns that they’ve just been paid. They’ll be dining at this inn and then spending the night at the brothel down the street. He says nothing as is his wont, just nods when spoken to.
An idea dawning, Ciri stands up before they finish, leaving a few coins on the table. Her mind is made up. She can’t go on like this. She’ll do it once to get it out of her system, and then she can move on with her life.
When she arrives at the brothel, she’s greeted by the proprietor. She’s suspicious of her request at first but quick to agree when she learns that Ciri will pay her on top of the fee charged to Cahir, greed twinkling in her eyes. The madame ushers Ciri to a dressing room, tossing her a robe and promising that she’ll return for her.
Ciri’s hands shake as she undresses and stares into the mirror, examining her disguised face. The amulet works by slightly changing her features, her hair a shade darker than its silvery gray, eyes hazel instead of green, her scars and tattoo covered, and her features softened just a bit. Yennefer said that it’s the smallest deceptions that were the most believable. She hopes it’s enough.
She attempts to smoothe her hair into something pretty and applies a little bit of the cosmetics lying on the table. About ten minutes later, she hears a knock on the door; and the madam walks in.
“The one with the scars, yes?” The woman questions her, and Ciri nods her assent, mouth suddenly dry.
“He’s in room four on the second floor. He has it the entire night.”
Ciri accepts the madam's key and slowly walks barefoot up the stairs. Standing in front of room four, she takes several deep, calming breaths to try and regain her nerve before she enters.
The room is dark; the only light is a single moonbeam coming through a gap in the shutters.
Good, that means it’s less likely he’ll realize it’s her.
“Close the door,” a voice rasps from the bed in the corner, and she jerks with surprise, so caught up in her own anticipation that she doesn’t notice him there.
She turns and shuts the door with a quiet click, her pulse fluttering in her throat, praying that the amulet is enough and she won’t be found out immediately.
Sauntering forward, she tries to be as unlike herself as she can be, adding a sway she usually lacks until she stands in front of him. His face is dark with shadows; she wishes she could see his eyes.
Cahir is silent for a moment, and she can tell he’s appraising her,
“You’ll do,” he says curtly and continues before she can say anything, “No kissing. You don’t need to know my name; I don’t need to know yours. I am not gentle. I decide what we do. This is fucking, pure and simple. Is that agreeable to you?”
“Yes,” Ciri responds quietly.
He gives her a nod and stands, unbuckling his boots and stripping off his tunic and breeches until he’s bare before her. After that, he settles himself on the edge of the bed, spreading his thighs wide, making it clear what he’s expecting her to do.
She can only stare speechlessly for a moment, taken aback at both the businesslike approach and the sight of his nude body, but she quickly regains her bearings and stands between his legs.
After dropping to her knees, she gathers her hair to toss over her shoulder, and he winds his fingers through it, a large hand cupping the back of her head. She looks up to finally meet his eyes and wraps her hand around the base of him before softly tracing her tongue up and down the sides of his length to circle at the head. She’s in no rush. After all this time, she wants to savor this.
Cahir lets out a quiet groan, and she hears him swear softly under his breath. She teases for a bit longer before taking him into her mouth and swallowing him as deeply as she can, alternating with upward sucks.
Ciri keeps at this for a while, single-mindedly focused on her task as his hand rests on the back of her head, holding the tousled strands out of her face.
She feels his fingers tighten in her hair, and that’s her only warning as he takes over the pace, fucking into her mouth. Her world narrows as every one of her senses is consumed by him. He slows for a moment, stopping to press back into her throat. Her eyes burn, and she coughs, choking as he holds her in place. She’s dripping wet.
“Good girl.”
Ciri shivers and rubs her thighs together reflexively. She can see the glint of his grin in the moonlight. They continue with this alternating pattern until she can see his legs trembling with the effort to hold back. Cahir pulls her head back and gestures for her to get on the bed.
Ciri knows she looks good; fighting monsters has made her long and lean, her ass firm and muscled. And, if does say so herself, her tits are also pretty excellent. As she stands up and sheds the robe she’d been wearing; she hears the sharp intake of breath as he takes in her naked body.
She lays down on the bed next to him, and he just looks at her for a moment. His gaze crawls down her body, and heat begins to spread everywhere.
Cahir pats the bed and gruffly instructs, “Turn over.”
Rolling onto her side, she pushes herself up to her hands and knees. He immediately plants a hand in the middle of her back to push her down while simultaneously guiding her hips upward. Before she can comprehend what he’s doing, he brackets her legs with his own and unceremoniously pushes in. Ciri gasps at the intrusion, but she’s wet enough that it’s only a slight burn.
This. This is what she’s been looking for. The only language she knows is one of violence, and everything else fails to produce a spark. She can trust violence. Unlike gentleness, it never pretends to be something else.
Keeping a hand on her back and the other roughly grabbing a handful of her ass, he slowly pulls out, inch by inch, to abruptly slam back in. Ciri lets out a soft cry with each thrust, the side of her face pressed to the blanket.
The angle makes her hyper-aware of him within her body. He keeps up with the same slow drag and fast drive, hitting deliciously while palming and kneading her ass.
She starts with surprise when he removes a hand just to strike the spot he had just been exploring, the sound echoing in her ears. The right balance of pained pleasure quickly drives her to the precipice, and his hands haven’t even gone anywhere near where she usually needs them.
He switches between striking and soothing, his palm smoothing gently over her heated skin, until she’s a teary mess beneath him. She’s imagined this release for so long that now that it’s almost here, she’s overwhelmed by the reality of this moment.
When he pulls her up against him, one hand squeezing around her throat, and lightly slaps her clit, she damn well near explodes.
She sees stars as he plunges into her, great extended ripples of pleasure vibrating through her whole body. She floats out of herself, coming to hover with those celestial bodies, her mind blank but for a single thought:
This.
Cahir follows shortly after; distantly, she feels his hips stutter and a wash of heat inside her, and then he slows.
She’s collapsed against him where he’s clutching her, and he rests his forehead in the hollow of her shoulder, his breath coming quickly.
He says nothing.
After some time, he releases her, and she crumples down to the bed. As she mindlessly observes him, he gets up to take a long draught from a goblet on the table next to the bed.
She’s still not quite there when he speaks, voice low but cutting through the darkness,
“I paid for the entire night, so if this is too much for you, now is the time to speak up.”
She tries and struggles to form words.
Hearing nothing, he comes over to look at her,
“Did you hear me?”
She manages to nod.
“And?”
“I’m fine,” she whispers.
His eyes rake over her again before he nods curtly.
“Take your rest now while you can.”
She tips her head and closes her eyes.
When she wakes with a whine, it’s to the feeling of a hot mouth on her breast. Cahir grazes the bud with his teeth, pressing his open mouth against her, laving the sensitive skin with his tongue, and then, just a moment later, sucks bruises into the pale curve. The arousal in her belly flares back with new life.
This juxtaposition feels so good she’s panting. He doesn't allow her to touch him, pressing her hands into the mattress, and she’s aching with need. Finally, he sits back against the wall, and she hurries to straddle him unbidden.
Ciri wastes no time and sinks back on him with a moan, realizing belatedly that she’s taken control and freezing, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t seem to mind as he lets out a hiss and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. A moment later, he opens his eyes and instructs, waving a hand lazily, “Go on, fuck yourself on me.”
She can hear how wet she is as she moves with a roll of her hips. Cahir just watches, not touching or assisting, as she uses him to chase her pleasure, the tops of his cheeks dusted with color.
After a few minutes, he shifts his legs to bring her closer, again lavishing his attention on her breasts, making her slow and throw her head back with a moan.
“Don’t stop,” he orders, and she resumes rocking against him, her hips flush against his, drawing him deep inside her.
Cahir’s hands roam, squeezing and kneading, occasionally swatting the curves of her breasts between caresses, every touch walking a fine line between pleasure and pain.
Finally, he brings his legs up, aligning her nipples with his mouth, and taking a handful of her ass, begins to drive into her at a punishing pace, sucking and biting at her tits. The change in position causes her swollen clit to rub against him, and this final sensation swiftly brings her to her peak.
Ciri’s mouth falls open in a silent scream, and her entire body clenches around him. As she comes, he lands sharp blows on her ass and continues his thrusts into her. Cahir lets out a long groan as he pulses within her, continuing to fuck her through his finish.
When he finishes, he presses his face to her breasts, and she shudders at the wash of his breath over them.
Again he says nothing, resting his head against her and then motioning for her to move after a few moments.
This pattern continues throughout the entire night. They fuck two more times, she thinks he may gasp a name but can’t be sure, and when she wakes the last time, he’s dressing in the pale light of dawn.
Ciri watches him pull his shirt over his head with the sinking realization that by doing this, instead of purging him from her system, she’s possibly made her condition worse.
As Cahir gathers up his belongings, he turns to address her finally.
“I come here every other week, same time and day. I would make it worth your while if you were willing to do this again. I’m not interested in forcing you, so it’s your choice.”
She studies him and notices the smudges under his eyes and the contrived aloofness in his gaze.
“Alright,” Ciri replies softly, making a note to talk to the proprietor.
He tightens his sword belt and tips his head at her, and with that, he leaves without another word.
Ciri lays her head down with a sigh. It wasn’t enough to get him out of her system; instead, she craves more. She’s well and truly fucked.
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Ciri works out a deal with the madam, where every other week, she is allowed to replace one of the girls to accommodate Cahir. Most of them tolerated his preferences at best anyway, so it was no skin off her back to let this strange woman take their place. In return, Ciri takes no profits, and the entire fee goes to the madam.
The two weeks between the first and second-night crawl by at a snail’s pace. Ciri is antsy and unsettled; she takes every scrap of work that comes her way just to be busy. The distraction only halfway works.
The second night goes much the same as the first. Ciri is fucked six ways from Sunday. She feels sated in a bone-deep way and is happy to let him manipulate her body how he would like, constantly blurring the lines between pleasure and pain and taking her to a place far outside the dark confines of her head. While there, she feels something other than the apathy, misery, and fear that consume her waking hours. The arrangement is seemingly perfect.
The amulet holds.
Cahir is as stoic as ever, seeming unaffected and immediately composed, but he gives her a nod and an “until next time” as he leaves.
The third time, she’s too confident. She gets too comfortable. She forgets herself.
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Cahir has her leaned over the back of a settee; her arms braced against the wall in front of her. He’s warned her that if she removes them, he will stop. He’s realized by now that she likes this; her reactions are real, so he’s gotten more creative. One of his hands grasps the back of her neck, twining her hair around his fist, controlling her movements and tugging on the strands, while the other grabs a handful of her ass.
Ciri is unable to keep quiet as he pounds into her, moaning and gasping. The hand on her neck arches her back towards him. The slight shift causes the pleasure to increase tenfold, and she gasps out his name.
He immediately freezes.
“What did you say?”
The hand at the nape of her neck shakes her roughly when she doesn’t respond. She’s panicking inside.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“I said, what did you say?”
When she doesn’t answer, he withdraws from her and hauls her over to the bed, straddling her to trap her, his forearm in her jugular a warning, not quite lethal pressure yet, but it could be.
The jig is up.
“Are you a spy from Emhyr? Still trying to deliver me to the empire? Because I guarantee you, I won’t be going.”
Unable to speak due to the pressure on her neck, she gestures towards her wrist. His gaze follows it to the braided cord with the purple stone wrapped around her wrist.
Without taking his arm off her throat, he rips the amulet from her arm. His eyes widen as her features change, slight, but enough to have obscured who she is, his gaze tracing the scar across her face and meeting her green eyes.
“Ciri.”
Cahir lessens up on her neck, and she takes in a large gulp of air.
His face is a storm cloud, dark and full of fury.
“Why would you do this? Is this a joke to you? Are you trying to have a laugh at my expense?”
Ciri doesn’t even try to make any excuses.
Her voice hoarse, she replies matter of factly, “I heard Angoulême’s girls talking about you, about how you like to fuck. I’ve been searching for that. When I came across your company in this city, I couldn’t resist. I was curious."
A pause as she takes a deep breath.
“It seemed like you didn’t want anything to do with me in Toussaint. I thought you would turn me away, so I arranged this with the madame.”
His face twists with anger. “Once, I wanted nothing more than to be by your side. But, you’re right, now I don’t want anything to do with you. All my involvement with you has ruined my life. I was tortured because I didn’t succeed at retrieving you from Cintra and Thanedd. I nearly died at Stygga defending you. I'm a fugitive and a traitor, so I can’t return to my home and family. All I have now is to spend my days as a for-hire sword.”
Ciri suddenly finds it hard to swallow, and her eyes well with tears. She whispers, “I’m sorry. I never wanted any of this.”
Cahir doesn’t acknowledge that, but his scowl lessens, and his eyes look sad. He seems to be gazing at something far away.
“At one point, you were everything I thought I wanted. I dreamt of being with you. Of being the hero you needed.”
He lets out a frustrated sound.
“But real life taught me that doing good doesn’t make everything better. Sometimes, doing the right thing makes you worse off, and even when you try your hardest, you can lose everything.”
Before she can respond, he keeps going, “Everything else I’ve done has been for you, so why break the pattern now? If it’s being fucked that you want, I can certainly deliver. Is that it? You want to be fucked like a whore?”
Her face burns, and she looks at the floor to escape his stare, but he won’t let her get away with that. He hooks his fingers under her chin and makes her meet his gaze. “Look at me.”
She locks eyes with him, sees the pain and frustration, and can’t look away.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” Ciri whispers, humiliated but unable to deny it, craving what only he can give, “I do want that.”
He gives her a mocking bow, his smirk cruel. “At your service, your majesty.”
Cahir pulls her to her feet and drags her over to the table, spinning her to face it.
“Hands behind your back,” he barks, and she crosses them behind her.
He pushes her down, her face meeting the solid surface of the tabletop.
Kicking her legs apart, he holds her wrists in his hand, pressing them into her back. Arousal and a touch of fear make her tremble. He pauses, she’s unsure of what he’s doing, and then without warning, he thrusts into her, bottoming out on the first go. She cries out, the stretch burning, and he shifts her wrists into one hand, using the other to cover her mouth.
Cahir sets a brutal pace, slamming into her with abandon. He presses his fingers against her lips and forces two into her mouth. She sucks them in and hears a sharp inhale from behind her. He doubles down on the intensity, pulling her back towards him by her wrists and driving up to meet her.
Cahir pulls his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop and reaches down between them to begin furiously rubbing at her clit.
He releases her wrists and, still rubbing, delivers a sharp slap on her ass, coinciding with a particularly forceful thrust.
Ciri hears a keening sound, distantly wonders what it is, and then realizes it’s coming from her. She’s wound up like a spring, body tense, threatening to break, hovering on the brink.
When he leans over and sinks his teeth into her neck, it pushes her over the edge. She stiffens, vision whiting out, tears running down her cheeks, and her world narrows to just him and her. There is no elder blood, or lodge, no Emhyr, only the pleasure, and the pain–and Cahir.
She registers that he comes shortly after she does, his finish a brief sear within her, his body curled over hers on the table, his chest heaving.
Something wet falls on her neck, and she realizes he is crying. He presses a singular kiss to her shoulder blade. She grasps behind her, searching for his hand. He lets her hold it for just a moment before wrenching it away and slipping from her body.
He dresses quickly and leaves without a word.
She lays there, bruised and naked on the table, crying and mourning all this life had taken from them.
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Ciri tries to stay away; she really does. She even thinks about taking someone else to bed, feels nothing, is bored, and ends it as quickly as possible.
Two weeks pass, and she plans to be far away from that part of the city. However, on their customarily scheduled evening, she unconsciously takes a familiar path to the brothel. She’s almost surprised when she finds herself in front of it.
Almost.
A bad habit that she can’t quit.
She climbs the stairs to the familiar room, lying on the bed in the light robe and untying the amulet to place on the bedside table.
He probably won’t come.
He hates her.
By the shadows on the ceiling, she’s guessing it’s the twilight hour when she startles awake. She must have fallen asleep as she waits for a man she is sure won’t come.
Ciri sits up and stretches before looking around. He sits at the table in the corner of the room, watching her steadily, his face expressionless.
Gazing back at him, she’s unsure of what to say or do. She hadn’t gotten this far when thinking about this possible encounter.
Cahir breaks the silence. His eyes are black in the dim lighting.
“I tried to stay away. But this is all I can think about. I can’t move on. Now that I’ve had the real thing, everything pales in comparison.”
He stands, walking slowly over to her; he puts his fingers under her chin to tilt her face up to him, his thumb touching the scar on her face.
“You take it so well,” he murmurs.
Ciri swallows thickly and leans her head into his hand.
“Do you want to continue?” Cahir inquires quietly.
Ciri doesn’t have to think about it. She nods, breathing out her agreement.
Stripping off his clothing, he tosses it haphazardly beside him, the only indicator of his need. He stands in between her legs at the edge of the bed. “The same rules apply,” he warns.
She nods again, and he runs the pads of his fingers over her lips, stroking down her neck until his hand is at the base of her throat.
“Lay back,” he orders, and she looks at him, confused.
He pushes her then, and her back hits the mattress. She props herself up on her elbows to look at him, and growling something about brats who don’t listen, he presses her down with a hand to the center of her chest.
Her heart races; exposed, she squeezes her eyes shut. This was easier when she was someone else. Now she’s just Ciri; there’s nowhere to hide. Will things be different now that there’s no mask to hide behind?
The warmth of his breath on her thighs is the only warning she gets before he descends upon her. Her anxiety slips away, and she arches to move closer, unable to contain the sounds he’s drawing out of her.
He’s not gentle; he scrapes his teeth across her thighs, leaving bruises in his wake, nipping and biting before soothing with his lips and tongue. His pace is brutal as he fucks her with three fingers. It’s nothing short of devouring her.
There’s only this.
She feels like she’s teetering on the edge of a knife and whimpers, looking for something, anything to take her all the way. As if he’s read her mind, Cahir sucks hard on her clit, and she shatters, back bowing and body shaking. There’s no respite, though, no quiet come down. He stands and, immediately entering her, quickly begins thrusting through her orgasm, extending the aftershocks.
Looming over her, one hand wrapped around her neck, he locks his gaze with hers. His eyes are deep blue, mesmerising.
She wishes she could kiss him.
He applies pressure to her throat, and she clenches around him. All semblance of control is lost as he pistons in and out of her wildly.
There are one, two, three more thrusts, and she comes again, floating away on the waves of pleasure, her vision swimming, and just when she thinks she might lose consciousness, he lets go of her throat, hips slowing as he rides out the end of his own release.
He flops down on the bed beside her, spent.
Ciri slowly returns to herself, dreamily following the threads of each thought as they start to web together again.
By the time she’s present again, he’s already gone.
They continue this pattern, weekly now, over the next two months, abandoning the pretense of the brothel and using the room she’s renting as a home base while she takes contracts in Redania.
They meet. He fucks her how he wants until her mind is blissfully blank. He leaves.
He never stays.
She starts to wish he would.
Despite never speaking of it again, she feels like he’s the only one who understands, who knows what it’s like to be expected to live normally in the shadow of significant trauma. To have it color every action, every thought, every moment of your life. To always be afraid that someone is coming after you. To have so much darkness, and rage, that it can’t help but spill out, desperately searching for ways to control it.
In every other area of her life, she’s a shade of herself, both apathetic and wary. He’s the only one who knows who she actually is, the only connection that’s real.
Safety, belonging, home, love–these things are not meant for damaged people like them.
And yet, Ciri finds herself yearning, wishing she could carve out a place next to his heart to make her home. She now understands the terrible burden of wanting something so badly but knowing it’s always out of reach.
The contracts she takes are dangerous work. She’s keenly aware that the rush they give her is an attempt to brokenly recreate what she feels with him. But she doesn’t stop–cannot stop.
After a contract such as this, she sits in the main hall of the inn she’s been staying at, nursing a drink before she goes upstairs to look at her wound. It’s covered with a cloak at the moment, but she can feel it throb in time with her heart. She tosses back the rest of her drink and starts the climb up to her room. When she unlocks the door, her wound demands attention immediately. Her adrenaline has worn off. It hurts badly.
Dropping her cloak, she peels back the bloodstained and ripped fabric stuck to the gash across her rib cage, examining it before she pulls the ruined shirt over her head, wincing with pain. It’s not insignificant.
She washes as quickly as she can and then cleans the wound, hissing at the disinfectant before she looks at it again. Broken rib, maybe two, and a large gash that needs stitches. That will slow her down. Godsdamnit.
Fishing a bottle of very potent liquor she keeps for this very reason out of her pack; she takes a swig before threading a needle to begin stitching up the wound. An impromptu analgesic. Ciri is three stitches in when there’s a knock at the door.
Cahir. She had forgotten.
“Come in.”
“This was outside your door-” he trails off, staring at her while holding an envelope in front of him. She realizes what a sight she must be, sitting on the table in front of the mirror, shirtless, with a needle poked through the skin of her ribs.
“Put it over there; I’ll just be a moment,” she grits out as she loops in number four.
Cahir drops the letter on her bedside table before walking over and stilling her hand.
“I can help you,” he states.
She stares at him. This seems like it’s verging into territory that he’s determined to avoid. They don’t do a lot of talking and very rarely venture into subjects outside of fucking, but this seems an awful lot like concern.
He washes his hands in the basin and takes the needle from her. With little preamble, he begins again, quicker than she was going, neater as well.
She bites her lip to try and stifle the escaping sounds of pain, and he glances up at her.
“What happened?
“Contract,” she grits through her teeth. She doesn’t elaborate; she’s sure he doesn’t care anyway.
He raises a brow at her but says nothing more. After he ties off the stitches, she gingerly slips off the table to grab a bandage to wrap around her torso. Holding a hand over the wound, she twists the cloth around her, and he stops her again.
She looks up at Cahir. “Let me do this,” he insists gruffly.
Giving him a searching look, she passes the end of the bandage to him. He winds it expertly around her, and he ties it firmly. When she gasps, her ribs jostled by the movement, and his brow furrows.
Ciri shrugs. “Broken rib or two, nothing to be done.”
Cahir looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t. He frowns when she begins to strip off the rest of her clothes.
“What are you doing?”
Annoyed, Ciri stops to look at him. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“You’re hurt.”
“Clearly, a little pain doesn’t bother me,” she retorts pointedly.
“I think you should rest.”
She’s about to tell him that she thinks he should go to hell when she remembers the letter he’d placed on her nightstand and walks over to retrieve it.
When she picks it up, she’s struck by the fineness of the parchment.
Please no.
Sliding a finger along the flap, she pulls out a letter, and something clangs onto the tabletop. She picks up a link to a chain and turns back to read it.
It starts:
Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Her breath catches in her throat and then comes quickly, too quickly.
His imperial majesty Emhyr var Emreis
Her vision swims as she registers the rest of the words.
She grabs the edge of the table and falls to her knees.
He’s found her.
Trapped in a loop of fear, she’s paralyzed and helpless, her muscles tense, her chest tight, and her heart pounding against her ribs. Her hands claw, trying to grasp onto anything.
Her mind flashes with image after image, terror consuming everything she is. Chained down by Vilgefortz. Enduring the unwanted touches of others. Dying of thirst in the Korath. Shame. Debilitating fear. And now—the ultimate cage. And nowhere to run.
After some time, she becomes vaguely aware that someone is holding her; a warm hand is rubbing her back, stroking her hair.
It’s been a long time since someone has touched her like this. She can’t tolerate this from most, but this is a grounding, comforting feeling.
When she comes to and blinks away her tears, it’s to Cahir’s concerned face. The expression seems out of place, the softness so unfamiliar in this new version of him she's become so used to.
“What’s going on?”
Ciri can’t find the words to say it; there’s nothing that will adequately encompass the despair and the fear.
She hands the letter to him.
He unfolds the parchment and scans it, and his expression darkens, anger, pain, and fear flitting across his face.
Emhyr has renewed his efforts to locate her. In no uncertain terms, he states that she will return to Nilfgaard to take up her position as the future Empress. He will find her, as he always does, and she should go to an embassy to turn herself over to save herself the trouble.
Her mind starts to crumble into pieces again. She’d been so careful before, never staying anywhere for long, never dropping her guard—until now. Until chasing after this connection made her so stupidly reckless.
Ciri feels herself losing grip again, her breath spiraling out of control, rattling gasps not taking in any air, darkness crowding the edges of her vision, and she starts to give into it.
“Ciri, stay with me,” Cahir commands, grasping her hands firmly in his own.
Why? Why should she? At least the blackness of her mind is comforting.
She starts to go limp, and he cups her face, aligning it to stare into her eyes.
“Breathe with me.”
Ciri gazes into the depths of those blue eyes, shuddering sobs shaking her body, and tries to match her breath to his. He pulls one of her hands to his chest so she can feel it rise and fall.
It takes a long time before her heart slows, and when the emotions are gone, she feels empty, washed out, resigned, like the core of her has been scooped out, only a fragile shell left behind.
I will never be free.
She expects Cahir to leave; he’s already done much more than she would’ve thought him willing.
Instead, he gathers her in his arms, settling her on the bed.
Ciri curls into herself, the movement causing her ribs to twinge painfully. The sensation is grounding, giving her something aside from the gnawing emptiness. She presses into the bruises dotting her skin.
Cahir sits on the bed next to her. He seems lost in thought. After a few minutes, he reaches out a hand to rub her back again, his touch tentative.
Dully, Ciri asks, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
There’s a long silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is wavering, as unsure as his touch has been. "I realized that the events of the last eight years left you with even less than I have. I can’t be angry with you anymore. You’ve been hurt the most by this.”
He lays down beside her, slowly, warily, coming to face her. There’s an unfamiliar emotion in his eyes that scares her.
Hand trembling, he reaches out and strokes her face, trailing his fingers along her scar, then cups her jaw. The gesture is awkward, hesitant, as new to him as it feels to her.
Cahir leans in, eyes scanning her face; their depths enthrall her as he slowly, cautiously presses his lips to hers. Her eyes flutter closed, but he doesn’t move forward or pull back; he just freezes against her, waiting.
Ciri sighs into his mouth, opening to him, and he deepens the kiss, his hand coming to rest at her waist, thumb tentatively stroking the curve.
Is it possible for your heart to break and heal at the same time? She was used to this kind of gentleness either boring or scaring her away. But his hesitant tenderness wrenches open the wounds of her past that she tried desperately to cover, cauterizing them, sweeping away the infection.
Cahir pulls away to gauge her reaction, and the unmistakable care in his expression is so unfamiliar and unexpected that she struggles to identify it at first.
A tear tracks down her cheek, and he swipes it away with his thumb before kissing her again, still hesitant and careful.
The second kiss fills Ciri with a hunger, immediate and piercing.
She buries her hands in his curls, longer now than they had been in Toussaint, surprisingly soft, and pulls him closer, parting her lips for him.
They have fucked in dozens of ways, yet this is different.
Cahir kisses her with a sort of reverence, gently skimming his hands down her back and sides, tracing the lines of her body whisper light. He’s nervous; that much is obvious, he clearly knows about fucking, but very little about, dare she say, loving. Her body lights up, prickles of heat following, and she quickly succumbs to the familiar burn he incites in her.
It is different, but it’s also the same.
She can forget about Emhyr and the rest of the world for just a little while longer. For now, there’s just Cahir, the imperfect half of their whole, and she can feel.